him,—dearest Jem.”
The next day, the fourth from Mary’s return home, as she was sitting near the window, sadly dreaming over some work, she caught a glimpse of the last person she wished to see—of Sally Leadbitter!
She was evidently coming to their house; another moment, and she tapped at the door. John Barton gave an anxious, uneasy side-glance. Mary knew that if she delayed answering the knock, Sally would not scruple to enter; so as hastily as if the visit had been desired, she opened the door, and stood there with the latch in her hand, barring up all entrance, and as much as possible obstructing all curious glances into the interior.
“Well, Mary Barton! You’re home at last! I heard you’d getten home; so I thought I’d just step over and hear the news.”
She was bent on coming in, and saw Mary’s preventive design. So she stood on tiptoe, looking over Mary’s shoulders into the room where she suspected a lover to be lurking; but instead, she saw only the figure of the stern, gloomy father she had always been in the habit of avoiding; and she dropped down again, content to carry on the conversation where Mary chose, and as Mary chose, in whispers.
“So the old governor is back again, eh? And what does he say to all your fine doings at Liverpool, and before? —you and I know where. You can’t hide it now, Mary, for it’s all in print.”
Mary gave a low moan—and then implored Sally to change the subject; for unpleasant as it always was, it was doubly unpleasant in the manner in which she was treating it. If they had been alone Mary would have borne it patiently—or she thought, but now she felt almost certain, her father was listening; there was a subdued breathing, a slight bracing-up of the listless attitude. But there was no arresting Sally’s curiosity to hear all she could respecting the adventures Mary had experienced. She, in common with the rest of Miss Simmonds’ young ladies, was almost jealous of the fame that Mary had obtained; to herself, such miserable notoriety.
“Nay! there’s no use shunning talking it over. Why! it was in the Guardian—and the Courier—and some one told Jane Hodgson it was even copied into a London paper. You’ve set up heroine on your own account, Mary Barton. How did you like standing witness? Aren’t them lawyers impudent things? staring at one so. I’ll be bound you wished you’d taken my offer, and borrowed my black watered scarf! Now didn’t you, Mary? Speak truth!”
“To tell the truth, I never thought about it then, Sally. How could I?” asked she reproachfully.
“Oh—I forgot. You were all for that stupid James Wilson. Well! if I’ve ever the luck to go witness on a trial, see if I don’t pick up a better beau than the prisoner. I’ll aim at a lawyer’s clerk, but I’ll not take less than a turnkey.”
Cast down as Mary was, she could hardly keep from smiling at the idea, so wildly incongruous with the scene she had really undergone, of looking out for admirers during a trial for murder.
“I’d no thought to be looking out for beaux, I can assure you, Sally. But don’t let us talk any more about it; I can’t bear to think on it. How is Miss Simmonds? and everybody?”
“Oh, very well; and by the way, she gave me a bit of a message for you. You may come back to work if you’ll behave yourself, she says. I told you she’d be glad to have you back, after all this piece of business, by way of tempting people to come to her shop. They’d come from Salford to have a peep at you, for six months at least.”
“Don’t talk so; I cannot come, I can never face Miss Simmonds again. And even if I could”—she stopped, and blushed.
“Ay! I know what you are thinking on. But that will not be this some time, as he’s turned off from the foundry —you’d better think twice afore refusing Miss Simmonds’ offer.”
“Turned off from the foundry? Jem?” cried Mary.
“To be sure! didn’t you know it? Decent men were not going to work with a—no! I suppose I mustn’t say it, seeing you went to such trouble to get up an alibi; not that I should think much the worse of a spirited young fellow for falling foul of a rival—they always do at the theatre.”
But Mary’s thoughts were with Jem. How good he had been never to name his dismissal to her. How much he had had to endure for her sake!
“Tell me all about it,” she gasped out.
“Why, you see, they’ve always swords quite handy at them plays,” began Sally; but Mary, with an impatient shake of her head, interrupted—
“About Jem—about Jem, I want to know.”
“Oh! I don’t pretend to know more than is in every one’s mouth: he’s turned away from the foundry, because folk doesn’t think you’ve cleared him outright of the murder; though perhaps the jury were loth to hang him. Old Mr. Carson is savage against judge and jury, and lawyers and all, as I heard.”
“I must go to him, I must go to him,” repeated Mary, in a hurried manner.
“He’ll tell you all I’ve said is true, and not a word of lie,” replied Sally. “So I’ll not give your answer to Miss Simmonds, but leave you to think twice about it. Good afternoon!”
Mary shut the door, and turned into the house.
Her father sat in the same attitude; the old unchanging attitude. Only his head was more bowed towards the ground.
She put on her bonnet to go to Ancoats; for see, and question, and comfort, and worship Jem, she must.
As she hung about her father for an instant before leaving him, he spoke—voluntarily spoke for the first time since her return; but his head was drooping so low she could not hear what he said, so she stooped down; and after a moment’s pause, he repeated the words—
“Tell Jem Wilson to come here at eight o’clock tonight.”
Could he have overheard her conversation with Sally Leadbitter? They had whispered low, she thought. Pondering on this, and many other things, she reached Ancoats.
XXXV. “FORGIVE US OUR TRESPASSES.”
“Oh, had he lived, Replied Rusilla, never penitence Had equalled his! full well I knew his heart, Vehement in all
