Mary Barton. A Tale of Manchester Life by Gaskell Elizabeth Cleghorn

Author:Gaskell, Elizabeth Cleghorn
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: (Privatkopie)
Published: 2010-02-03T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter XVIII

Murder

»But in his pulse there was no throb,

Nor on his lips one dying sob;

Sigh, nor word, nor struggling breath

Heralded his way to death.«

»Siege of Corinth.«

»My brain runs this way and that way; 'twill not fix

On aught but vengeance.«

»Duke of Guise.«

I must now go back to an hour or two before Mary and her friends parted for the night. It might be about eight o'clock that evening, and the three Miss Carsons were sitting in their father's drawing-room. He was asleep in the dining-room, in his own comfortable chair. Mrs. Carson was (as was usual with her, when no particular excitement was going on) very poorly, and sitting upstairs in her dressing-room, indulging in the luxury of a headache. She was not well, certainly. »Wind in the head,« the servants called it. But it was but the natural consequence of the state of mental and bodily idleness in which she was placed. Without education enough to value the resources of wealth and leisure, she was so circumstanced as to command both. It would have done her more good than all the ether and sal-volatile she was daily in the habit of swallowing, if she might have taken the work of one of her own housemaids for a week; made beds, rubbed tables, shaken carpets, and gone out into the fresh morning air, without all the paraphernalia of shawl, cloak, boa, fur boots, bonnet, and veil, in which she was equipped before setting out for an ›airing,‹ in the closely shut-up carriage.

So the three girls were by themselves in the comfortable, elegant, well-lighted drawing-room; and, like many similarly situated young ladies, they did not exactly know what to do to while away the time until the tea-hour. The elder two had been at a dancing-party the night before, and were listless and sleepy in consequence. One tried to read »Emerson's Essays,« and fell asleep in the attempt; the other was turning over a parcel of new songs, in order to select what she liked. Amy, the youngest, was copying some manuscript music. The air was heavy with the fragrance of strongly-scented flowers, which sent out their night odours from an adjoining conservatory.

The clock on the chimney-piece chimed eight. Sophy (the sleeping sister) started up at the sound.

»What o'clock is that?« she asked.

»Eight,« said Amy.

»O dear! how tired I am! Is Harry come in? Tea will rouse one up a little. Are you not worn out, Helen?«

»Yes; I am tired enough. One is good for nothing the day after a dance. Yet I don't feel weary at the time; I suppose it is the lateness of the hours.«

»And yet, how could it be managed otherwise? So many don't dine till five or six, that one cannot begin before eight or nine; and then it takes a long time to get into the spirit of the evening. It is always more pleasant after supper than before.«

»Well, I'm too tired to-night to reform the world in the matter of dances or balls. What are you copying, Amy?«

»Only that little Spanish air you sing, ›Quien quiera.

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