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Full Online Book HomeLong StoriesMary Barton - Chapter XXXIV - The return home.
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Mary Barton - Chapter XXXIV - The return home. Post by :cf3909 Category :Long Stories Author :Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell Date :June 2011 Read :2855

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Mary Barton - Chapter XXXIV - The return home.

Chapter XXXIV - The return home


"DIXWELL. Forgiveness! Oh, forgiveness, and a grave!
MARY. God knows thy heart, my father! and I shudder
To think what thou perchance hast acted.
DIXWELL. Oh!
MARY. No common load of woe is thine, my father."
--ELLIOT'S Kerhonah.

Mary still hovered between life and death when Jem arrived at the
house where she lay; and the doctors were as yet unwilling to
compromise their wisdom by allowing too much hope to be entertained.
But the state of things, if not less anxious, was less distressing
than when Jem had quitted her. She lay now in a stupor, which was
partly disease, and partly exhaustion after the previous excitement.

And now Jem found the difficulty which every one who has watched by
a sick-bed knows full well; and which is perhaps more insurmountable
to men than it is to women,--the difficulty of being patient, and
trying not to expect any visible change for long, long hours of sad
monotony.

But after a while the reward came. The laboured breathing became
lower and softer, the heavy look of oppressive pain melted away from
the face, and a languor that was almost peace took the place of
suffering. She slept a natural sleep; and they stole about on
tiptoe, and spoke low, and softly, and hardly dared to breathe,
however much they longed to sigh out their thankful relief.

She opened her eyes. Her mind was in the tender state of a lately
born infant's. She was pleased with the gay but not dazzling
colours of the paper; soothed by the subdued light; and quite
sufficiently amused by looking at all the objects in the room--the
drawing of the ships, the festoons of the curtain, the bright
flowers on the painted backs of the chairs--to care for any stronger
excitement. She wondered at the ball of glass, containing various
coloured sands from the Isle of Wight, or some other place, which
hung suspended from the middle of the little valance over the
window. But she did not care to exert herself to ask any questions,
although she saw Mrs. Sturgis standing at the bedside with some tea,
ready to drop it into her mouth by spoonfuls.

She did not see the face of honest joy, of earnest
thankfulness,--the clasped hands, the beaming eyes,--the trembling
eagerness of gesture, of one who had long awaited her awakening, and
who now stood behind the curtains watching through some little chink
her every faint motion; or if she had caught a glimpse of that
loving, peeping face, she was in too exhausted a state to have taken
much notice, or have long retained the impression that he she loved
so well was hanging about her, and blessing God for every conscious
look which stole over her countenance.

She fell softly into slumber, without a word having been spoken by
any one during that half-hour of inexpressible joy. And again the
stillness was enforced by a sign and whispered word, but with eyes
that beamed out their bright thoughts of hope. Jem sat by the side
of the bed, holding back the little curtain, and gazing as if he
could never gaze his fill at the pale, wasted face, so marbled and
so chiselled in its wan outline.

She wakened once more; her soft eyes opened, and met his overbending
look. She smiled gently, as a baby does when it sees its mother
tending its little cot; and continued her innocent, infantine gaze
into his face, as if the sight gave her much unconscious pleasure.
But by-and-by a different expression came into her sweet eyes; a
look of memory and intelligence; her white flesh flushed the
brightest rosy red, and with feeble motion she tried to hide her
head in the pillow.

It required all Jem's self-control to do what he knew and felt to be
necessary, to call Mrs. Sturgis, who was quietly dozing by the
fireside; and that done, he felt almost obliged to leave the room to
keep down the happy agitation which would gush out in every feature,
every gesture, and every tone.

From that time forward Mary's progress towards health was rapid.

There was every reason, but one, in favour of her speedy removal
home. All Jem's duties lay in Manchester. It was his mother's
dwelling-place, and there his plans for life had been to be worked
out; plans which the suspicion and imprisonment he had fallen into,
had thrown for a time into a chaos, which his presence was required
to arrange into form. For he might find, in spite of a jury's
verdict, that too strong a taint was on his character for him ever
to labour in Manchester again. He remembered the manner in which
some one suspected of having been a convict was shunned by masters
and men, when he had accidentally met with work in their foundry;
the recollection smote him now, how he himself had thought it did
not become an honest upright man to associate with one who had been
a prisoner. He could not choose but think on that poor humble
being, with his downcast conscious look; hunted out of the workshop,
where he had sought to earn an honest livelihood, by the looks, and
half-spoken words, and the black silence of repugnance (worse than
words to bear), that met him on all sides.

Jem felt that his own character had been attainted; and that to many
it might still appear suspicious. He knew that he could convince
the world, by a future as blameless as his past had been, that he
was innocent. But at the same time he saw that he must have
patience, and nerve himself for some trials; and the sooner these
were undergone, the sooner he was aware of the place he held in
men's estimation, the better. He longed to have presented himself
once more at the foundry; and then the reality would drive away the
pictures that would (unbidden) come of a shunned man, eyed askance
by all, and driven forth to shape out some new career.

I said every reason "but one" inclined Jem to hasten Mary's return
as soon as she was sufficiently convalescent. That one was the
meeting which awaited her at home.

Turn it over as Jem would, he could not decide what was the best
course to pursue. He could compel himself to any line of conduct
that his reason and his sense of right told him to be desirable; but
they did not tell him it was desirable to speak to Mary, in her
tender state of mind and body, of her father. How much would be
implied by the mere mention of his name! Speak it as calmly, and as
indifferently as he might, he could not avoid expressing some
consciousness of the terrible knowledge she possessed.

She, for her part, was softer and gentler than she had even been in
her gentlest mood; since her illness, her motions, her glances, her
voice were all tender in their languor. It seemed almost a trouble
to her to break the silence with the low sounds of her own sweet
voice, and her words fell sparingly on Jem's greedy, listening ear.

Her face was, however, so full of love and confidence, that Jem felt
no uneasiness at the state of silent abstraction into which she
often fell. If she did but love him, all would yet go right; and it
was better not to press for confidence on that one subject which
must be painful to both.

There came a fine, bright, balmy day. And Mary tottered once more
out into the open air, leaning on Jem's arm, and close to his
beating heart. And Mrs. Sturgis watched them from her door, with a
blessing on her lips, as they went slowly up the street.

They came in sight of the river. Mary shuddered.

"O Jem! take me home. Yon river seems all made of glittering,
heaving, dazzling metal, just as it did when I began to be ill."

Jem led her homewards. She dropped her head as searching for
something on the ground.

"Jem!" He was all attention. She paused for an instant. "When may
I go home? To Manchester, I mean. I am so weary of this place; and
I would fain be at home."

She spoke in a feeble voice; not at all impatiently, as the words
themselves would seem to intimate, but in a mournful way, as if
anticipating sorrow even in the very fulfilment of her wishes.

"Darling! we will go whenever you wish; whenever you feel strong
enough. I asked Job to tell Margaret to get all in readiness for
you to go there at first. She'll tend you and nurse you. You must
not go home. Job proffered for you to go there."

"Ah! but I must go home, Jem. I'll try and not fail now in what's
right. There are things we must not speak on" (lowering her voice),
"but you'll be really kind if you'll not speak against my going
home. Let us say no more about it, dear Jem. I must go home, and I
must go alone."

"Not alone, Mary!"

"Yes, alone! I cannot tell you why I ask it. And if you guess, I
know you well enough to be sure you'll understand why I ask you
never to speak on that again to me, till I begin. Promise, dear
Jem, promise!"

He promised; to gratify that beseeching face, he promised. And then
he repented, and felt as if he had done ill. Then again he felt as
if she were the best judge, and knowing all (perhaps more than even
he did), might be forming plans which his interference would mar.

One thing was certain! it was a miserable thing to have this awful
forbidden ground of discourse; to guess at each other's thoughts,
when eyes were averted, and cheeks blanched, and words stood still,
arrested in their flow by some casual allusion.

At last a day, fine enough for Mary to travel on, arrived. She had
wished to go, but now her courage failed her. How could she have
said she was weary of that quiet house, where even Ben Sturgis's
grumblings only made a kind of harmonious bass in the concord
between him and his wife, so thoroughly did they know each other
with the knowledge of many years! How could she have longed to quit
that little peaceful room where she had experienced such loving
tendence! Even the very check bed-curtains became dear to her under
the idea of seeing them no more. If it was so with inanimate
objects, if they had such power of exciting regret, what were her
feelings with regard to the kind old couple, who had taken the
stranger in, and cared for her, and nursed her, as though she had
been a daughter? Each wilful sentence spoken in the half-
unconscious irritation of feebleness came now with avenging
self-reproach to her memory, as she hung about Mrs. Sturgis, with
many tears, which served instead of words to express her gratitude
and love.

Ben bustled about with the square bottle of Goldenwasser in one of
his hands, and a small tumbler in the other; he went to Mary, Jem,
and his wife in succession, pouring out a glass for each, and
bidding them drink it to keep their spirits up; but as each
severally refused, he drank it himself; and passed on to offer the
same hospitality to another, with the like refusal, and the like
result.

When he had swallowed the last of the three draughts, he
condescended to give his reasons for having done so.

"I cannot abide waste. What's poured out mun be drunk. That's my
maxim." So saying, he replaced the bottle in the cupboard.

It was he who, in a firm commanding voice, at last told Jem and Mary
to be off, or they would be too late. Mrs. Sturgis had kept up till
then; but as they left her house, she could no longer restrain her
tears, and cried aloud in spite of her husband's upbraiding.

"Perhaps they'll be too late for the train!" exclaimed she, with a
degree of hope, as the clock struck two.

"What! and come back again! No! no! that would never do. We've
done our part, and cried our cry; it's no use going over the same
ground again. I should ha' to give 'em more out of yon bottle when
next parting time came, and them three glasses they ha' made a hole
in the stuff, I can tell you. Time Jack was back from Hamburg with
some more."

When they reached Manchester, Mary looked very white, and the
expression of her face was almost stern. She was in fact summoning
up her resolution to meet her father if he were at home. Jem had
never named his midnight glimpse of John Barton to human being:
but Mary had a sort of presentiment, that wander where he would, he
would seek his home at last. But in what mood she dreaded to think.
For the knowledge of her father's capability of guilt seemed to have
opened a dark gulf in his character, into the depths of which she
trembled to look. At one moment she would fain have claimed
protection against the life she must lead, for some time at least,
alone with a murderer! She thought of his gloom, before his mind
was haunted by the memory of so terrible a crime; his moody,
irritable ways. She imagined the evenings as of old; she, toiling
at some work, long after houses were shut, and folks abed; he, more
savage than he had ever been before with the inward gnawing of his
remorse. At such times she could have cried aloud with terror, at
the scenes her fancy conjured up.

But her filial duty, nay, her love and gratitude for many deeds of
kindness done to her as a little child, conquered all fear. She
would endure all imaginable terrors, although of daily occurrence.
And she would patiently bear all wayward violence of temper; more
than patiently would she bear it--pitifully, as one who knew of some
awful curse awaiting the blood-shedder. She would watch over him
tenderly, as the innocent should watch over the guilty; awaiting the
gracious seasons, wherein to pour oil and balm into the bitter
wounds.

With the untroubled peace which the resolve to endure to the end
gives, she approached the house that from habit she still called
home, but which possessed the holiness of home no longer. "Jem!"
said she, as they stood at the entrance to the court, close by Job
Legh's door, "you must go in there and wait half-an-hour. Not less.
If in that time I don't come back, you go your ways to your mother.
Give her my dear love. I will send by Margaret when I want to see
you."

She sighed heavily.

"Mary! Mary! I cannot leave you. You speak as coldly as if we were
to be nought to each other. And my heart's bound up in you. I know
why you bid me keep away, but"--

She put her hand on his arm, as he spoke in a loud agitated tone;
she looked into his face with upbraiding love in her eyes, and then
she said, while her lips quivered, and he felt her whole frame
trembling--

"Dear Jem! I often could have told you more of love, if I had not
once spoken out so free. Remember that time, Jem, if ever you think
me cold. Then, the love that's in my heart would out in words; but
now, though I'm silent on the pain I'm feeling in quitting you, the
love is in my heart all the same. But this is not the time to speak
on such things. If I do not do what I feel to be right now, I may
blame myself all my life long! Jem, you promised"--

And so saying she left him. She went quicker than she would
otherwise have passed over those few yards of ground, for fear he
should still try to accompany her. Her hand was on the latch, and
in a breath the door was opened.

There sat her father, still and motionless--not even turning his
head to see who had entered; but perhaps he recognised the footstep--
the trick of action.

He sat by the fire; the grate, I should say, for fire there was
none. Some dull grey ashes, negligently left, long days ago, coldly
choked up the bars. He had taken the accustomed seat from mere
force of habit, which ruled his automaton body. For all energy,
both physical and mental, seemed to have retreated inwards to some
of the great citadels of life, there to do battle against the
Destroyer, Conscience.

His hands were crossed, his fingers interlaced; usually a position
implying some degree of resolution, or strength; but in him it was
so faintly maintained, that it appeared more the result of chance;
an attitude requiring some application of outward force to alter--
and a blow with a straw seemed as though it would be sufficient.

And as for his face, it was sunk and worn--like a skull, with yet a
suffering expression that skulls have not! Your heart would have
ached to have seen the man, however hardly you might have judged his
crime.

But crime and all was forgotten by his daughter, as she saw his
abashed look, his smitten helplessness. All along she had felt it
difficult (as I may have said before) to reconcile the two ideas, of
her father and a blood-shedder. But now it was impossible. He was
her father! her own dear father! and in his sufferings, whatever
their cause, more dearly loved than ever before. His crime was a
thing apart, never more to be considered by her.

And tenderly did she treat him, and fondly did she serve him in
every way that heart could devise, or hand execute.

She had some money about her, the price of her strange services as a
witness; and when the lingering dusk grew on she stole out to effect
some purchases necessary for her father's comfort.

For how body and soul had been kept together, even as much as they
were, during the days he had dwelt alone, no one can say. The house
was bare as when Mary had left it, of coal, or of candle, of food,
or of blessing in any shape.

She came quickly home; but as she passed Job Legh's door, she
stopped. Doubtless Jem had long since gone; and doubtless, too, he
had given Margaret some good reason for not intruding upon her
friend for this night at least, otherwise Mary would have seen her
before now.

But to-morrow,--would she not come in to-morrow? And who so quick
as blind Margaret in noticing tones, and sighs, and even silence?

She did not give herself time for further thought, her desire to be
once more with her father was too pressing; but she opened the door,
before she well knew what to say.

"It's Mary Barton! I know her by her breathing! Grandfather, it's
Mary Barton!"

Margaret's joy at meeting her, the open demonstration of her love,
affected Mary much; she could not keep from crying, and sat down
weak and agitated on the first chair she could find.

"Ay, ay, Mary! thou'rt looking a bit different to when I saw thee
last. Thou'lt give Jem and me good characters for sick nurses, I
trust. If all trades fail, I'll turn to that. Jem's place is for
life, I reckon. Nay, never redden so, lass. You and he know each
other's minds by this time!"

Margaret held her hand, and gently smiled into her face.

Job Legh took the candle up, and began a leisurely inspection.

"Thou hast gotten a bit of pink in thy cheeks,--not much; but when
last I see thee, thy lips were as white as a sheet. Thy nose is
sharpish at th' end; thou'rt more like thy father than ever thou
wert before. Lord! child, what's the matter? Art thou going to
faint?"

For Mary had sickened at the mention of that name; yet she felt that
now or never was the time to speak.

"Father's come home!" she said, "but he's very poorly; I never saw
him as he is now before. I asked Jem not to come near him for fear
it might fidget him."

She spoke hastily, and (to her own idea) in an unnatural manner.
But they did not seem to notice it, nor to take the hint she had
thrown out of company being unacceptable; for Job Legh directly put
down some insect, which he was impaling on a corking-pin, and
exclaimed--

"Thy father come home! Why, Jem never said a word of it! And
ailing too! I'll go in, and cheer him with a bit of talk. I never
knew any good come of delegating it."

"O Job! father cannot stand--father is too ill. Don't come; not but
that you're very kind and good; but to-night--indeed," said she at
last, in despair, seeing Job still persevere in putting away his
things; "you must not come till I send or come for you. Father's in
that strange way, I can't answer for it if he sees strangers.
Please don't come. I'll come and tell you every day how he goes on.
I must be off now to see after him. Dear Job! kind Job! don't be
angry with me. If you knew all, you'd pity me."

For Job was muttering away in high dudgeon, and even Margaret's tone
was altered as she wished Mary good-night. Just then she could ill
brook coldness from any one, and least of all bear the idea of being
considered ungrateful by so kind and zealous a friend as Job had
been; so she turned round suddenly, even when her hand was on the
latch of the door, and ran back, and threw her arms about his neck,
and kissed him first, and then Margaret. And then, the tears fast
falling down her cheeks, but no word spoken, she hastily left the
house, and went back to her home.

There was no change in her father's position, or in his spectral
look. He had answered her questions (but few in number, for so many
subjects were unapproachable) by monosyllables, and in a weak, high,
childish voice; but he had not lifted his eyes; he could not meet
his daughter's look. And she, when she spoke, or as she moved
about, avoided letting her eyes rest upon him. She wished to be her
usual self; but while everything was done with a consciousness of
purpose, she felt it was impossible.

In this manner things went on for some days. At night he feebly
clambered upstairs to bed; and during those long dark hours Mary
heard those groans of agony which never escaped his lips by day,
when they were compressed in silence over his inward woe.

Many a time she sat up listening, and wondering if it would ease his
miserable heart if she went to him, and told him she knew all, and
loved and pitied him more than words could tell.

By day the monotonous hours wore on in the same heavy, hushed manner
as on that first dreary afternoon. He ate,--but without that
relish; and food seemed no longer to nourish him, for each morning
his face had caught more of the ghastly foreshadowing of Death.

The neighbours kept strangely aloof. Of late years John Barton had
had a repellent power about him, felt by all, except to the few who
had either known him in his better and happier days, or those to
whom he had given his sympathy and his confidence. People did not
care to enter the doors of one whose very depth of thoughtfulness
rendered him moody and stern. And now they contented themselves
with a kind inquiry when they saw Mary in her goings-out or in her
comings-in. With her oppressing knowledge, she imagined their
reserved conduct stranger than it was in reality. She missed Job
and Margaret too; who, in all former times of sorrow or anxiety
since their acquaintance first began, had been ready with their
sympathy.

But most of all she missed the delicious luxury she had lately
enjoyed in having Jem's tender love at hand every hour of the day,
to ward off every wind of heaven, and every disturbing thought.

She knew he was often hovering about the house; though the knowledge
seemed to come more by intuition, than by any positive sight or
sound for the first day or two. On the third day she met him at Job
Legh's.

They received her with every effort of cordiality; but still there
was a cobweb-veil of separation between them, to which Mary was
morbidly acute; while in Jem's voice, and eyes, and manner, there
was every evidence of most passionate, most admiring, and most
trusting love. The trust was shown by his respectful silence on
that one point of reserve on which she had interdicted conversation.

He left Job Legh's house when she did. They lingered on the step,
he holding her hand between both of his, as loth to let her go; he
questioned her as to when he should see her again.

"Mother does so want to see you," whispered he. "Can you come to
see her to-morrow; or when?"

"I cannot tell," replied she softly. "Not yet. Wait awhile;
perhaps only a little while. Dear Jem, I must go to 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 to-night."

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.

Content of Chapter XXXIV - The return home (Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell's novel: Mary Barton)

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Mary Barton - Chapter XXXV - 'Forgive us our trespasses.' Mary Barton - Chapter XXXV - "Forgive us our trespasses."

Mary Barton - Chapter XXXV - 'Forgive us our trespasses.'
Chapter 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 things. He would on himself Have wreaked such penance as had reached the height Of fleshy suffering,--yea, which being
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Mary Barton - Chapter XXXIII - Requiescat in pace. Mary Barton - Chapter XXXIII - Requiescat in pace.

Mary Barton - Chapter XXXIII - Requiescat in pace.
Chapter XXXIII - Requiescat in pace "Fear no more the heat o' th' sun, Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy wordly task hast done, Home art gone and ta'en thy wages. --Cymbeline. "While day and night can bring delight,
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