FullReads

MARY [still crying].–Yes, John; you know everything a’most, John.

JOHN.–And you, poor child, but little! It’s not heart you want, you little trump, it’s education, Mary: it’s information: it’s head, head, head! You can’t learn. You never can learn. Your ideers ain’t no good. You never can hinterchange em with mine. Conversation between us is impossible. It’s not your fault. Some people are born clever; some are born tall, I ain’t tall.

MARY.–Ho! you’re big enough for me, John. [Offers to take his hand.]

JOHN.–Let go my ‘and–my a-hand, Mary! I say, some people are born with brains, and some with big figures. Look at that great ass, Bulkeley, Lady K.’s man–the besotted, stupid beast! He’s as big as a life-guardsman, but he ain’t no more education nor ideers than the ox he feeds on.

MARY.–Law, John, whatever do you mean?

JOHN.–Hm! you know not, little one! you never can know. Have YOU ever felt the pangs of imprisoned genius? have YOU ever felt what ’tis to be a slave?

MARY.–Not in a free country, I should hope, John Howell–no such a thing. A place is a place, and I know mine, and am content with the spear of life in which it pleases heaven to place me, John: and I wish you were, and remembered what we learned from our parson when we went to school together in dear old Pigeoncot, John–when you used to help little Mary with her lessons, John, and fought Bob Brown, the big butcher’s boy, because he was rude to me, John, and he gave you that black hi.

JOHN.–Say eye, Mary, not heye [gently].

MARY.–Eye; and I thought you never looked better in all your life than you did then: and we both took service at Squire Milliken’s–me as dairy-girl, and you as knife-boy; and good masters have they been to us from our youth hup: both old Squire Milliken and Mr. Charles as is master now, and poor Mrs. as is dead, though she had her tantrums–and I thought we should save up and take the “Milliken Arms”–and now we have saved up–and now, now, now–oh, you are a stone, a stone, a stone! and I wish you were hung round my neck, and I were put down the well! There’s the hup-stairs bell. [She starts, changing her manner as she hears the bell, and exit.]

JOHN [looking after her].–It’s all true. Gospel-true. We were children in the same village–sat on the same form at school. And it was for her sake that Bob Brown the butcher’s boy whopped me. A black eye! I’m not handsome. But if I were ugly, ugly as the Saracen’s ‘Ead, ugly as that beast Bulkeley, I know it would be all the same to Mary. SHE has never forgot the boy she loved, that brought birds’-nests for her, and spent his halfpenny on cherries, and bought a fairing with his first half-crown–a brooch it was, I remember, of two billing doves a-hopping on one twig, and brought it home for little yellow-haired, blue-eyed, red-cheeked Mary. Lord, Lord! I don’t like to think how I’ve kissed ’em, the pretty cheeks! they’ve got quite pale now with crying–and she has never once reproached me, not once, the trump, the little tr-rump!

Is it my fault [stamping] that Fate has separated us? Why did my young master take me up to Oxford, and give me the run of his libery and the society of the best scouts in the University? Why did he take me abroad? Why have I been to Italy, France, Jummany with him–their manners noted and their realms surveyed, by jingo! I’ve improved myself, and Mary has remained as you was. I try a conversation, and she can’t respond. She’s never got a word of poetry beyond Watt’s Ims, and if I talk of Byron or Moore to her, I’m blest if she knows anything more about ’em than the cook, who is as hignorant as a pig, or that beast Bulkeley, Lady Kick’s footman. Above all, why, why did I see the woman upon whom my wretched heart is fixed for ever, and who carries away my soul with her–prostrate, I say, prostrate, through the mud at the skirts of her gownd! Enslaver! why did I ever come near you? O enchantress Kelipso! how you have got hold of me! It was Fate, Fate, Fate. When Mrs. Milliken fell ill of scarlet fever at Naples, Milliken was away at Petersborough, Rooshia, looking after his property. Her foring woman fled. Me and the governess remained and nursed her and the children. We nursed the little ones out of the fever. We buried their mother. We brought the children home over Halp and Happenine. I nursed ’em all three. I tended ’em all three, the orphans, and the lovely gu-gu-governess. At Rome, where she took ill, I waited on her; as we went to Florence, had we been attacked by twenty thousand brigands, this little arm had courage for them all! And if I loved thee, Julia, was I wrong? and if I basked in thy beauty day and night, Julia, am I not a man? and if, before this Peri, this enchantress, this gazelle, I forgot poor little Mary Barlow, how could I help it? I say, how the doose could I help it?