And I could not bear to see her suffer, and forgot how much better it would be for us to die together;--oh, her moans, her moans, which money could give the means of relieving! So I went out into the street one January night--Do you think God will punish me for that?" she asked with wild vehemence, almost amounting to insanity, and shaking Jem's arm in order to force an answer from him. But before he could shape his heart's sympathy into words, her voice had lost its wildness, and she spoke with the quiet of despair. "But it's no matter! I've done that since, which separates us as far asunder as heaven and hell can be." Her voice rose again to the sharp pitch of agony. "My darling I my darling! even after death I may not see thee, my own sweet one! She was so good--like a little angel. What is that text, I don't remember,--the text mother used to teach me when I sat on her knee long ago; it begins 'Blessed are the pure----'" "Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God." "Aye, that's it! It would break mother's heart if she knew what I am now--it did break Mary's heart, you see. And now I recollect it was about her child I wanted so to see you, Jem. You know Mary Barton, don't you?" said she, trying to collect her thoughts. Yes, Jem knew her. How well, his beating heart could testify! "Well, there's something to do for her; I forget what; wait a minute! She is so like my little girl;" she said, raising her eyes, glistening with unshed tears, in search of the sympathy of Jem's countenance. He deeply pitied her; but oh! how he longed to recall her mind to the subject of Mary, and the lover above her in rank, and the service to be done for her sake. But he controlled himself to silence. After awhile, she spoke again, and in a calmer voice. "When I came to Manchester (for I could not stay in Chester after her death), I found you all out very soon. And yet I never thought my poor sister was dead. I suppose I would not think so. I used to watch about the court where John lived, for many and many a night, and gather all I could about them from the neighbours' talk; for I never asked a question. I put this and that together, and followed one and listened to the other; many's the time I've watched the policeman off his beat, and peeped through the chink of the window-shutter to see the old room, and sometimes Mary or her father sitting up late for some reason or another. I found out Mary went to learn dress******, and I began to be frightened for her; for it's a bad life for a girl to be out late at night in the streets, and after many an hour of weary work, they're ready to follow after any novelty that makes a little change. But I made up my mind, that bad as I was, I could watch over Mary, and perhaps keep her from harm. So I used to wait for her at nights, and follow her home, often when she little knew any one was near her. There was one of her companions I never could abide, and I'm sure that girl is at the bottom of some mischief. By and by Mary's walks homewards were not alone. She was joined soon after she came out by a man, a gentleman. I began to fear for her, for I saw she was light-hearted, and pleased with his attentions' and I thought worse of him for having such long talks with that bold girl I told you of. But I was laid up for a long time with spitting of blood; and could do nothing. I'm sure it made me worse, thinking about what might be happening to Mary. And when I came out, all was going on as before, only she seemed fonder of him than ever; and oh! Jem, her father won't listen to me, and it's you must save Mary! You're like a brother to her, and maybe could give her advice and watch over her, and at any rate John will hearken to you; only he's so stern, and so cruel." She began to cry a little at the remembrance of his harsh words; but Jem cut her short by his hoarse, stern inquiry, "Who is this spark that Mary loves? Tell me his name?" "It's young Carson, old Carson's son, that your father worked for." There was a pause. She broke the silence. "Oh! Jem, I charge you with the care of her! I suppose it would be murder to kill her, but it would be better for her to die than to live to lead such a life as I do. Do you hear me, Jem?" "Yes! I hear you. It would be better. Better we were all dead." This was said as if thinking aloud; but he immediately changed his tone, and continued, "Esther, you may trust to my doing all I can for Mary. That I have determined on. And now listen to me. You loathe the life you lead, else you would not speak of it as you do. Come home with me. Come to my mother. She and my aunt Alice live together. I will see that they give you a welcome. And to-morrow I will see if some honest way of living cannot be found for you, Come home with me." She was silent for a minute, and he hoped he had gained his point. Then she said, "God bless you, Jem, for the words you have just spoken. Some years ago you might have saved me, as I hope and trust you will yet save Mary. But it is too late now;--too late," she added, with accents of deep despair. Still he did not relax his hold. "Come home," he said. "I tell you, I cannot. I could not lead a virtuous life if I would. I should only disgrace you. If you will know all," said she, as he still seemed inclined to urge her, "I must have drink. Such as live like me could not bear life, if they did not drink. It's the only thing to keep us from suicide.
If we did not drink, we could not stand the memory of what we have been, and the thought of what we are, for a day. If I go without food, and without shelter, I must have my dram. Oh I you don't know the awful nights I have had in prison for want of it!" said she, shuddering, and glaring round with terrified eyes, as if dreading to see some spiritual creature, with dim form, near her. "It is so frightful to see them," whispering in tones of wildness, although so low spoken. "There they go round and round my bed the whole night through.
My mother, carrying little Annie (I wonder how they got together) and Mary--and all looking at me with their sad, stony eyes; oh Jem! it is so terrible!
