At last she could bear his nervous way no longer, it made her equally nervous and fidgety. She would speak. "When are you going, father? I don't know the time o' the trains." "And why shouldst thou know?" replied he, gruffly. "Meddle with thy ironing, but donnot be asking questions about what doesn't concern thee." "I wanted to get you something to eat first," answered she, gently. "Thou dost not know that I'm laming to do without food," said he. Mary looked at him to see if he spoke jestingly. No! he looked savagely grave. She finished her bit of ironing, and began preparing the food she was sure her father needed; for by this time her experience in the degrees of hunger had taught her that his present irritability was increased, if not caused, by want of food. He had had a sovereign given him to pay his expenses as delegate to Glasgow, and out of this he had given Mary a few shillings in the morning; so she bad been able to buy a sufficient meal, and now her care was to cook it so as most to tempt him. "If thou'rt doing that for me, Mary, thou may'st spare thy labour. I telled thee I were not for eating." "Just a little bit, father, before starting," coaxed Mary, perseveringly. At that instant who should come in but Job Legh. It was not often he came, but when he did pay visits, Mary knew from past experience they were anything but short. Her father's countenance fell back into the deep gloom from which it was but just emerging at the sound of Mary's sweet voice, and pretty pleading. He became again restless and fidgety, scarcely giving Job Legh the greeting necessary for a host in his own house. Job, however, did not stand upon ceremony. He had come to pay a visit, and was not to be daunted from his purpose. He was interested in John Barton's mission to Glasgow, and wanted to hear all about it; so he sat down, and made himself comfortable, in a manner that Mary saw was meant to be stationary. "So thou'rt off to Glasgow, art thou?" he began his catechism. "Aye." "When art starting?" "To-night." "That I knowed. But by what train?" That was just what Mary wanted to know; but what apparently her father was in no mood to tell. He got up without speaking, and went up-stairs.
Mary knew from his step, and his way, how much he was put out, and feared Job would see it, too. But no! Job seemed imperturbable. So much the better, and perhaps she could cover her father's rudeness by her own civility to so kind a friend. So, half listening to her father's movements up-stairs (passionate, violent, restless motions they were), and half attending to Job Legh, she tried to pay him all due regard. "When does thy father start, Mary?" That plaguing question again. "Oh! very soon. I'm just getting him a bit of supper. Is Margaret very well?" "Yes, she's well enough. She's meaning to go and keep Alice Wilson company for an hour or so this evening; as soon as she thinks her nephew will have started for Liverpool; for she fancies the old woman will feel a bit lonesome.
Th' Union is paying for your father, I suppose?" "Yes, they've giv'n him a sovereign. You're one of th' Union, Job?" "Aye! I'm one, sure enough; but I'm but a sleeping partner in the concern.
I were obliged to become a member for peace, else I don't go along with 'em. Yo see they think themselves wise, and me silly, for differing with them! Well! there's no harm in that. But then they won't let me be silly in peace and quietness, but will force me to be as wise as they are; now that's not British liberty, I say. I'm forced to be wise according to their notions, else they persecute me, and starve me out." What could her father be doing up-stairs? Tramping and banging about. Why did he not come down? Or why did not Job go? The supper would be spoilt. But Job had no notion of going. "You see my folly is this, Mary. I would take what I could get; I think half a loaf is better than no bread. I would work for low wages rather than sit idle and starve. But, comes the Trades' Union, and says, 'Well, if you take the half-loaf; we'll worry you out of your life. Will you be clemmed, or will you be worried?' Now clemming is a quiet death, and worrying isn't, so I choose clemming, and come into th' Union. But I'd wish they'd leave me free, if I am a fool." Creak, creak, went the stairs. Her father was coming down at last. Yes, he came down, but more doggedly fierce than before, and made up for the journey, too; with his little bundle on his arm. He went up to Job, and, more civilly than Mary expected, wished him good-bye. He then turned to her, and in a short cold manner, bade her farewell. "Oh! father, don't go yet. Your supper is all ready. Stay one moment." But he pushed her away, and was gone. She followed him to the door, her eyes blinded by sudden tears; she stood there looking after him. He was so strange, so cold, so hard. Suddenly, at the end of the court, he turned, and saw her standing there; he came back quickly, and took her in his arms. "God bless thee, Mary!--God in heaven bless thee, poor child!" She threw her arms round his neck. "Don't go yet, father; I can't bear you to go yet. Come in, and eat some supper; you look so ghastly; dear father, do!" "No," he said, faintly and mournfully. "It's best as it is. I couldn't eat, and it's best to be off. I cannot be still at home. I must be moving." So saying, he unlaced her soft twining arms, and kissing her once more, set off on his fierce errand. And he was out of sight! She did not know why, but she had never before felt so depressed, so desolate. She turned in to Job, who sat there still.
