She was at home, and frying ham, before Alice had chosen her nettles, put out her candle, locked the door, and walked in a very footsore manner as far as John Barton’s. What an aspect of comfort did his house-place present, after her humble cellar! She did not think of comparing; but for all that she felt the delicious glow of the fire, the bright light that revelled in every corner of the room, the savoury smells, the comfortable sounds of a boiling kettle, and the hissing, frizzling ham. With a little old-fashioned curtsey she shut the door, and replied with a loving heart to the boisterous and surprised greeting of her brother.
And now, all preparations being made, the party sat down; Mrs. Wilson in the post of honour, the rocking-chair, on the right-hand side of the fire, nursing her baby, while its father, in an opposite arm-chair, tried vainly to quieten the other with bread soaked in milk.
Mrs. Barton knew manners too well to do anything but sit at the tea-table and make tea, though in her heart she longed to be able to superintend the frying of the ham, and cast many an anxious look at Mary as she broke the eggs and turned the ham, with a very comfortable portion of confidence in her own culinary powers. Jem stood awkwardly leaning against the dresser, replying rather gruffly to his aunt’s speeches, which gave him, he thought, the air of being a little boy; whereas he considered himself as a young man, and not so very young neither, as in two months he would be eighteen. Barton vibrated between the fire and the tea-table, his only drawback being a fancy that every now and then his wife’s face flushed and contracted as if in pain.
At length the business actually began. Knives and forks, cups and saucers, made a noise, but human voices were still, for human beings were hungry and had no time to speak. Alice first broke silence; holding the tea-cup with the manner of one proposing a toast, she said, “Here’s to absent friends. Friends may meet, but mountains never.”
It was an unlucky toast or sentiment, as she instantly felt. Everyone thought of Esther, the absent Esther; and Mrs. Barton put down her food, and could not hide the fast-dropping tears. Alice could have bitten her tongue out.
It was a wet blanket to the evening; for though all had been said and suggested in the fields that could be said or suggested, everyone had a wish to say something in the way of comfort to poor Mrs. Barton, and a dislike to talk about anything else, while her tears fell fast and scalding. So George Wilson, his wife, and children set off early home, not before (in spite of mal-à-propos speeches) they had expressed a wish that such meetings might often take place, and not before John Barton had given his hearty consent, and declared that as soon as ever his wife was well again they would have just such another evening.
“I will take care not to come and spoil it,” thought poor Alice; and going up to Mrs. Barton, she took her hand almost humbly, and said, “You don’t know how sorry I am I said it.”
To her surprise, a surprise that brought tears of joy into her eyes, Mary Barton put her arms round her neck, and kissed the self-reproaching Alice. “You didn’t mean any harm, and it was me as was foolish; only this work about Esther, and not knowing where she is, lies so heavy on my heart. Good-night, and never think no more about it. God bless you, Alice.”
Many and many a time, as Alice reviewed that evening in her after life, did she bless Mary Barton for these kind and thoughtful words. But just then all she could say was, “Good night, Mary, and may God bless you.”