Ever since the death of his wife, whose end had been hastened by the sudden and complete disappearance of her darling sister Esther, the wan colourlessness of his face had been intensified; his stern enthusiasm, once latent, had become visible; his heart, tenderer than ever towards the victims of the misery around him, grew harder towards the employers, whom he believed to be the cause of that misery.  Trade grew worse, but there was no sign that the masters were suffering; they still had their carriages and their comforts; the woe in these terrible years 1839, 1840, and 1841 seemed to fall wholly upon the poor.  It is impossible even faintly to picture the state of distress which prevailed in Manchester at that time.  Whole families went through a gradual starvation; John Barton saw them starve, saw fathers and mothers and children die of low, putrid fever in foetid cellars, and cursed the rich men who never extended a helping hand to the sufferers.

“Working folk won’t be ground to the dust much longer,” he declared.  “We’n ha’ had as much to bear as human nature can bear.”

Fiercer grew he, and more sullen.  Darker and darker were the schemes he brooded over in his desolate home, or discussed with others at the meetings of the union.  Even Mary did not escape his ill-temper.  Once he struck her.  And yet Mary was the one being on earth he devotedly loved.  What would he have thought had he known that his daughter had listened to the voice of an employer’s son?  But he did not know.

II.—­The Rivals

One night, as Jem was leaving the foundry, a woman laid her hand upon his arm.  A momentary glance at the faded finery she wore told him the class to which she belonged, and he made an effort to pass on.  But she grasped him firmly.

“You must listen to me, Jem Wilson,” she said, “for Mary Barton’s sake.”

“And who can you be to know Mary Barton?” he exclaimed.

“Do you remember Esther, Mary’s aunt?”

’"Yes, I mind her well.”  He looked into her face.  “Why, Esther!  Where have ye been this many a year?”

She answered with fierce earnestness, “Where have I been?  What have I been doing?  Can you not guess?  See after Mary, and take care she does not become like me.  As she is loving now, so did I love once—­one above me, far.”

Jem cut her short with his hoarse, stern inquiry, “Who is this spark that Mary loves?”

“It’s old Carson’s son.”  Then, after a pause, she continued, “Oh, Jem, I charge you with the care of her!  Her father won’t listen to me.”  She cried a little at the recollection of John Barton’s harsh words when she had timidly tried to approach him.  “It would be better for her to die than to live to lead such a life as I do!”

“It would be better,” said Jem, as if thinking aloud.  Then he went on.  “Esther, you may trust to my doing all I can for Mary.  And now, listen.  Come home with me.  Come to my mother.”