CHAPTER IV.
THE MASTER'S LOVE.
"Our lives most dear are never near,
Our thoughts are never far apart,
Though all that draws us heart to heart
Seems fainter now, and now more clear.
"To-night love claims his full control,
And with desire and with regret
My soul this hour has drawn your soul
A little nearer yet."
An admirable reticence distinguishes the Anglo-Saxon concerning the woman he loves. A Frenchman will talk you blind about his Julia's eyes, and ride about the world with the name of his lady-love forever on the tip of his tongue; but not even to Ben Holden did Jonathan talk much of his love for Sarah Benson. Yet it had become the sweetest part of his life. Without absolutely watching her, he was aware of all things which concerned her, and her presence and movements made upon him that impression which the most trifling facts connected with the person we love must make.
It was a fine night in the middle of January, and Jonathan had been to the chapel at a leader's meeting. The financial affairs of the circuit were very much in his hands, and he managed them with the same prudence that he managed the affairs of his own mill. But it was not of them he was musing as he walked thoughtfully home in the moonlight. His daughter's troubles lay heavy upon his heart, for things had not grown pleasanter between Aske and his wife during the past three months. With all the love and authority which his relationship warranted he had advised the unhappy woman, but advice is a medicine few people ever really take. And even where it accorded with Eleanor's own convictions of right, she generally found excuses for setting it aside. "The more I submit, father," she had said, passionately, that very afternoon, "the more unreasonable and tyrannical he is;" and Jonathan had reflected with a sigh that such a result was natural, and to be expected.
Little good came of his anxiety and worry, but yet he could not keep his daughter's marriage out of his mind, and doubtless he let it "fret him to evil" every time he entertained it. This night as he thought of his beautiful child, and of the fifty thousand pounds which he had so cheerfully given to make her happy, he felt bitter and hard towards his son-in-law. And to Aske he had not been able to speak. Once only he had attempted to open the delicate subject, and the young husband had met the overture with such a frigid coldness and haughty air as to effectually check Jonathan's further advances.
His sorrow made him feel his loneliness, his need of human kindness and of human love, and then his heart turned to Sarah Benson. He had hoped that when his daughter went to Aske, Sarah would be more inclined to listen to his suit, but even in this respect things had gone badly with him. He felt that she avoided him, and he saw that her eyes were full of trouble. The road between Barton Chapel and Burley House was a lonely bit of highway, running along the edge of the moor, with Barton Woods on one side of it. Men in groups of two or three passed him at intervals; they were mill-hands, with the loud, grating voices of men leading a hard life, so he easily gathered from their conversation that they had been to the weekly prayer-meeting. They all gave him a "Good-night, master!" as they passed; and he watched them trudging down the hill to their little cottages, with a half-conscious remembrance of the days when he had been their fellow.
There were several paths through Barton Woods leading from the road to the little villages on the other side of it. Suddenly Jonathan heard the voice of some one coming singing through the lonely place, singing as the untutored sing, with a shrill melancholy, dwelling chiefly on the high notes. He knew the voice well, and he stood still to listen.
"'I have waited for thee,' He murmured,
'Through weary nights and days,
Beside the well in the twilight,
And along thy devious ways—
But thou wert content to miss me,'
And I met His tender gaze.
"'Content no more, sweet Master,
Except Thou be with me
From this time forth in the city,
Where my daily toil must be;
And at evening-time by the fountain.
Where I will sing to Thee."
He raised me up and blessed me,
That sweet yet awful Priest;
He gave me the Cup of Blessing
From the eternal Feast,
The wine with hues more radiant
Than sunrise in the east."
Here the singer came to a little stile, fifty yards in advance of Jonathan, passed over it into the highway, and went forward, singing,
"Dear heart. I have found the Master.
He is sweet beyond compare;
He will save and comfort the weary soul.
He will make thee white and fair.
Not as I gave will He give,
But wine divine and rare."
"Sarah!"
"He is with me in the tumult
Of the city harsh and dim;
And at evening by the fountain.
Where I sit and sing to Him.
Now He wears a veil of shadows
On the face divine and fair,
But His angels whisper to me,
'There will be no shadows there."
"Sarah!"
She turned and stood still until Jonathan reached her.
"I thought it was thy voice I heard in Barton Woods. Eh, lass! I am glad to see thee. Is all well wi' thee?"
"I try to think so, master. One mustn't expect too much o' this life."
"Steve's loom has stood still varry often lately. It's enough to try anybody's patience. It is that"
"I know it master. But thou wilt bear a bit longer wi' him?"
"Is that what thou thinks?"
"Ay, it is."
"I'll do anything thou asks me to do. Sarah, can thou give me one kind thought? I would be glad to bear a' thy crosses for thee. If thou would marry me I would put up wi' all that thou loves for thy dear sake. Can ta see thy way clear to wed me, Sarah?"
As they stood together he lifted her hand and clasped it between his own. The moon-light fell all over Sarah's slight figure in its black cloak, and gave a touching beauty to her face, perfectly outlined by the little woollen kerchief pinned tightly over the head and under the chin.
"Can ta see thy way clear to wed me, Sarah?"
"Nay, I can't. I am in a deal o' trouble about Steve."
"I'll do owt thou wishes for Steve. He is thy brother, and I can do a deal for thy sake."
"He's a varry proud lad, sir. He'll not take a halfpenny from anybody."
"Not he. He takes thy money, and thy time, and all thou hes."
"Ay, he does that, but he has a right to 'em. Five minutes before mother died she asked me niver to give Steve up, niver to leave him as long as he needed me. She entered heaven wi' my promise in her hands. Dost ta think I can break it? Would ta want me to break it? I can't give my life to him and to thee, too. Thou wouldn't want me with a broken vow and a half heart, Jonathan Burley?"
"God bless thee, Sarah. Do thy duty, my lass, I can go on loving and waiting."
"Then good-night, master. I'll go home without thee. We might happen meet folk nearer t' village, and there's them that would see wrong if their eyes were out."
Jonathan waited at the stile and watched her down the hill. She sung no more. She felt that he had come very close to her heart, and the longing for the rest and for the higher things which would be a part of the love offered her, was so strong for a moment or two that it cost her a few heavy tears to put all hope of them away. Her eyes were still misty when she reached the cottage. The key had been left at a neighbor's, and she hoped Steve was at home. But all was dark and lonely.
If for a little while she had fainted in spirit the weakness was over. She put the fire together, and the cheery blaze was soon making pictures among the pewter and crockery on the cottage walls. Then she brought the table before it and laid it for supper. "He'll varry like be hungry when he comes in," she whispered to herself; and she cut a slice of cold mutton and shred an onion with it, and set the pan to simmer on the hob. She hurried for fear all would not be ready when he arrived, but ten o'clock struck, and the savory dish began to waste away, and she was so hungry that she was compelled to eat her haver-cake and cheese alone.
It was eleven o'clock when Steve came, and there was a look on his face she had never seen there before, a look of exultation and pleasure, uncertain in character, and attended with an unusual silence.
"My lad, what's the matter wi' thee? Thou doesn't eat thy victuals, either; there's summat up."
"Ay, there is ; but I'm feared to tell thee."
"Nay, but thou needn't be. Is ta in any trouble?"
"Not I, lass. I'm varry happy. Nobbut I'm going to be wed."
"Thou—art—what?"
"Going to be wed."
She stood up and looked at him, turning white as she did so, even to her lips. A sense of wrong and a great anger welled up in her heart; and she lifted the loaf and went with it into the pantry to hide the tears she could not suppress.
Steve kept his eyes on his plate. He was eating with a keen relish, now that his confession was made, but there was a bitter moment or two in Sarah's heart, ere she could command herself sufficiently to ask, "Who is ta going to wed?"
"Joyce Barnes."
"Niver!"
"Ay, it's a wonder such a bonny lass should hev me. But Joyce hes promised, and I'm that set up to-night, I can scarce tell what I'm doing or saying."
"How is ta going to keep her?"
"I'll work steady now. I've been so bothered about Joyce lately that I couldn't work; but I'll miss no days now."
"Then thou wilt do more for Joyce Barnes than iver thou did either for thy mother or me."
"It need make no difference between us, Sarah."
"Ay, but it will."
"And thou needn't make any change for my wedding. There is room enough for three, I'se warrant."
Sarah looked quickly into the handsome, wavering countenance. It was evident to her, from Steve's remark, that he considered the furniture of the cottage his own. Yet it had been slowly gathered by Sarah's mother and by Sarah herself. He had never taken a thought about it, or given a shilling towards it But still, he had a comfortable conviction that whatever a parent left belonged of right to the son, in preference to the daughter. And Sarah felt that if Steve chose to take all on this ground, he must do so. She would scorn to claim even the additions made with her own earnings since her mother's death, unless Steve should recognize her right and insist upon her taking them.
When she talked the matter over with him in the morning he made no allusion to these articles. Perhaps his facile mind had forgotten them; at any rate, his one anxiety was to make the cottage as pretty as possible for his bride. "And I'll trust it all to thee, Sarah," he said, with a calm, unconscious selfishness that roused in his sister's heart almost as much pity as anger. For she considered that he had been accustomed all his life to look upon her self-denial as his peculiar right, and, after all, it was like expecting consideration from a child to expect it from Steve.
"I'll hev everything as sweet and clean as hands can make 'em," she answered; "but, Steve, Joyce can do what she likes with t' room that will be empty up-stairs."
"What does ta mean, Sarah? Isn't ta going to keep thy own room? There's no fear but what Joyce will be varry pleasant wi' thee, and we'll get along varry contented together."
"Does ta really think I am going to bide on here?"
"To be sure I do. Why not?"
"My word! but thou is mistaken, then. Joyce and me hev nothing likely between us. She hesn't a pleasure above a new dress or a picnic, and she'll hev no end o' company here. I couldn't live among such carryings-on, not I. Old Martha Crossley will let me hev a room, and thou will get on varry well without me. I can see that, my lad."
For it wounded her terribly that Steve made scarcely a decent opposition to this plan, though in reality he was more thoughtless than heartless in the matter. Only, when thoughtlessness wounds love, it is a cruel sin, and Sarah was in a state of rebellious grief the next two weeks. But she cleaned the cottage with an almost superfluous care, though the whitewashing and scrubbing and polishing had all to be done between mill hours. The bitter tears she shed over the work she permitted no human eye to see, for she was well aware that her grief would be little understood, would even, perhaps, be imputed to selfish and unworthy motives.
Yet the simple fact of Steve's marriage was not what hurt her. She had expected that event, bad looked forward to it, and begun to love the girl she had hoped would have been his choice, a good, industrious girl, with whom she would have gladly shared her brother's love and the comfortable home her labor and economy had made. But Joyce Barnes, a gay, idle, extravagant lass of seventeen years, whose highest ambition was a bonnet with artificial flowers, that was a different thing.
Then, also, she had been excluded from all share or sympathy in the affair. Steve had given her no confidence, had never, indeed, named Joyce to her. Perhaps he had feared that she would oppose his marriage; but she felt quite sure that if Steve had confessed his love, and asked her to bear with Joyce, and help her to do right, she could have loved her for his sake. But she had only been thought of when the wedding had been arranged, and her presence in the cottage was likely to interfere with the lovers, Steve had always brought his troubles to her for help and consolation, but he had deliberately shut her out from the joy of his love and marriage.
The day before it took place she got a room from Martha Crossley, and moved her box of clothing there. She did not touch the smallest thing that had been used in common, but it was not without a pang she resigned the simple chairs and tables, bought with much self-denial, and endeared to her by the memory of the mother who had shared it. In the savings-bank there was the sum of eleven pounds in their joint names. Nearly every shilling of it had been placed there by Sarah, and Steve was well aware of the feet. Yet when she proposed to divide it equally, he accepted the proposal without a demur. For of all human creatures, lovers are the most shamelessly selfish, and at this time Steve was ready to sacrifice any one for the pretty girl he was going to marry. It was Sarah's money, and he knew it, but his one thought in the matter was, that it would enable him to take his bride to Blackpool for a whole week.
The summer which followed this marriage was full of grief to Sarah, grief of that kind which lets the life out in pinpricks, small, mean griefs, that a brave, noble heart folds the raiment over and bears. Steve's ostentatious happiness was almost offensive, and she could not but notice that he was never now absent from his loom. She told herself that she ought to be glad, and that she was glad, but still she could not help a sigh for the mother-love and the sister-love which he had so long tried and wounded by his indifference and his laziness.
They met at the mill every day, and Sarah always asked kindly after Joyce. There was little need, however, to do so. Steve could talk of nothing but Joyce, her likings and dislikings, her ailments, her new dresses, or the friends who had been to take a bit of supper with them. Now, it is far easier for a woman to be self-denying than to be just, and, in spite of all her efforts, Sarah did often feel it very hard to listen to him with a show of interest and good-humor.
About the end of the summer there came a change. Steve had finished a beautiful web, and it brought him to the notice of a firm who offered him a larger wage than he was receiving from Burley. "Don't thee take such an offer, Steve," urged Sarah. "Burley hes been varry good and patient wi' thee. Thou may get five shillings a week more and be the worse off, I can tell thee that."
But Joyce thought differently. "Steve's work wasn't common work," she said, "and he had been underpaid for a long time. Steve had a right to better himsen; and it was fair selfishness in Sarah to want to keep him backward, just so as she could hev him working at her elbow." Besides, Joyce had calculated that the five shillings extra would give them a trip every other week; it would do, in fact, so many fine things that Steve felt as if it would be throwing away a fortune to refuse the offer.
So he left Burley's Mill and went to Chorley's, and held himself quite above his old work-fellows in the change. Burley let him go without a word of remonstrance. He was almost glad when there was another face at his loom; yet he watched Sarah anxiously, to see how the change affected her. She was paler, and she sang less at her work, but this alteration had been a gradual one, so gradual that nobody but Jonathan had noticed it.
He looked in vain, however, for any recognition from her. Every day, when he visited the weaving-room, his glance asked her a question she never answered. He tried to meet her coming from chapel, but if he did so she was always with some of her mates, and he could only pass on with a "Good-night, lasses!" to their greeting.
But though all our plans fail, when the time comes the meeting is sure; and one night, as Jonathan was leaving a friend's house at a very late hour, he saw a figure before him that he knew on sight, under any circumstances. He was astonished that Sarah should be out so late, especially as the rain was pouring down, and the night so black that nothing was distinguishable excepting as it passed the misty street lamps. They were quite alone, the village was asleep, and he was soon at her side.
"I hev found thee by thysen at last, Sarah. Whereiver hes ta been, my lass?"
"Granny Oddy is dying. I was keeping the watch until midnight with her."
"What hes ta to say to me now? Steve has left thee altogether now, hesn't he?"
"Ay, but I can't leave him."
"He doesn't need thee now, Sarah."
"But he's going to need me, and that's worse than iver."
"Why-a! I thought he wer doing extra well."
"I think he was niver doing so badly. They are living at heck and manger, master, and Joyce hed a little lass last week, and she's varry dwining and sick. I went there last night, and cleaned up things a bit for her. It isn't like t' old place, not at all."
"Hes ta no word of hope for me, then?"
"Nay, I hen't, not yet."
"It's varry hard on me, Sarah."
"Happen it isn't easy on other folk."
"Thank thee, lass. There's a bit o' comfort in them words. Some day I'll bear thy troubles for thee. I shall still hope for that."