CHAPTER XIII.
A QUESTION OF DUTY.
"The romance we love best is that which we write in our own heart."
"The tumult of the time disconsolate
To inarticulate murmurs dies away."
"The gods sell us all good things for labor."
Happiness, like sunshine, cannot be hid. As Jonathan went through his mill that day he carried the atmosphere with him. His face had the old open, straightforward look, his manner that auspicious, kindly imperativeness which so well became him. From frame to frame some intelligence passed. In a moment, in the twinkling of eyes, the thought was expressed and communicated, and unconsciously there was a quickening of work in sympathy with the mood. Jonathan did not say a word, but he wished them to feel that a better time had come, and they did feel it, and so subtle and quick are such flashes of intelligent sympathy, that the master. was also quite aware his workers had comprehended his hope, and shared it.
In the upper room the one frame his eye instantly sought was empty. Sarah was absent, and he had a minute's keen disappointment. He meant to have stopped at her loom, and said, at least, "All the trouble is over, Sarah." It was also so very unusual to find her absent that his heart felt afraid, and he went back to his office and waited anxiously and impatiently for Ben's return.
Ben came in about an hour. He had that uncomfortable habit of taking great events in a way so cool and slow as to be absolutely provoking and irritating to quicker natures. He took off his coat and vest and began quietly to put on his big pinafore, apparently quite unconscious of Jonathan's impatience.
"Well?" asked Jonathan, with a touch of temper, "why doesn't ta say something? Did ta see Sykes?"
"Ay, I saw him."
"Well?"
"Nay, it wasn't well. It was varry far from well. He called me ivery foul name he could think of, and he can think of a good many; he can that."
"What did ta say then?"
"Why-a! I told him that he couldn't call me owt worse than I hed called mysen many a time; but, says I, 'Let me alone, Sykes, and look after thy own concerns a bit. For, we hev come to t' conclusion not to hev thee here another day! Thou turns out nobbut t' poorest kind of stuff, and trade is badly spoiled in this part o' t' country wi' thy poor work.'"
"Did ta say that? I'm glad thou said it! I am pleased! Good for thee, Ben, good for thee!" and Burley knocked the table emphatically with his closed fist.
"I don't think much o' mysen for saying it. It isn't more than half true. Some o' Sykes's merinos are fair enough; but I knew it would make him madder than aught else I could say, and I didn't stop to be particular, I hedn't time just then, but I hevn't felt quite comfortable since."
"What for, I'd like to know?"
"Why, ta sees, I hev another Master besides thee. And happen I hevn't pleased Him as well as I hev pleased thee. A man cannot serve two masters, God and—"
"Wait a bit, Ben, don't call me mammon. I sent thee to Sykes because I was feared I'd say too much. Now, I'm feared thou hesn't said enough. If ta hed told him that he was a mean, contemptible rascal, and reminded him that such ways as his don't pay in t' long run, thou would hev done no more than thy duty. And I don't think much o' thee for not doing it I didn't want thee to give railing for railing, but let me tell thee, when thy Master found t' opportunity to tell t' Scribes and Pharisees what He thought they were. He didn't lose it. I'm sorry I left Sykes to thee, now!"
"Nay, thou needn't be. I gave him some varry plain Saxon. If ta had waited a minute, I was going to tell thee. Ben Holden isn't a man to lose any opportunity. I hed my say, Jonathan. I hev a few words I keep for such occasions, and I let Sykes hev 'em."
"Wasn't he fair capp'd at t' turn round?"
"I don't think he was. He said he knew he'd hev to go, iver since he saw owd Jonas Shuttleworth poking around here. He said Jonas Shuttleworth and t' devil were t' varry same thing."
"My word! It's well Shuttleworth didn't hear him."
"I said, 'In that case, t' devil himsen weren't half as bad as some o' his servants were.' 'Meaning me?' asked Sykes, in a passion; and I answered, 'Thou knows whose wages thou takes.' Then Newby put thy seal on all and everything, and gave orders for t' mill to stop at noon."
"Well, what does ta look so down in t' mouth for? One would think it was our mill that was to stop at noon, Ben, from t' way thou takes it."
"Nay, I don't know. But I'll tell thee one thing, Jonathan, revenge isn't half such a sweet morsel as it is said to be. There's many sins far more tempting, I should say."
"Thou knows little about it, then, and a just retribution isn't revenge, and thou oughtn't to speak in that way, and take t' varry sweetness out of it There's no sin in a good man rejoicing in t' overthrow of t' wicked; but we'll change t' subject if it's so unpleasant to thee. I see Sarah Benson's loom is idle. Does ta know what's matter now?"
"Joyce is sick again."
"I think thou might hev dropped in and seen if ta could help them, anyway."
"Mebbe thou hesn't got all ta stock of human kindness there is in t' world! I did drop in, and I hev paid Sarah her full wage every Saturday since Steve's trouble, whether she earned it or not. I thought if ta didn't like it I could spare t' few shillings mysen."
"Thou knew right well I'd like it. But thou art as cross as two sticks, Ben, this morning. If ta doesn't get married soon thou wilt spoil on my hands. I hev seen t' day when this morning's work would hev suited thee to a T."
Then Ben put his hand on Jonathan's shoulder, and said, "It does suit me. I am as glad as can be." And the two men looked at each other a minute in silence, and then parted with a smile full of assurance and content. It was only that they had found words too blundering a vehicle to express emotions so strong and complex. But where the tongue fails, the glance of the eye and the pressure of a hand says in a moment what many words only darken and confuse.
That day Jonathan had a great deal to do, but he could not do it. "T' work isn't quite ready for me yet," he said to Ben, and that was true enough. Aske was unable to consult with lawyers and business men about many things which could hardly be transferred or put into fresh working order without his assistance. Jonas Shuttleworth would also have to be seen again, and Jonathan felt that to gratitude he would be compelled to add both patience and prudence. It was a little trial to him. He had one of those impulsive, driving tempers that would rather climb the wall than wait for the opening of the gate, and his triumph would have been far sweeter to him if there had been no provoking preliminaries and none of the law's delay.
Still, he was a very happy man, and going to be happier, he told himself for in the midst of his business changes he could not help the contemplation that the road between Sarah and himself was clearing. In an unacknowledged way she had been present in all his hopes and plans, and he felt that he could not be content until he had seen her long enough to make her understand, and share the brighter prospects before them.
There was a trustees' meeting at the chapel that night. He remembered it as he was eating his dinner, and as the nearest way to the chapel was by Steve's cottage, he thought he would go. Perhaps he might meet Sarah. She might be at the door. He might even feel it possible to call there. He had given Steve a kind of promise which inferred some oversight of Joyce and his children, and if Joyce were sick, it would not look remarkable for him to call and ask after her. He made these sort of excuses for a few minutes as he sat smoking after dinner, then suddenly the whole expression of his face changed. He put down his pipe with unusual decision, and as he walked rapidly up-stairs he said bluntly to himself, "I'd be an honest man if I was thee, Jonathan Burley. Go and see Sarah Benson. Thou needs no apologies. She needs none. What is ta framing excuses that are half lies for?"
He put on his best broadcloth suit, and in all other respects dressed with unusual care. And it was not altogether vanity which made him look with complaisance on his reflection in the glass, and say, "I'm a bit bald and a bit stout, and t' last four years hes made me a bit gray, but I'm a handsome man, as men go yet, I think." Nor was the judgment a partial or flattering one. He was a handsome man, simple, dignified, with a pleasant lace, and a look of kindly shrewdness in the eyes; a man quite worthy to win any good woman's confidence and affection.
He stopped at Steve's cottage as he went to the meeting. He had intended to wait until it was over, but he found himself unable to pass the door. Sarah turned her face towards him as he opened it, and at the sight of Jonathan she blushed crimson with pleasure. She sat at the fireside with the baby on her knee, and the little girl whose royal name had caused such heart-burnings was spelling out a lesson beside her. Joyce was in the large chair, folded in a blanket Her once pretty face was thin and faded, and she was in such a weak, hysterical condition that Jonathan's first kind words made her begin to cry.
"Nay, nay, woman," he said soothingly, "t' time for tears is mainly oover now. I saw Aske last night, and we talked about t' men that tried to murder him, and he said he could pick 'em out among a thousand anywhere. And when I told him thy Steve was in prison he was varry sorry. He said, 'Steve hed nowt to do wi' t' robbery.' Now, then, don't thee cry any more."
"Master, thank thee for coming wi' such good news!" Sarah answered, her face shining with hope. "Poor Joyce, she hes been ill for weeks! She's hed a deal to cry for, and she's weak as can be."
"I'm broken-hearted! I'm dying! There niver was a woman used as Steve used me. Oh, deary me! Oh, deary me! Oh! oh! oh!"
She was sobbing and moaning with a pitiful hysteria, and Sarah, still holding the babe to her breast, stood up to soothe her; but perceiving the work was going to be difficult, she turned to Jonathan and said, "Master, thou hed better go. She's worn out, and I'll hev to get her to bed."
"Thou art worn out too, my lass!" His eyes filled with tears as he stood looking at her.
"I hev something good to tell thee, though. Oh, Sarah! won't ta give me half an hour as I come from t' chapel?"
"Yes, I will that."
Under the circumstances, there was no opportunity for more words. Joyce's crying had awakened the child, and it was also crying, and Jonathan readily perceived that his presence was not in any way helpful to Sarah. But his heart was full of pity for both women, for the weak, distracted wife, wailing and moaning her life away; and for the brave, weary woman carrying a burden far too great for her strength. It was characteristic of Jonathan, however, that as soon as he entered the vestry he put his own thoughts quite away from his heart, and entered with all his old interest into the financial affairs of the circuit.
"Thou art quite like thysen, Burley, to-night." said an old friend, looking at him with a cheerful astonishment; and Jonathan answered, "The Lord hes turned again my captivity, Brother Latham; and the Lord's name be praised!"
It was a little trial for Jonathan that the brethren, rejoicing in his happiness, by a kind of friendly concert, walked part of the way home with him. At first he thought he had better not keep his engagement with Sarah. These men might wonder and talk, and he could not explain things, and so on, etc. But when they reached Steve's cottage he was ashamed that he could have been, even for a moment, such a coward. He stood still, and said, "Now, then, I'll bid you all good-night. Here's Steve Benson's cottage, and I hev got a word or two to say there."
The little house-place was now quiet Joyce and the children were asleep, and Sarah was sitting by the table mending some of their clothing. Jonathan sat down by her side. He took the work out of her hands, and then held them in his own. Such dear hands! Hands so ready to help! So gentle with the sick and the children! So busy in every unselfish work! "Oh, Sarah!" he said, and his voice was low and broken with emotion, "oh, my dear lass, t' days of our trouble are oover. Aske and me have made up friends. He hes given up t' lawsuit, and sent Sykes about his business, and he is going to make oover t' new mill to me. What does ta think of that?"
As he spoke he bent towards her, and her face was lifted to him. He saw how the news changed it, how the wan cheeks grew rosy and the sad eyes bright, and how the patient mouth parted with a happy smile. And before she could speak, he had bent still lower, and kissed the words off her lips.
"Nay, nay," he added, "don't thee be a bit vexed at me. I couldn't help it, my dearie, and I hev waited variy patient, Sarah; now, then, how soon will ta marry me?"
"Dear master, how can I leave these three little childer, nay, then, there are four o' them, for Joyce is just as fit for nothing? Thou must wait until t' right time comes."
"If ta knew, Sarah, how it pains me to see thy white, half-clemmed face! How can I be happy, and thou so miserable?"
"Nay-a, not miserable; nobody is that who is doing the thing they ought to do."
"But Steve will get off. There isn't no doubt o' that. Squire Aske was as sorry as could be when He heard of Steve being in prison."
"I wonder how Squire Aske knew our Steve?"
"He told me how. He said one day he was coming through Denham Woods, and he met Steve, and t' lad showed him an orchid he hed just found; and t' squire gave Steve a guinea for it. I don't know what an orchid is, my lass, but it's nowt wrong, I'm sure; happen it's a bird o' some kind."
"Nay, it's a flower. I remember Steve telling me about it; he said it was like a spider; a varry curious flower it must be."
"Then Aske got into a talk with Steve, and he told Steve he would like him to get t' nests and t' eggs of all the kinds of birds that iver he could find, for it seems Aske has a fancy to mak' a collection of them. He offered t' lad ten shillings for ivery nest with t' eggs in it, and more if t' nest was an uncommon kind. But Steve wouldn't tak' t' offer, not he! He said he would count himsen no better than a thief and a murderer if he took t' nest of any brooding bird, and that he'd far rather hev t' good-will of t' robins and finches than of the bluest man in t' county."
Sarah smiled, and answered, with a tone of decided approval, "That was just like Steve. Poor, kind-hearted lad!"
"Ay, t' squire smiled when he told me, and he said it would be a varry unlikely thing for a man like Steve to turn out a blood-thirsty, thieving blackguard."
"He is so good, and he is so bad, master, I'm fair puzzled with him."
"He has promised me to do better, and I have promised him no one should take his loom from him. And, Sarah, it's not unlikely that t' prison hes taught him that he can manage to live without tramping up and down from one week end to another. And get a lesson sure-ly, about taking up with iverybody that speaks pleasant to him. So, then, when Steve is settled to work again, what is there to hinder? Be my wife, and come to thy home."
"I'll say one thing. Just as soon as Steve is doing well, I'll count the promise I made my mother fulfilled. But she set me a charge and I hev to keep it. I couldn't be happy, not even with thee, if I ran away from my duty."
"It's a varry hard one, Sarah."
"Thou's wrong there. Love makes hard things easy, and I love my mother yet, and I love Steve, dearly! Hev a bit more patience. I won't hev my happiness till I can ask God's blessing on it. I must wait for t' right time, and I must be sure it is t' right time."
"Then, Sarah, I'll wait as patient as iver I can, till thou art sure. But oh, lass, how I love thee! Thou art dear as my own life to me!"
She blushed with pleasure, and voluntarily put her hand in his. "In a little while," she said. "T' shadows are beginning to brighten, and now thou wilt see how fast t' daylight will come. When t' right hour strikes, thee and me will both know it, and I'll be thy wife gladly, and I'll try to make ivery hour of thy life happy."
Jonathan was far too full of joy to speak for a few minutes, and when he did find words they were of that practical kind which would probably shock a young lover, who imagines that love has no element but one of poetry and romance, "Sarah," he said, "if ta was by thysen, or if it was for thysen, I'd niver dare to offer thee a half-penny, though all I have is for thee. But for that poor weakly creature and her childer thou must let me do something till Steve is able to work again."
"Ben Holden hes brought my wage."
"Thy wage isn't enough. It isn't half enough. It is for them, not thee. Take it, lass, and get Joyce some strengthening food, and t' childer some shoes and clothes. As for Steve's defence, he won't need much defending, but I hev spoken to Newby. He'll say all for t' poor lad that is necessary, and so, thou needn't hev a care about t' trial. It will clear Steve wheniver it is."
Jonathan's hopeful assertions proved in the outcome to be true ones also. When Squire Aske was carried into the court on the day of the trial, he positively asserted that only two men attacked him. He said he had noticed these two as they climbed the wall; he described their dress, and without hesitation selected the guilty men. And in Steve Benson's behalf he spoke so warmly that his full and honorable acquittal was the immediate result of the legal investigation.
But there was a social tribunal which Steve could not so easily satisfy. He returned home with a determination to do his duty, to be industrious at his loom and affectionate to his family. On the morning when he went back to the mill, Sarah walked by his side, and Jonathan took care, as soon as all the hands were at work, to stop at Steve's loom, and to talk to him with marked interest and kindness concerning the piece he was setting up. Steve Benson, however, had not many friends among his own class. A drunken, noisy scamp who beat his wife and fought the constables they could have understood and felt some sympathy for; but a man like Steve, who spent days hunting a queer flower, or rambling on the sea-sands after weeds and shells, and who filled his pockets like a school-boy with trash, was, in their opinion, a man who was either silly or wicked, and very likely a little of both.
Besides, as Jim Hardcastle said, "If Steve Benson hed hed a bit o' human natur' in him, he'd hev given his mates an evening at t' public-house, and told 'em all as he'd gone through, and stood a quart apiece for 'em; for as iverybody knew both t' squire and t' master hed put their hands in their pockets for him."
So Steve was made to feel from the first hour of his return that he was not one of them. A score of times a day this knowledge was forced upon him. Some of the coarser men and women had a gibe ever ready; others shifted away from his presence in silence, or else made that presence so passively unpleasant that Steve quickly shifted away from it The trial was borne bravely for a few days, for he hoped to live it down. But petty injustices and mean slights are not of that class of evils; on the contrary, they have all the despicable persistence of a fly; and, however often pushed away, return again and again to the contemptible attack.
Steve was almost appalled by such an invincible dislike. He knew how impossible such persecution would have been to himself, and, therefore, measuring it by this personal standard, it assumed proportions that he felt to be hopelessly beyond his power to surmount. Every day he grew; more and more miserable and apathetic. He shrunk from this adverse human contact, and yet felt obliged to meet it. It was an actual martyrdom to the sensitive man, and its effect upon Sarah was equally painful and distressing. Before a month had passed she felt that the ordeal was too cruel, and that something must be done to make it unnecessary, for Steve was really in a greater danger than ever he had been before, the danger of a hopeless, subjugated heart.