CHAPTER XIV.
SHADOWS GROWING BRIGHTER.
"No life is waste in the Great Worker's hands."
"The thought of her came like a small bird winging the still, blue air."
"I went down into the garden to see whether the pomegranates budded."—Song of Solomon, vi, ii.
It was a painful thing to do, but a woman's love, if it be true love, never fails. Sarah went again to Jonathan. It was easy to make him understand how Steve stood in his own little world. Jonathan knew the men and women that composed it, knew their virtues and their faults, and he perceived that Steve had become an outcast from it. To tell the truth, he had not much hope of Steve; but he could not resist Sarah's anxious face, and the tears in her sorrowful eyes.
"Let him hev a fair chance, master, to put his good resolutions into practice," she pleaded; and after some debate America was chosen as the place for a fair chance. America was a boundless possibility. Very little else was known about it, even by Jonathan. But Steve was charmed. There was the voyage, and then the vast unknown beyond the voyage; surely, at least, there were limitless opportunities for something good to turn up. He was gay with hope and full of promises, and Sarah believed in them, although the thoughtless candidate for fortune had not one definite plan as to how he was to redeem them.
He intended going to Canada, but he made some mistake in Liverpool, and bought a ticket for New York. But how often some wiser power takes in hand at last the life we have rough-hewn on every side, and shapes it to its proper end. Half-way across the Atlantic the key to Steve Benson's character was found. Either because a sailing vessel was more economical, or because he wanted to prolong the voyage, Steve had selected a ship of a famous merchant line. For eight days they were driven before a series of storms, and when all hope appeared to be over, and the crew refused any longer to obey orders, Steve went naturally to his right place.
He was the captain's main reliance. Things that appeared impossible for a landsman to do he did easily, by some natural gift or instinct. His spirits and courage rose with the storm, rose above it, and the man who had been a coward among wheels and bands and pulleys knew only an exultant joy in his conflict with the winds and waves. When almost in extremity they met a steamer which took them into port; but the first step on the right road had been taken by Steve Benson, for ere they landed the captain said to him.
"What is your trade, young man?"
"I am a weaver, sir."
"And your father?"
"A weaver, also; but my grandfather sailed forty years in the Whitby whaling ships—"
"I thought so! You are a born sailor. Nature made you to sail a ship, and your father tethered you to a loom. That's the way people steer on wrong tacks, and then wonder they run upon reefs and sand-bars. Will you leave the loom and take the helm with me?"
"I'll do so gladly, captain."
This was the beginning of a new life to Steve. It was almost as if in that stormy passage he had been born again. He threw the past and all its dreamy discontent behind him. He never wanted in this new work to be idle. He put into it his whole soul, and duty was delight. The Captain watched him with pleasure and astonishment, and wondered at the marvellous transition. For it was not only in his mental aptitudes that the born sailor was manifest; as soon as Steve put on the blue flannel of the seaman he looked as if he was in his natural clothes. He kicked his corduroys over the side of the vessel, and buried his mill memories with them fathoms deep in the tossing ocean.
It must be acknowledged that at first Jonathan thought little of the enthusiastic hopes of Sarah for her brother in his new life. "It's this and it's that," he muttered, "and the newest thing is the best thing; but he'll never be worth the shoe-leather he'll wear out." And it was not unreasonable that he should feel hopeless of Steve, and also a little hard towards him. For so many years he had stood between Sarah and himself, and though he could not blame Sarah for her sisterly devotion, he did blame Steve for requiring it. He was very well pleased when the American proposal was made. He had often thought of it, but he felt that it would be impolitic for him to be the one to propose the lad's exile. He might be accused of selfish motives, and if Steve were unsuccessful he was sure that Sarah would only cling the closer to him. Still, it made him happy to see her at her loom with such a cheerful face, and as the weeks went by, and it grew brighter and brighter, he began to look into the eyes he loved with that hopeful lift of the eyelids which asked her as plainly as words could have done, "When?" And though he was so busy that he hardly took time for sleep, he was always conscious of a joy far below the restless tides of daily labor and daily care.
After the wonderful reconciliation between Aske and himself he went at once to see his his uncle. Jonas Shuttleworth had been shrewd enough to anticipate the effect of that Christmas eve upon his nephew's business. He was not astonished when he heard there would be no lawsuit, and yet, in spite of a sensible satisfaction, he was a bit disappointed.
"I hope I am Christian enough to be glad thou hes made it up with thy son-in-law," he said to Jonathan; "but, my word, it was as nice a case as iver I could wish to see! I hed t' defence all thought out, and I hed got things in my mind up to t' tune of ten thousand pounds damages. But if thou art satisfied, why then I ought to be, I'm sure. Now then, what will ta do with both mills? They'll be a bit of a charge to thee."
"I'll tell thee. Eleanor hes offered me t' loan of her marriage portion, and that will make Burley mill run smooth until it runs itself clear."
"Why-a! That was good in t' lass! But what will Aske say to it?"
"He put Eleanor up to it, I hev no doubt, for Eleanor never hed a plan about money, if it wasn't for the spending of it. But she was glad of the thought, and they were both as nice as niver was about it."
"He can't be a bad chap—Aske."
"He's a varry good one. He's a good hater, and a good lover, and men of that kind suit me. You know where you hev them. Squire Bashpoole always lifted his hat, and spoke politely in t' worst of ill-will, but I knew he hated me, and I thought a deal the worse of him for his civility. He'd hev been more of a man if he hed kept his beaver on, and passed me without a word."
"Now, then, about t' other mill?"
"Ay, suppose thou runs it?"
"I know nowt o' running mills."
"Money knows iverything."
"Varry true. I'll tell thee what: I'll find t' money, and thou put Ben Holden in as manager. It shall be Burley & Co., and I'll be t' 'Co.'"
"Ben hes been my right hand for many a year."
"Then it's time thou was thy own right hand. Run thy mill as well as iver thou can, and Ben and I will 'best thee,' I hevn't a doubt."
"I shouldn't wonder."
But it was finally settled thus, and Ben was highly delighted at the proposal. Still, there were necesssarily many irritating delays, especially as Aske did not recover as rapidly and thoroughly as had been hoped. And machinery had to be examined, and books gone over, and stock taken, and the lock removed, and bills called in and satisfied, and there were a hundred things to attend to, which kept not only Jonathan but the "Co." as busy as possible.
In the early summer Squire Bashpoole and his family returned from Italy. Jonathan was made aware of this fact by meeting the squire one morning going to Aske as he was returning from an early call upon his son-in-law. At this meeting Bashpoole forgot the courtesy Burley had complained of. On the contrary, he accosted him with a blunt anger, whose spirit was unmistakably rude.
"Jonathan Burley," he said, "let me tell you I think it a great misfortune that my nephew ever had anything whatever to do with you or your family. You are a low set, sir, low both in your liking and your revenge. That is my mind about you!"
"Well, I didn't ask thee for thy mind," answered Burley, "and I don't care a jot for it now thou hes given it to me. But I'd a deal rather know it, and hev it, than I'd hev thy civil words, which niver did mean aught. In t' future, though, don't thee speak to me at all. I want nowt of thee, not even thy mind. Morning, sir."
He could not make up his mind to say good morning. "I don't see" he muttered, "why I should lie for him, and I don't wish him a good-morning;" and he flicked his whip angrily as he drove with unusual rapidity to the mill. He found Jonas Shuttleworth already there, and going over his own mail with great apparent satisfaction. As Jonathan entered he lifted a letter, and shook it with a gentle, triumphant motion.
"It's from Squire Bashpoole," he said; and then he chuckled to himself as he looked at his nephew.
"Why-a! I hev just hed a few words with him. I told thee his civility was all shoddy. He at me this morning like a bully, and he gave me some varry uncivil words indeed."
"What did he say?"
"Why, he said my family was a low set."
"Did he? Niver mind, Jonathan. He'll hev to pay heavy for ivery ugly word. If he likes to buy 'em at our price neither thee nor me need grumble."
"What is he writing to thee about?"
Shuttleworth smiled queerly as he answered, "Why, it's about my soap factory, T' boiling-vats were put in on Saturday, and he was mad. He got into his fine carriage and came down on me, horses and livery and all. His big footman rapped with his silver-headed stick at my door as if he'd come to tell me Queen Victoria was waiting outside. I hed seen him coming, for I hed been expecting t' visit, but I sat still at my fireside, and when t' man knocked I shouted to him to walk in. He didn't do it, though, till he got tired o' knocking, and then he says, 'Squire Bashpoole wants to see you, sir.' 'I've no objections,' says I; 'tell him to come in.' 'Sir?' says he. 'Tell him to come here,' I answered, and by t' way I spoke he knew I meant something. So t' squire comes marching in as if he hed looked at my property, and liked it and meant to buy it; and I said, 'Well, squire, thou can sit down if ta likes.'
"'I won't sit down, Mr. Shuttleworth, and what are you building opposite my park?' he asked.
"'Why, ta sees,' I told him, 'there's a sight o' wool mills round here, and I'm building a soap factory; it's sure to pay.'
"'Pay!' he bellowed. 'It's an outrage! It's a nuisance! It ruins my property! It's close upon my park walls!'
"'Ay,' I said, 'thy park walls hes long been an outrage and a nuisance. My tenants don't like looking at a brick wall spring, summer, and winter.'
"Then he went on like a Turk and Tartar, and I smoked my pipe and looked in t' fire as comfortable and pleasant as could be, and I niver answered him a word until he said he'd find law enough in England to punish me. Then I told him there would happen be as much law for me as for him. 'It's a monstrous injustice!' cried he; and I laughed, and answered that law and justice weren't quite t' same thing, but that law was quite good enough for two men like him and me. 'And,' I added, 'there's a bit o' land of mine left beyond t' soap factory, and I could dig some tanning vats in it, and build some skin-drying sheds, and though it's a dirty business, I don't mind where gold comes from if it only comes to my purse, not I.' And then he went fuming out, and swore himsen into his carriage; and, to tell t' honest truth, Jonathan, I don't blame him. I'd hev done about t' same thing mysen."
Jonathan listened with a grave face. "I'm sorry, uncle. I don't mind Squire Bashpoole, nor what he says to me nor of me, and I hope you won't spend your money and annoy yourself in such a cause. I bear no ill-will to Squire Bashpoole."
"I do. And it isn't thy quarrel I'm fighting with him. He knows what he is being punished for, though the wrong is as old as thou art. When I gave him a look t' other day, he knew that look meant 'Mary Sorley,' and not Jonathan Burley. I hev given him a good lot of whippings on that old score, and mebbe I wouldn't hev brought it up again but for t' way he hes talked about my grandniece, Mistress Aske. Thou let him and me alone. There's nobody knows t' ins and t' outs of our quarrel but oursens. What was thou at Aske's so early for to-day?"
"Why, Aske is varry badly. He doesn't get well, and Eleanor sent for me last night. T' doctors think he ought to go to London or Paris, and see some great men, I've forgotten t' names, and Eleanor wanted me to persuade him to take t' advice given him. He looks varry thin and white, and he suffers a deal. But it is t' queerest thing how he hes taken to me; not but it is just as queer to feel how I hev taken to him. I felt fit to cry this morning to see him so bad off."
"Jonathan, I'll take it kind of thee if ta will go with t' poor young man and thy daughter. Thou is needing a rest &r more than thou thinks for. Thou hes a fever moat of t' time, and thou art as worritty as a woman. Ben and I can take care of iverything, and if ta will forget t' mills for a few weeks, and give thysen up to spending money, and larking like a boy, thou wilt add twenty years to thy life."
And probably Acre was in Jonathan's consciousness a conviction of the necessity for some such relief, for after a slight opposition he gave in to his uncle's proposal, almost gladly, especially when he saw how pleased Eleanor was and felt the grateful clasp of Aske's thin hand.
This event occurred about the end of July; a little more than two months after Steve's departure for America. Things had become much better in his cottage. Joyce was well, and growing almost pretty again, in the brighter prospects before her. Steve wrote her beautiful letters. He sent her money, he told her he was making a little home for her in New York, and that very soon it would be ready. And Joyce took kindly to the idea. She had been so poor and wretched that she did not feel as if she ever could hold up her head again among her own people, and her imagination had also been filled with Steve's account of the bright, breezy city of the new world, and its freer, broader life, and its wonderful school advantages for the children. So that Sarah's hopefully prophetic words to her lover, "the shadows have begun to brighten," seemed to be coming more and more true with every passing week.
As for Sarah, her cheerful face and light step had told Jonathan so much, but he felt that he could not go abroad with Aske until he had had some confidential intercourse with her. On the last day that he purposed being at the mills, before leaving, he stopped at her loom. Jonas Shuttleworth was with him, but he had lingered at a loom lower down, and in the few moment's interval Jonathan bent over her work, and said, "I am going away, my lass, for three months, happen for more. I must see thee first. Where will ta be at nine o'clock to-night?"
"I'll be at the stile to Barton Woods."
"I'll be there, too, wet or fine."
Then Jonas joined him. Both men stood and watched Sarah's work for a few minutes, and then passed on. But all day Jonathan had the wonderful sense of having an appointment with Sarah. It made him feel like a young man. He could scarcely eat his dinner; and Jonas noticed his want of appetite as a new and an ominous symptom of his need of rest and recreation.
"I'll tell thee what,nephew, thou hes eat nothing at all.and when a man quarrels with his bread and meat, there's something varry far wrong with him. Thou said thou was going out to-night; don't thee do it, a man that doesn't eat his victuals isn't fit to put his head out in t' night air."
But Jonathan said he had a friend to see, and the old man made no further opposition to his night walk. He went nervously up-stairs and dressed himself, and then slowly took his way through the sweet-scented park, full of the perfume of bleaching grass and of a thousand wild flowers. There was no moon, but there was an exquisite gloaming, and myriads of bright shining stars, and the whole influence of the night was singularly sweet and tender.
Lovers outrun the clock, if they be true lovers, and Jonathan was at the tryst before nine. But he sat down at the stile, and smoked, and thought, and was very, very happy. Just before nine he arose, and looked up and down the road. He could see either way for half a mile. Sarah was not visible. Then she was coming through the wood, and with a still, sweet thrill of expectation he went to meet her. In a few moments she appeared, and oh, how fair and sweet she looked in the dim path with the green, arching trees above her!
He took her hands and elapsed them in his own. "My own dear wife! Thank thee for coming!" He drew her firmly to his side, and he almost whispered the words over again, because it seemed far sweeter to say them in a voice so low that it compelled him to bend down to her dear face in order to make himself underderstood. And then their feet were upon enchanted ground, and knew a joy more sweet and pure than any hearts can comprehend, save those that have been tried by sorrow and strenghtened by self-abnegation. It was no green harvest of unripe love, hastily gathered by impatient youth before the ears are full and golden. In Barton Wood, Sarah and Jonathan had one hour of sweetest confidence, in which the future was discussed in all the glowing hopes of purest and truest love.
When it was time to part they came to the open road, and Jonathan looked at his love with a fixed and tender gaze. He wanted to firmly impress upon his mental vision the picture of the beautiful woman he so dearly loved. She had only a lilac print dress on, with a white broidered kerchief about her neck, but oh, how sweet and womanly she looked! And oh, what wells of truth and affection were the handsome gray eyes she lifted to Jonathan's face!
"We must part here, dear Jonathan," she said softly.
"Nay, not we, I'll see thee safe home," and she had not the heart to say him nay. So, walking happily side by side through the little village, they said their last hopeful words to each other. At the cottage gate he kissed her and blessed her, and left her with eyes full of tender tears. And she stood and watched him to the street corner, where he turned and waved his hand in a final adieu. Still she stood. The air was so warm and balmy, and the stars so bright, and she was so happy. And when the thoughts are thoughts of love, time goes so swiftly to their drifting. Sarah had been dreaming half an hour at the little gate when she heard a footstep. "That is Ben Holden's step, I'll warrant," she thought, and in a moment Ben came round the corner.
"Thou art late out, Sarah," he said with a queer smile.
"So art thou, Ben. Hes ta been a-courting?"
"Thou knows better than that I am up to no such foolishness! I was at t' Odd Fellows' meeting to-night. Does ta know t' master is going away?"
"Ay, I know it. Aske and him are varry friendly after all that hes come and gone."
"Aske and Burley are thick as thack, and as for Mistress Aske, she rules 'em both. She hes sense enough now to call her orders wishes, that's about all t' difference, lass. It caps me! Men-folk are that easy fooled I often wonder women can look in their faces without laughing at 'em."
And Sarah laughed softly in Ben's face and turned happily away.