Between Two Loves/11
CHAPTER XI.
SARAH AND STEVE'S TROUBLES.
"Earth would be heaven, if there were no mistakes in it; and if men could not spoil their whole life by one error."
"The animosities perish; the humanities are eternal."
"Our bosoms heave to heaven; our very heart throbs upward."
When Jonathan reached his home he drove to the back of the house, and calling the groom, he pointed out the condition of the vehicle, and told him to get it ready for Mistress Aske. The man looked at his master with an inquiring, almost a suspicious, face, and Burley answered the look by pointing to his own clothing, and then describing in a few words, the tragedy he had been an actor in.
"But I don't wonder at thy wrong thought o' me, Jimmy," he added, "for I hev seen mysen the last hour as others must often hev seen me. Thank God, though, I hev clean hands yet, though they are dabbled wi' Aske's blood."
He left the man then, but he could feel the doubt that still shadowed his face, and made him offer neither remark nor sympathy, and he had a still more poignant sense of what horror and fear he must have endured had he been indeed guilty of his enemy's death.
Having hurriedly changed his clothing, he went to look for his daughter. She was lying on a sofa in the small parlor that was now their usual sitting-room. The fire was burning brightly, and the tray with the teacups on the table, but the lights were unlit, and her face was turned to the wall, for she had been weeping bitterly ever since her unexpected meeting with Anthony in the lane. When she heard her father's step she made haste to dry her eyes, and as he entered the room she rose to meet him.
In a moment she was aware of something unusual and terrible; Jonathan's face had yet upon it the solemn shadow of one who has been in the awful presence of Death. She went to his side, and said, in a low voice, "Father, what is it?"
He put his arm around her, and answered, "Thy husband hes been a' but murdered. Now, if ta is half a woman, thou wilt go to him."
She lifted her eyes quickly to his face, and there was a dreadful suspicion in them, but Jonathan promptly answered the question her lips durst not ask.
"Nay, nay, my lass. God saved thy father from that fate. I found Aske bleeding to death on t' common, and I took him home. Now what is ta going to do?"
"I am going to him."
She spoke very quietly, and when the words were uttered, left the room to put on her bonnet and cloak. Jonathan was amazed at her composure, for when she came down stairs, though she was pallid as a corpse, she made no outcry, and her manner was singularly still and calm. The gig was waiting, and he kissed her and sent her away without another word. For a moment he stood listening to the departing wheels, then the burden of his care felt a little lighter. He had done what he could, and he began to feel sensible that he was very weary, and almost feinting for lack of food.
When Martha brought in his tea he thought it best to tell her the whole circumstance, and indeed he could not dismiss it from his mind.
"Such a Christmas-eve! Such a Christmas-eve!" he kept saying over and over, as he sat smoking and musing in his own room, for the last few hours had completely altered the tenor of his strongest feelings. He was like a man that had been suddenly and rudely awakened out of a weird, uneasy dream.
During his visit to Jonas Shuttleworth he had been constantly and steadily abusing Aske. He had talked of nothing else but the wrong Aske had done him, and the means and conditions of his revenge on Aske. He had stimulated his hatred until it had become the ruling passion of his life. Three hours ago he would have called any man friend who had brought him tidings of Aske's probable death.
And the miracle was this; he could not, he could not rekindle the flame of hatred against him.
"I'm not mysen at all," he muttered; "I'd be most willing to swear it wasn't Jonathan Burley in my coat-sleeves to-night. Whativer hes come cover me? It is like as if God had said to me, 'Jonathan Burley, thou hes done thy own way long enough. Turn thee round about and do My way!' When t' sun set to-night I hated Aske wi' all my heart and soul. I thought I hed t' best o' reasons for hating him; and to think o' me toiling and tewing to save Aske! It's past believing! My word, but God sends men on strange errands, and they go, too!"
He did not sleep much, and when he did sleep he was still aware of that helpless, bleeding form which he had supported in his arms. Once he dreamed that he had been the murderer of Aske, and he awoke in a sweat of agony. Then he realized how justly Christ Jesus declared the man who harbored murderous thoughts to be as morally guilty as the man who puts them into practice. He arose several times during the night and knelt down and thanked God because he had given him grace to save the man whom often in his heart he had ardently longed to kill.
In the morning he had a note from Eleanor. She said an eminent London surgeon had been telegraphed for, but that the local physicians thought the case almost hopeless. There was already violent inflammation of the brain. The young Squire of Aske was lying unconscious on the verge of a bloody and untimely grave. The motive tor the attack had evidently been robbery. Aske had been to Leeds, and had drawn a large sum of money from the Spinner's Bank. Both it and his watch and rings were gone. As he read this information Jonathan remembered two men whom he had seen upon the common, and he went immediately to the police-station and described their appearance as well as he could. He felt then that he had done his full duty, and he tried in some measure to dismiss the event from his mind.
But the very absence of Eleanor kept it present. That he should have sent her back to her husband was a part of the miracle which had set his life in an atmosphere of wonder. When he entered the parlor the thought was not in his mind. The words had sprung unconsciously to his lips. They had been no more the outcome of his own heart than was the humanity of his action to his bleeding enemy. Nay, the sending back of Eleanor was the more remarkable of the two events. It was the surrender of his sharpest weapon to his foe. "It's the Lord's doing! It's the Lord's doing!" he kept assuring himself, "and, doubtless, he knows how it is a' to end, for it caps me!"
It being Christmas-day also helped to rivet and to intensify the impressions of the circumstances. He gave much larger gifts to his household than usual, though he had never been less able to afford gifts, and after eating his solitary dinner he remembered that there was a festival at the chapel for the poor children of the congregation, and he determined to go and add something to its provision for them, though it should only be a penny to each child. For his heart was full of a living, restless gratitude that could not find adequate expression in mere words.
And yet it was a little effort to leave his warm, bright room and go out into the dark and slush, for a drizzling rain had come on at noon, and with the rain a quick thaw. He thought for a moment of his horse and gig, but it was only for a moment. "There would be varry little merit in doing a kindness, and making t' poor nag bear t' brunt of iverything unpleasant about it. I'll button up and carry mysen to t' chapel." And so with quick, resolute steps which kept time to some melody in his own heart, he went that Christmas night to the children's festival.
He had changed a couple of sovereigns into pennies on his way through the village, and he was soon filling the small hands stretched out to him. "Tell your mammies Burley said these were for spice for yournsens. You are to buy teffy or owt you like with 'em." And if a man wants to taste the delight of genuine gratitude he must cater for the happiness of little children. Burley got a full two sovereigns' worth of pleasure, and with a light heart, trustful and trusting, he turned homeward again.
It was a soaking, wretched night, but as he passed the police-station he saw Sarah Benson come out of it. She drew her shawl over head and hurried on, but he soon overtook her.
"Sarah, my dear lass, a good Christmas to thee!"
She turned to him with a little cry, and a face so white and sorrowful that it shocked him; then, lifting her apron, she began to sob behind it.
"Sarah! Sarah! Whatever is it, joy?"
"It's the childer, master, the poor little childer. They are cold and hungry, and Joyce hed another little lass yesterday, and she's varry bad off. I'm most beside mysen!"
"Where's Steve ?"
"Thet is t' worst of a'! He hesn't been home for two days, and he knew Joyce was like to be ill any hour. There must be summat wrong, I'm sure, for Steve is none bad-hearted."
"Was ta at station about him?"
"Ay, I went to ask if they hed heard tell o' any accident, and they acted varry queer-like, I'm most broken-hearted, I think."
"Go thee straight home, Sarah. I'll bring iverything that is needful to thee. My word, but I am glad I came out to-night!"
In half an hour bread and meat, and milk and coals were at the cottage, and Jonathan, who was very wet, sat down by the fire to warm and dry his feet. How could he help watching Sarah, amid her many cares and duties, with eyes full of pity? The children had to be fed and undressed. The sick mother, half unconscious and very hard to manage, kept continually calling her. It was easy to see that upon Sarah the whole helpless family leaned.
As she was walking a sickly little child to sleep, a woman opened the door and looked in with a troubled face. Sarah caught the look and stopped suddenly.
"Oh, woman, woman!" she cried, "what is t' matter? Where is Steve? Dost ta know?"
"Ay, I'm sorry to say he's in prison, Sarah; I am that."
Sarah did not scream or feint. Her blood rushed to her face and then back in a choking tide to her heart.
"Who told thee so?"
"My man saw him and Jerry Yates and Mike Todd brought to t' lock-up."
"Did ta hear what for?"
"Ay, they are took for robbing Squire Aske. T' squire is badly hurt, too, and folks say it will be murder, and no less."
"Master, dost thou know owt? Is this true about t' squire?"
"I must tell thee it is, Sarah. I'm varry sorry—"
"Then leave me alone, will you? Polly, master, go away, I want to be by mysen a bit."
A great grief is a great consecration. Both instantly and pityingly obeyed her request. But as Jonathan went out he said, "Don't fret more than thou can help, Sarah. I don't believe Steve hed anything to do wi' t' robbery of Squire Aske. I don't believe he knew anything about it, but I'll go and see him first thing to-morrow morning. I wouldn't wonder if this isn't going to be t' varry best thing iver happened Steve. Tak' my word for it, things will come right in t' long run."
"Oh, master! I hev given my whole life to t' lad, and now, it seems like t' ending is to be a prison, or maybe worse."
"But where would he hev been but for thee? Think of that. Sarah, it is for t' sick woman and for t' little childer, thou must take it;" and he laid a five-pound note upon the table.
"Thank thee, I'll take it I'm none above taking help when I can't help mysen any longer."
Early in the morning Burley went to see Steve Benson, The poor, miserable man was quite broken down with his misfortune; and in spite of his anger Jonathan could not help feeling a great pity for such a complete failure as Steve had proved. He had still the frank, open face, and the candid, careless manner which had always won him, not only favor with women, but a singular degree of toleration for men. Steve had undoubtedly been a lazy fellow, but he had not deteriorated as fast nor as badly in the society of nature as he would have done in the society of human beings of his own kind.
Ere Jonathan was aware he had dropped the stern rough mien which he had thought it right to assume, and was listening to Steve's story, with every desire to find in it an apology for his situation.
"You see, master," the culprit said, "I left home two days before Christmas to try and make a few shillings by cutting greens and mistletoe, and selling them. Look at my clothes, master; and I hed not been able to give mysen a full meal for a long time. How could I stand t' cold? Nobody likes t' woods better than I do, and I knew well where t' finest berries and holly were, but I could scarce walk or work for t' cold. I was felling asleep all t' time, and I was feared to give way, lest I'd niver wake again. Not that it would hev made much difference to any one—"
"It's a shame o' thee to say that. Thee, that hes such a sister, and a good wife, and little childer, too!"
"Poor Sarah! She hes borne and borne iverything for me. And, master, it isn't my fault, I have tried."
"It is thy fault, thou hesn't tried. There was always work waiting for thee at my mill, and niver a fault flung in thy face."
"Master, thou likes thy mill. Thou doesn't mind t' heat, and t' smell, and t' close work. I hate t' mill. I hate t' heat of it, it makes my head burn and throb. I hate t' smell of it, it turns me sick as death; and all t' time I'm deafened wi' t' noise of it, I hear t' sea in my ears, and I remember t' cool salt air, and I hev to go to it. Thou can't judge me. I want to do right and I hevn't t' power to do it."
"God forbid I should judge thee, Steve. But how about this affair of Aske's. Thou wert taken with a varry bad couple."
"I know I was. Ta sees, on Christmas-eve I hed four shillings, and I thought I would go home with it. Just below Longley's mill I met Billy Britton, and he was beating his donkey, like the brute he is, beyond iverything! I just said a few words to him about it, and then he turned on me, and he would hev given me my fairings if Yates and Todd hedn't come up. Well, master, you know yoursen you'd hev thought it right to be civil to men as hed helped you out o' Billy Britton's clutches, and when Todd said, 'Come and hev a glass at t' "Ring o' Bells," Steve,' I said, 'And thank'ee both,' and went."
"What time on Christmas-eve was that?"
"I don't know exactly, but soon afterwards I heard t' clock in t' "Ring o' Bells" strike seven, and I said, 'I hev to get home, lads, now,' and in a bit I left them. But when I put my hand in my pocket my four shillings were gone; and I thought to mysen, There's no use going home now. Joyce will cry and scold, and Sarah's still white face I can't abear to see. So I crept in among Squire Thornbury's hay, and slept till Christmas afternoon. Then I went up to t' big house and got a real good dinner, and t' butler hed a fiddle, and I played for 'em till dark; and perhaps I hed too much spiced ale, for when I passed t' "Ring o' Bells" again I saw Todd and Yates still drinking there; and they shouted to me, and said, 'Come in for thy Christmas cup,' and while I was drinking it t' police came and took us all three up. T' land-lady swore I'd come in t' night before with Todd and Yates, and that was true enough; but it looked bad for me, and so I hed to come here."
"I believe thou hast told me t' truth, Steve; but oh, dear me, what a fool thou hes been!"
"Thou thinks so, master, I don't doubt God gave thee t' art o' making money, and me t' art o' playing on t' fiddle, and understanding what t' birds are singing about; and I can tell thee, master, they think varry little o' men and women, and t' way in general of getting on varry friendly terms wi' all nature that isn't human nature. There's some kind o' work I could do, but it isn't weaving; however, when I get out o' this, nobody will give me weaving to do."
"Thou art wrong there. I will give the weaving to do. I'll niver take thy loom from thee, and I hope thou wilt lay this trouble to heart and be a better man for it when ta gets back to thy work, if ta ever does get back. Hes ta heard thou hes another daughter, and that Joyce isn't doing as well as might be?"
"I heard that this morning. Poor Joyce! And little lass, too! It's none of her fault she's got me for a daddy. Master! master! look a bit after them for me, will ta? For their sakes I'll buckle down to work when I get out, and I'll do my best, I will that. Thou might send Joyce word I said so."
"I'll not see them want, Steve, thou may be sure; but I do think thou is a careless, shiftless fellow. Daily work is t' varry backbone o' any life, Steve, and till thou does it thou will niver stand up as a man should do."
In all these events Jonathan had missed Ben Holden very much. Ben had gone to Otley to spend his Christmas with his sister who lived there, and Jonathan wondered what he would say, and was impatient for his return. He told himself that it was Ben's advice he wanted, but really he wanted to hear Ben's praise of his own conduct.
"My word, but Ben will be taken aback! I wonder whativer Ben thought when he read o' me carrying Aske home? I think he'll be a bit proud o' me?"
Such were his reflections when he remembered his friend, for in the course of three or four days Burley had come to be a bit proud of himself in the matter. "It isn't many men as would hev done as I did, I think I may say that much for mysen, anyway, was a very frequent decision with him.
Ben Holden came home at the end of the holidays, and his first words were: "Well, Jonathan, thou hes had a good Christmas! Very few men hev hed as grand a chance to keep it as thou hest."
"Ay, Ben, I'm glad I did it. It isn't many men as would hev done it."
Ben did not answer.
"Doesn't ta think so, Ben?"
"Nay, I don't. I think there's varry few men that wouldn't hev done just as thou did, and them few wouldn't be worth counting among men at a'. I hear Mistress Aske hes gone back to her home."
"Ay, I sent her t' night he was hurt."
"Well, now, I'll praise thee for that. It's a deal easier to do a grand thing than a just thing. Them that are joined together should learn to draw together. Not even a father hes t' right to put 'em asunder."
"Thou that reckons to know so much about wedding, why doesn't ta try it?"
"Happen I may yet. There's older men than me, I'll warrant, thinking about it."
Jonathan took no notice of this remark, perhaps it touched him too nearly, but he asked in reply, "Has ta heard that Steve Benson is in prison about Aske's robbery?"
"I hev. Who'd hev thought that Steve would turn out such a bad halfpenny?"
"They say, 'as t' twig is bent, t' tree's inclined.' I don't know about that I am sure Steve hed a rare good mother, and she were always trying to bend t' twig in t' right direction."
"Ay, but if t' twig is a willow twig to start wi', Jonathan, no amount o' bending will iver make it an oak, Steve hed some good points, but he never hed much backbone."
Immediately after his visit to his uncle Shuttleworth, Jonathan had very gladly posted on his mill gates this notice—"Wanted, Five Hundred Good Weavers." Most of the applicants had come from Syke's mill, and every one who did so was sure of a favorable reception. For Burley's change of feeling did not by any means include Sykes; he had for him, not only hatred, but also that contempt which, perhaps justly enough, every man feels for the tools of mischief and malice.
Sykes was confounded by this movement, especially as Matthew Rhodes declined, about the same lime, for reasons satisfactory to himself, to advance more money without Aske's direction and Aske lay helpless on the very shoal of outermost being, far below the restless tides of money or revenge.
"I don't know whatever has happened, Hodgson," he said to his overseer; "all that was right is wrong, and the change has come that sudden, there wasn't any chance to prepare for it Aske's illness knocks me up on one side, and Burley getting money on the other, for I'm sure Burley has got money somewhere."
"I heard tell that old Jonas Shuttleworth hed lifted Burley's quarrel; if so, Aske might as well give in. Jonas hes t' devil's own luck in quarrel of any kind."
"Jonas Shuttleworth! Niver!"
"Ay, and besides that, I hear that he is Burley's own uncle; blood is thicker than water when it comes to t' pinch."
"It is a bad job, Hodgson."
"Ay, it is, for Sykes & Co."
"Art thou turning thy coat, too?"
"Nay, not I. I praise t' bridge I walk oover, as long as iver it carries me."
Sykes turned angrily away. Some men like to look at whatever hurts them, and Sykes, following out some internal impulse, walked down by the stream towards Burley's mill. It had already an unusual look of prosperity. Poverty and trouble have some impalpable atmosphere that their dwelling-place, even if it be a palace, cannot escape. From Burley's mill this atmosphere had suddenly vanished. Sykes was aware of a change, a change too subtle for him to understand, but he felt it. As he swaggered past the gates Jonas Shuttleworth turned the corner of the mill and came towards him.
Sykes would have passed on, but Jonas stopped him. "So it's thee, is it? Well, well! Aske hed to go down low to find a tool! He hed that!"
"Mr. Shuttleworth, I want nothing whatever to do with you."
"Varry likely thou doesn't. But I partic'larly want to hev something to do wi' thee. In t' first place, I'll give thee notice to look out for another job. I'm thinking o' shutting up t' mill thou is running now. I hev got my thumb on t' proper screw now, and thou will find it out when thy afternoon mail comes in. Thet is a' I hev to say to thee at present." And surely enough among Sykes's letters that afternoon there was one from Matthew Rhodes, directing him to annoy Burley no further until he received orders to do so.
Jonathan was at Leeds' Market that day, and perhaps Shuttleworth knew it. However, Ben Holden and the old man fraternized at once. They went through the mill together, and nothing in it escaped Shuttleworth's sharp eyes.
"It's a fine mill," he said, approvingly, "and it's well managed. It hesn't a fault but its bad neighbor. We'll hev either to own Sykes's mill or put a friend into it, Ben Holden."
"I would hev said two weeks ago that either plan was an impossibility."
"It's t' impossibilities thet always happen, Ben. If I am going to put money out I think little o' t' returns thet are probable. I'd rather risk t' improbable ones; nine times out o' ten they are t' surest. When I took hold o' Burley's affairs I thought they were in a bad fix; things hev happened since that alters them, if I'm not mistaken."
"I hear t' squire is varry low this morning."
"Poor young fellow! If he was t' worst enemy I iver hed I would be sorry for him. I like fair play above iverything, and Aske hedn't a bit of it; struck down from behind, and not a word o' warning! I don't wish his death, varry far from it I'd a deal rather fight him honest and square, through ivery court in England. Bless thee, Ben, I hevn't a bit o' ill-will to t' men I go to law with. I could give my hand to t' most o' them I hev got damages from. But I do wish I hed known before that it was Augustus J. Sykes that was bothering Burley."
"Then ta knows him?"
"Ay, I know him. We hev hed some business together. It wasn't varry pleasant business. He owed me a sum o' money five years ago, and I sold him up. Now, when Jonas Shuttleworth sells a man up, he hes a good reason for it; be sure o' that Ben Holden. I'm going back to Keighley now, and thou can tell Burley I was here, and that I thought well o' iverything I saw here."
But these were days in which Jonathan found it almost impossible to keep his mind upon wool and profits. A singular liking had returned to his heart for the man whom he had saved. In the first years of his acquaintance with Aske he had greatly admired the young squire, and been very proud of his connection with him. Persistently now his memory went back to those days. A few times Aske had called him "Father;" he remembered every occasion, and then, with a shuddering pity, recalled the last few imploring words he had heard him speak; his grateful glance for the mouthfuls of cold water; his own eager efforts to bind up the wounded head, the helpless, bleeding weight he had carried through the dim light of that never-to-be-forgotten Christmas-eve.
Early every day he had driven across the common to ask after his son-in-law's condition, and Eleanor had come down to him with a constantly more hopeless face. "He is worse." "He is sinking fast." "He has never recognized me." Only such sad sentences passed between father and daughter. In the parlor in which she usually spoke to him there was a full-length portrait of her, taken in the first happy days of her married life. Jonathan glanced at it one morning, and then at the pale, sorrowful woman standing below it, and he went away with a heart heavy with unavailing regrets.
"Oh, but a wrong way is a hard way! Oh, but a wrong way is a hard way!"
He said the words over and over as he drove away from the large still house, and amid the clack-a-ty clack-a-ty of the noisy looms they kept springing to his lips.
That night, soon after he got home, there came to him a sorrowful note from Eleanor. A few hours now, she said, would decide the fate of her husband; and "oh, father, father! pray for him!"
The entreaty spoke to Jonathan's heart like a command from God. He rose up, even from his dinner-table, and went into his own room, and, when he had locked the door, fell upon his knees and poured out his soul anew in love and gratitude. And while he was praying the fire burned, and he washed out the bitterness of his hate in penitential tears, and in strong supplications for the life of his enemy.
There are moments in life which are at once sacrificial and sacramental, moments that are a crucible from which the soul comes out white and strong, and these were such moments to Jonathan Burley. He rose up from his knees like one of old, justified, and with the light of divine consolation on his face. Fear was gone, and condemnation, and there was no room in his heart for anything but the love of God. He understood, then, how he that separates himself from his fellow by hatred, separates himself, also, from Christ and God, and casts himself into an abyss of diseased self consciousness. In the abyss Jonathan now felt he must have perished of his own lovelessness, if he had not been sought by infinite compassion, and found the mercy of the Merciful One.
It was in this new strength that his eye fell upon a little book of sacred song which lay upon his table, and which had often had a word for him in due season. He opened it in the hope, and this verse answered his inquiry:
"Amidst the mighty, where is he
Who saith, and it is done?
Each varying scene of changeful life
Is from the Lord alone.
"Why should a living man complain,
Beneath the chast'ning rod?
Our sins afflict us: and the cross
Must bring us back to God."