Between Two Loves/05
CHAPTER V.
SARAH'S SORROW.
"Ingratitude's the growth of every clime,
And in this thankless world the givers
Are envied even by the receivers;
'Tis now the cheap and frugal fashion
Rather to hide than pay the obligation;
Nay 'tis much worse than so—
It now an artifice doth grow,
Wrongs and outrages to do,
Lest men should think we owe."
Jonathan saw little of his daughter for some weeks after his visit to Aske Hall. She did not perceive the sympathy in her father's heart, and his few sharp words thoroughly disconcerted her. The struggle for supremacy, however, still went on between Anthony and herself, and there were encounters and reconciliations, stratagems and truces, and diplomatic approaches, just as real and clever as if the points at issue had been of national importance.
In the meantime, Eleanor was making a great social triumph, and Jonathan hardly lifted a local newspaper in which her own entertainments, or her appearance at the entertainments of others, was not flatteringly commented on. Sometimes he would point them out to Ben Holden, but whether he did or did not, Ben always knew when they were there by the fatherly pride on Jonathan's face, and the respectful manner with which he laid aside that particular number of the Guardian or Mercury.
At least once or twice in the month he received a pretty unbusiness-like envelope of thick satin paper closed with the Aske arms. It was the formal invitation to a dinner at Aske, and though it was understood to be a ceremony, all the same, the ceremony pleased Jonathan. "Thou sees," he said one morning to Ben Holden, "I might sit and hobnob wi' Baron Fairley, and t' Lord High Sheriff, and t' member for Parliament and all t' rest of t' quality, if I hed a mind to," and he pushed toward him Eleanor's pretty invitation, with a very poor pretence of indifference.
"Why doesn't ta go an odd time?"
"Because I doan't like to go where I can't do mysen justice. When I take t' chair at t' wool-exchange dinner I feel all there. But at Aske's they'll talk of hunting and coursing, and what t' magistrates hev been doing, or mebbe about t' last new novel, and such like, and I'd hev to sit and listen, and look like a fool. Yet thou knows, Ben, when t' talk is about wool and trade and manufacturing, I can hold my own with t' best of them."
"Thou hes a deal o' pride in thee yet, Jonathan Burley."
"I doan't say I hevn't; but happen if thou would look near home thou would find a feeling or two quite as faulty."
"Thou says right. I'll hev to look after Ben Holden a bit But thou arn't a fool on any subject A man that can manage to keep his frames going, whatever sort o' weather there is in t' manufacturing world, is a man whose opinions are worth listening to on any subject, and I'd like well for thee to hev a talk wi' Baron Fairley. He's got a mind above t' common run."
"Nay, I doan't think so! He's got some kind o' wimwam in his bead about educating t' working-class."
"And why not? Why not, Jonathan?"
"Because we shall hev no end of worry and suffering before we can manage to give 'em enough learning to enable them to put it to right uses. Thou hes only to look at Tim Sharp and Bob Linker to find out that a little learning is a varry dangerous thing."
"There ought to be something taken on trust for t' working man of t' future."
"Not there. We take men as we find 'em, Ben, and not as they are to be. T' world is an infidel world; it can be made to see, but it can't be made to trust I know what t' workingman is, and I wouldn't lend a sixpence on what he is going to be. If t' grace of Jesus Christ isn't enough to lift him up, I think all t' science and philosophy they can put into him will only make a bigger failure of him. People nowadays talk of t' sciences they hev invented, as if they thought they would take 'em to heaven; but I'm cheating this hour out of its lawful work talking to thee; and, after all, t' art o' living is t' main thing. If we could only, rich and poor, manage to master that study, it would be t' greatest thing as could be."
It was on the night following this conversation that Jonathan met Sarah after her late watch with Granny Oddy. A less romantic walk than that through the dark, muddy street could scarcely be imagined, and yet never had the woman beloved by Jonathan come so nearly and so dearly to him. For a few hundred yards she had walked under the shelter of his umbrella, and by the last misty lamp they had stood for a moment to say good-by. The slight figure, in its black dripping cloak, and the pale, thoughtful face under the black hood, appealed to him as no beauty radiant with joy and sumptuously clothed could have done. Sombre and sad as the figure was which he watched disappear within Martha Crossley's cottage door, it was a figure full of all noble significance and of every womanly grace to Jonathan Burley.
He plodded on, almost cheerfully, through the dreary downpour, thinking of the admission she had made, that it was as hard for her as for him, and the promise in it, indefinite as it was, made him tread lightly and walk at a far swifter pace than usual. The walk at that hour and in such weather was a bit of self-denial on Jonathan's part, and this night he felt fully repaid for it.
"If I hed been riding, ten to one I'd hev missed her," he said; "and, my word! I'd hev walked all night for the words she spoke to me."
He was wet through when he reached his home, and the house-keeper met him with a face full of disapproval. "It isn't right, sir, nor what's to be expected, sir, with a stable full of horses, and a groom that lazy as it would be good for him to hev to wait a bit, and get well wet."
"It would be varry wrong, Mrs. Knowles, if I kept man and beast waiting in the storm for me while I was eating and drinking and heving a good time. And if I get wet through, I can hev dry clothes and a drop o' something warm to make me comfortable, and if I get cold I can grumble about it, and I hev a first-rate house-keeper to see that I get my hot gruels, and my bit o' good eating; but it's different with t' poor beasts—now isn't it?"
In fact, Jonathan was in a kind mood with all the world that night Even Steve Benson came in for a few pitying thoughts, although he was very justly angry at Steve for his defection and ingratitude. "He's a poor silly lad, and he's none fit for a weaving-room; and if Sarah will only wed me, I'll set him up in some other way." Across his mind there came a thought of an American farm. It might be the salvation of Steve, and Jonathan felt sure that he would be much happier if the lad were too far away to be perpetually coming between Sarah and himself.
One day, towards the end of April, Mrs. Aske's carriage stepped at the gates of Burley's Mill, and Eleanor stepped lightly from the handsome vehicle. Jonathan saw her approach, and went to meet her, and as they crossed the mill-yard together, he was very proud of the beautiful woman by his side, and pleasantly conscious of the many faces watching them from the windows. Eleanor wore a rich violet-colored silk robe, and a very beautiful ermine cloak, and she carried her fair head loftily as a queen, resting herself slightly upon her father's arm.
Aske was not with her. He had gone to his saddler's and would call in half an hour; "And, father," said Eleanor, joyfully, "we are going to London. Lady Fairley is to present me at court, and Anthony has taken a fine house, and I intend to have a royal time for the rest of the season."
"I am glad to hear thou art so happy. It isn't ivery lass that is as fortunate as thou art."
She took no notice of the remark, but went on to detail the interesting points in the proposed visit And as Jonathan watched her luminous face all aglow with expectation, and expressing a score of flitting emotions, he thought how lovely she was, and how easy it must be for her to influence her husband, if she only took a little trouble to effect her purpose.
In about an hour Aske called. He was so handsome and so disposed to be friendly to his father-in-law and amiable to Eleanor, that an observant person would never have detected the marked authority of his manner, or her half-resentful submission to it. In the midst of a gay conversation Aske said, suddenly, "Come, Eleanor, we must go. The horses have not been exercised, and are restive."
"I don't want to go just yet" She was standing at her father's side, and she laid her hand upon his shoulder and kissed him.
"We must go now, at once." His face darkened as he reiterated the order, and his mouth, finely formed as it was, closed with an ominous resolution.
"Thou had better go, my dear lass. I know what under-worked horses are capable of, and thou can hear them champing and stamping outside. Kiss me, my bonny Eleanor, and God Almighty bless thee."
Then he rose, and they went together to the gates. But all the light was out of Eleanor's face, and her large gray eyes were troubled and full of tears. The look in them made Jonathan's heart burn, and though he said farewell to Aske with civility and good words, he did not offer him his hand. As the carriage drove away, Eleanor leaned forward and looked steadily at her father. He lifted his hat and watched her out of sight with a sorrowful face. She seemed now always to bring a shadow with her, no matter under what circumstances they met.
"What does ta look so troubled about?"
"I don't really know, Ben. My daughter always gives me a feeling of trouble."
"Now, look here, if there is a cross for thee, thou will come to it in the right time. Then take it up and carry it like a good man should do. But don't thee go out of thy way to find a cross, that's as bad as going out of it to escape one."
"I am afraid, Ben, my lass isn't a happy wife."
"There are women, and women, Jonathan, who always see a black spot in their sunshine. It's their own shadow."
"If I thought Aske was unkind to her, I would—"
"Fret not thysen to do evil in anywise; thou art old enough to know that there is no foolery like filing out. Come, come, I thought they looked a varry comfortable-like couple. Shadows grow bright if folks hev patience."
And for some weeks it seemed as if Ben's prediction were correct. The éclat and splendor of her London life satisfied Eleanor's ambition. She was presented by Lady Fairley, and she made a great sensation in society. Mrs. Anthony Aske's beauty, her dress, her receptions, and her fine manners, filled quite a space in the Court Journal. Jonathan was not indifferent to his daughter's social triumph. He bought a dozen copies of the paper and intended sending them to all his friends, but, in some way or other, Ben Holden discovered his intention.
"Don't thou do it, Jonathan," he said. "I'm shamed to see an old man like thee going about wi' a paper like that in his pocket. Kissing t' Queen's hand is a grand thing, no doubt, but it's a far grander thing to hev built this mill, and to carry in thy brain and hands the living of nearly a thousand human beings. If ta isn't proud o' that, for goodness' sake don't be a fool about a show o' feathers and diamonds."
"Happen thou art in t' right, Ben."
He laid the pliers aside, and went out of the office with the overseer. Somehow the thought of Sarah Benson came with an irresistible force to him, and as Ben went down to the engine-room he ascended to the upper weaving-shed. He had not seen Sarah for many days, and he had not spoken to her since that hour in which he had met her in the dark, rainy midnight nearly four months previously. It was his custom to visit several of the looms before he went near Sarah's, sometimes even to pass hers by with only a casual glance, and there were several girls whose work he admired or criticised with far greater freedom. Conscience did not make him cowardly, for he had not a thought but what was bred of honor and love, but it did make him self-conscious, and even a little nervous.
But this day, when he came to Sarah's loom, he could not pass it. There had been something in his eager, longing gaze which had compelled the girl to lift her eyes to meet it. They were red and swollen with long weeping, and her face was wan with sorrow and weariness. Jonathan was shocked. He lifted the pattern she was working from, and as he pretended to examine it, said, in a low voice, "Whativer is wrong with thee, Sarah? Thee must tell me."
"There are ill eyes watching us, master, please to go forward at once."
"I'll make thee my wife to-morrow, and shut every ill eye and stop every ill tongue."
"Thou art doing me a great wrong, looking at me that-a-way. Please thee go forward. It is t' kindest thing thou can do."
He laid down the pattern with some remark about its difficulty, and went forward and out of the room altogether. He was for the moment angry at Sarah, but that feeling was speedily superseded by one of pity and anxiety. As he was slowly going down the main stairs, he met Ben Holden coming up. He said to him, "Go into t' room where Sarah Benson is working and look at her face. Then I want thee to find out whativer is wrong with her."
In at one door and out at the other Ben went, and he appeared to glance at every one but Sarah. Yet it was only her he noted. She had evidently given more way to her grief, whatever it was, since Jonathan's visit, for Ben saw that she was quietly weeping, and that her companions lifted their eyes a moment to her as Ben passed through the room. He did not, however, speak to any of them, he went to the lower shed and called out Jane Crossley, the grand-daughter of the woman with whom Sarah lodged.
"Jane, dost ta know what Sarah Benson is fretting hersen ill about?"
"Ay, I know. Iverybody knows, for that matter."
"Nay, then, I doan't, but I wish thou'd tell me. T' lass looks in a poorly way."
"Why, ta sees, she hes hed double work for her hands nigh on to four months now, and she's hed a bit o' real heart-grief last week."
"Is it about Steve?"
"In a way, it is. Thou knows after Joyce hed her little lass she was varry bad, and for two months she didn't leave her room at all. Ivery night as soon as Sarah had drunk off a cup o' tea, away she went to Steve's. They needed her badly there. Varry often she found both Joyce and baby crying against one another, and she hed 'em both to wash and feed and do for. Then she cooked something, and tidied up t' house, and worked away most of t' night hours. Sometimes both t' mother and child were sick, and t' poor lass wouldn't get a wink of sleep between day and day's work."
"Thou should hev helped her a bit."
"I hed my own 'lookout,' Master Holden, and both mother and granny thought Sarah did more than she was called to do, seeing that Steve could hev all t' work he hed a mind to take"
"Well, Joyce hes been up and well for a goodish bit now, hesn't she?"
"Ay, she hes, but she'd got used to Sarah helping her wi' t' washing and cleaning, got used to Sarah nursing t' child while she got a bit of sleep, and so Sarah was over at t' cottage most nights for this thing or the other. And Steve hesn't been quite as steady lately, he got out o' heart with t' expense of t' doctor and medicine, and I'll warrant Sarah hes hed to give many a shilling to make both ends of t' week meet."
"But she isn't a lass to cry over a few shillings."
"Not her, indeed. It is about t' christening she's crying, thou knows."
"Nay, I know nowt about christening."
"Well, then, t' little lass hed to be made a Christian, thou sees, and last Sunday t' job were done in fine style at t' parish church. Sarah had taken wonderful to t' baby, and she thought no less than it would be called after her, 'specially as Steve's mother and Joyce's mother had both t' same name. But Joyce wouldn't hev it. She said, 'There hed been Sarahs enough in t' family, and she had chosen Charlotta Victoria, and it would be a varry queer thing if a mother couldn't call her daughter t' name she liked best.'"
Ben laughed sarcastically; he could not control this expression of his opinion, "You women are a queer lot," he said; "whativer did she want a name like that for?"
"Victoria was for t' queen, thou sees, and Charlotta for old Lotta Asketh, who is aunt to Joyce's mother. Folks think as old Lotta hes saved a goodish bit of brass in her little shop; and Joyce said she wanted a godmother for her daughter as could leave her a hundred pounds or so. Lotta Asketh was pleased enough, she bought t' child a varry fine christening dress, and as she's a Church of England woman, she wanted it made a Christian of in t' parish church. That pleased Joyce, too; she said she always thought the Methodys were a little low."
"Why didn't Steve speak up like a man?"
"Thou would hev spoken up, I hev no doubt," answered Jane, with a queer look at Ben, "but Steve isn't thee. He is varry much under his wife, and when she wouldn't ask Sarah to t' christening, he had no way to pay Joyce back but to leave his work and go off on t' tramp for a couple o' days."
"Not ask Sarah to t' christening? Why, thou art mistaken, sure—ly!"
"Nay, I'm not mistaken. Sarah spoke up once to Joyce and told her she didn't care much for hersen, but that Steve hed made up his mind that t' child should be called after his mother; 'and, Joyce,' said she, 'thou ought to do anything and give up anything, rather than drive Steve away from his work, and into t' habit of wandering about t' woods again.' And Joyce answered, she 'could manage her husband without any of her interference,' and sharper words followed, and the upshot was, Joyce declared she'd hev her own way, come what would o' it."
"Was Steve at t' christening?"
"Why, for sure. He came home on t' Friday night before t' christening Sunday, and he was that eager to make it up with Joyce that he agreed to all she wanted. Lucy Booth was at Joyce's that night, and she told me how hard Steve begged to hev Sarah invited, but Joyce said Sarah worrited her, and her nerves couldn't stand 'worriting,' besides, Sarah hadn't sent t' little lass a present, and there were plenty of friends who had done so, to fill t' house to t' varry door-step."
"Did thou go to t' christening?"
"Ay, I went to t' church, and there was a big party around t' font, and old Lotta Asketh stood up for t' baby with Joyce's own mother. Old Lotta may leave her a hundred pounds, but she'll niver teach her the creed and the collects, not she. There's not a bigger old heathen anywhere than Lotta Asketh."
"Did ta go to t' christening-feast?"
"Ay. I did. There was a grand spread, I can can tell thee! It was a knife-and-fork tea; cold chicken and ham, fatty-cakes and cheese-cakes, lemon tartles and sponge-loaves, and spice-buns and other oddments; but Lotta put a sovereign in t' baby's hand, so mebbe it didn't cost them so varry much, after all."
"And Sarah wasn't invited! I'm fair capped! Is ta sure?"
"I'm sure enough; and that is what she's fretting about, for thou sees she's a fool over Steve, and pretty nigh as bad over Steve's child. Folks hev talked a deal likewise, and ever since christening Steve hes been off in t' woods. He's a born rover, you'd think he'd come out of a gypsy tent."
"He's a weak, silly, heartless lad, that's what he is. I wonder at Sarah turning a kind word or look his way."
"Ay, but as thou said thysen, Master Holden, women are a queer lot. Mebbe it's a good thing for men that they are so queer."
"Get out wi' thee; I mean, go beck to thy loom. A man wouldn't be so bad off with thee, happen."
Jane laughed, and tossed her pretty head, but Ben did not catch the kindly glance she gave him. He was thinking of Sarah, and of the ungrateful brother for whom she had sacrificed so much of her life. Jonathan heard the story with pity and indignation. He knew, also, that if Steve were doing badly it was all the worse for his own hopes, and he did think it hard that a love as faithful as that he gave Sarah should be constantly put behind the weak, wavering, selfish affection which Steve only used as a claim upon her generosity or her forbearance.
As for Steve and Joyce, Sarah had forgiven them so much that they thought her anger at the christening slight very unreasonable. Joyce, too, soon began to miss her willing hand, and also the generosity with which she had ever been ready to open her purse towards the small, uncalculated demands incidental to house-keeping, the half-pound of butter necessary to tide over the time before Steve's wages were due, the little luxury that an unexpected visitor demanded, the shilling for baby's medicine, the half-crown short of the rent money. She had expected that Sarah would stay away for a week, but when the offended girl made no advances toward a reconciliation, Joyce felt almost injured by her sister-in-law's "unreasonable pride."
She spoke freely to her neighbors about Sarah, for she wanted Sarah to know that she was willing to "make it up;" but she would not call and tell her so, because she trusted that Steve's and the baby's influence over her would bring her back to the cottage. But Sarah, like all people who are slow to anger, was stable in her wrath. She had made up her mind to go no more to her brother's house unless she were sent for, and Joyce, having been informed of this decision, was quite sure it would be a very long time ere she sent after Sarah Benson.
So the summer wore unhappily away, Sarah's friends soon understood that she would rather not talk of her brother and his wife, and the young couple were never named in her presence. "While all is well," Sarah thought, "I am only the third wheel on the cart; and if there should be any change for the worse, the news wilt find me quick enough, I don't doubt."
The news found her only too soon. One night, when she came home from her work, Steve was sitting in her room waiting for her. His appearance gave her a shock. Clothing is so much to a man, and Steve's was dusty and torn and shabby. He had lost entirely that air of a spruce, prosperous young workman which had set off so well his handsome face and trig slim figure, the tidy suit, the coarse but clean linen, the gay neckerchief tied loosely at the throat, with the ends flying out a little at each side.
"Sarah, my lass, how is ta? I'm glad to see thy face again."
"I'm well, Steve, and I'm glad to see thee. How is Joyce—and Charlotta Victoria?"
"They are badly, varry badly. I hev hed no work for three weeks. Thou knows what that means."
"I do that. But whatever is up with thee? Thou art still working at Chorley's, I hope."
"Na, but I'm not. He's a mean lot. Didn't ta hear he hed packed me off three weeks since?"
"No, I didn't Why did he do that, Steve?"
"I wish I'd taken thy advice and niver left Burley. Burley were always fair to me, and he knew when he'd got a master-hand, and didn't grudge him a day off now and thin in t' fine weather."
"Oh, Steve, Steve! I'm afeared thou hes been up to thy old tricks again, a man with a wife and child, too. It's too bad of thee, it is that! Thou should think more of them than of t' woods and sea-side. Thou should stick to them summer and winter; thou promised to do so."
"I know I did; and I kept my word, until Joyce sent me off about that unlucky christening. I wanted t' little lass called after thee."
"Don't lay t' blame of thy folly to me. Thou knew right well that thou could not grieve me worse than by leaving thy work and thy home."
"Sarah, can ta lend me a sovereign?"
"Ay, I can, my lad."
"Thou art always kind, I thank thee for it."
"Nobody is more welcome; but, Steve, thou art not going to t' public-house with it, I hope?"
"Nay, I'm not that bad, Sarah. They are wanting coal and bread at home. I'll get it for them, and then I'm off on t' tramp to-morrow to look for work. I couldn't get another job here, thou knows, with both Burley and Chorley against me. Good-by, lass. I'll go far and long, and niver find as true and kind a heart as thine."
And Sarah put her aims round his neck and kissed him. Then he stumbled down the little wooden stair, and she heard his foot-falls die away on the stone pavement outside, and she followed every step with low, broken prayers for a love stronger and wiser than her love to protect and comfort him in all the way he should go.