Between Two Loves/09
CHAPTER IX.
IN THE SHADOW.
"When thy dearest friends deceive thee,
And cold looks thy love repel,
And the bitter humors grieve thee,
That make God's fair earth a hell;
Oh, these are moments, trying moments,
Meant to try thee—use them well."
Eleanor was disappointed but not discouraged; the road was still open, she was determined to try again, and only from Anthony's own lips take a final dismissal from his heart and home. But the next day there was a driving rain-storm, and the weather was wet and cold and blustery for a whole week. Under such conditions the common, being full of hollows, was dangerous for a foot-traveller, especially in the dark, and Eleanor was obliged to bear as patiently as she could that misfortune of the evil elements which often comes as the last straw in trouble. And before the common was passible, Anthony went to his uncle's, and Martha heard in the village that Squire Bashpoole and his wife and daughter were going to Italy in his company.
"It is too late," she said bitterly—"too late, Martha. Oh, what shall I do?"
"I'd ride over to Squire Bashpoole's and ask plain out-and-out to see my husband if I were you, Mistress Aske."
"I can't do that, Martha. If he refused before Jane Bashpoole, I think it would kill me."
"You be full o' pride yet, ma'am. Can't you write a letter, then?"
"Yes, I can do that. But if it goes to Bashpoole Manor House, they will never give him it."
"Nay-a! nay-a! Gentlefolks wouldn't do a thing like that! Then send it to Aske Hall; I'll warrant he'll go back there before he leaves England, if it only be for an hour or two."
This plan appeared to Eleanor the best. She wrote a few penitent lines, and asked her husband to come and see her and to bring her forgiveness with him. She addressed her letter to Aske Hall, and Mrs. Parsons, the house-keeper, took it from the post She knew the hand-writing, and she guessed the contents referred to a reconciliation, "which isn't agreeable, nor what is expected or wished for," she commented. "Master is gone, or as good as gone, for all the year; and iverything arranged comfortable for servants at the hall, and misses can be done varry well without. It's not a Botany Bay affair to put t' letter in his room, where he can see it if he looks around for it, and it isn't imprisonment for life to forget to tell him about it." So, without a word, she took the unfortunate petition to a parlor Anthony seldom used, and put it behind a large china vase on the chimney-piece.
As Eleanor expected, Anthony made a final visit to the hall, but he never saw her note, and Mrs. Parsons never remembered to point it out to him. And to the anxious wife, the weary hours of watching and waiting went over as if there was lead in every minute of them. But in four days the suspense was over. She saw the departure of her husband and his uncle's family in the weekly paper, and she realized, as she had never done before, how truly forsaken she was. Love, anger and jealousy drove her to the very verge of fever; but fortunately her misery ran into motion; she found relief in long, physically exhausting walks, and oblivion in the deep dreamless sleeps that followed them.
In this way the first cruel suffering of her wounded heart was dulled and soothed; and as the summer advanced she was more and more alone with nature. One day she was coming through a beautiful strip of woods, and she heard some person singing. It was a man's voice, but so clear and joyful, and so full of rich melody, that she could not but listen, and follow its merry strains. On the brink of a little dripping spring, half hid in a superb growth of purple foxglove, she found the singer. He was lying among the flowers, with his hands clasped above his head; but as Eleanor approached he raised upon his elbow, and said, "A good-afternoon to thee, Mistress Aske."
She looked at him, and all fear left her. The face was white and thin, but as candid as a child's, and though his clothes were ragged, and he was nearly barefoot, he did not seem to have any sense of his poverty, or any intention of asking alms.
"I see you know me," said Eleanor; "but I do not remember you."
"Nay, I dare say not. I hev worked for thy father, though, iver since I were a lad big enough to wind a bobbin; thet is, when I could frame mysen to work at all. But I often wish I were a flower like one o' these big bells; they neither toil nor spin, but there's varry few men and women that are as gay and happy as they are."
"You sing as if you were happy."
"Nay, I'm not happy. I could be, if I didn't hev to work and think. But I've got a wife and some little childer, and I can't pick up a meal for 'em, as them blackbirds do, in ivery one's field and garden."
"Dear me! I thought from your voice that I had found one happy heart Everybody I meet is in trouble of some kind."
"Ay, I know. Thou hes thy own sorrow, too. I know all about it, and I think little of a man that can't forgive a wife like thee. Why-a! My wife hes forgiven me hundreds o' times; and she's a bit of a Tartar, too."
"What is your name? Have I ever known your wife?"
"My name is Steve Benson. Happen ta hes heard tell o' my sister Sarah?"
"No, I think not."
"Nor of Joyce Benson?"
"No."
"No, that's likely enough. Master Burley isn't one to talk about his hands, or his business. He hes hed a sight o' trouble lately."
"Yes. Can I do anything for you?"
"Ay, if ta could spare a shilling. I'm going home when t' sun sets, and it would make it easier to do. Here's a bonny lot of ferns. I'll give them to thee and welcome."
"Thank you, Steve Benson, and here is half a crown. I think you are what wise men call a philosopher. I have got half a crown's worth from you." She put the coin into his out-stretched brown palm, and took the nodding ferns and a great handful of bluebells he gave her, and went on her way, wonderfully cheered.
After this she met Steve on the common, or in the wood, several times, and she made a point of carrying a piece of money in her pocket for him. He always took it with a frank pleasure, and he generally had some bit of a curiosity to give in return, a petrified shell, or a queer bird's nest, or the root of a rare plant. In the clear air of the wolds Eleanor could hear him singing a mile away, and an odd sort of friendship gradually grew up between them. She had never before felt any interest in mill-hands, never wanted to help any of them to realize their idea of happiness; but Steve interested her, and she regretted that her means were too small to effectually aid him. Perhaps it was because he so frankly confessed his faults.
"You see. Mistress Aske," he said, "there hes been a great mistake somewhere in my life. I'm on a wrong road, and I feel it ivery hour of ivery day. Well, then, what is t' good o' me working and tewing, for I'll niver be able to make wrong come right? I just try to get all t' happiness I can. When t' weather is bad I go to t' mill, and I earn a bit o' brass. When t' sun is shining, and t' birds are singing, and t' flowers blowing, and iverything is happy and bonny, I go and tak' my share o' t' pleasure with 'em."
"You are what people call lazy, Steve."
"Ay, I am. An hour ago I saw half a dozen men mending t' road down yonder. There were half a dozen crows in a tree watching them, and you niver heard such a mockery as t' birds made o' t' work. But they cawed a civil good-morning to me. They knew I hed sense enough to enjoy t' sunshine and all t' other good things thet could be hed without spending a penny for them."
"I am afraid you are a foolish fellow, Steve."
"Ay, I dare say. Most folks will tell you so."
"And if you have a wife and children I think you are really doing wrong."
"I about know I am doing wrong. But I can't bide t' heat of t' mill, it gives me a headache, and t' smell of t' wool and t' oil is fair sickening. Sunshine and t' woods are varry much healthier; and then, I may tell thee, t' wife hes her tantrums pretty often. Nature is a deal easier to live wi' than Joyce, poor lass! Human beings are trying, mostly, Mistress Aske."
It was after this conversation Eleanor first spoke to her father about Steve. Jonathan listened with some interest to her description of this lazy lover of nature.
"He's right enough, Eleanor," he answered; "there has been a mistake somewhere in his life, he's a good lad in a way, and yet he can do good to nobody, not even to himsen. But for that matter, there has been a mistake in thy life. And happen thou aren't doing a bit better with it than he is. Wandering about t' woods and wolds won't put wrong right. I niver heard tell or found out yet of any salvation coming that way. A spoiled life will hev to look a bit higher than Nature."
"Steve says you are the best of good masters to him. He says, 'Master Burley pays me all I earn, and he niver casts up my faults to me.'"
"Happen I hev a good reason for being patient with t' poor lad. I hev a Master, too, Eleanor, and I hev tried his patience above a bit these last three years or more."
"I know, father. I have brought sorrow and care and loss without end on you."
"Ay, thou hes! That is t' truth, and there's no use covering it up with a lie or a compliment. But I think a deal worse of mysen than I do of thee. I hev spoiled thee to begin wi'. I was nearly forty years older than thou wert. I knew t' world and thou didn't. I'll go deep down to t' bottom o' my heart, and say, I was a bit jealous o' Aske mysen, and t' quarrel was smouldering in my own soul, or I wouldn't hev been so ready to lift thy quarrel."
"Late as it is, can we not put an end to the trouble? I will go back to Anthony, and ask him to forgive me, and try and do my duty pleasantly for the future."
"Nay, thou won't If ta turns traitor to me now, thou wilt be a mean-hearted lass. Aske may ruin me, as far as brass is concerned; but if I hev his wife, I can still snap my fingers o'er him. Nay, nay, thou must stand by me now! It would be t' cruelest blow of all if thou should leave me after I had spent t' last shilling I hev in thy quarrel."
"Is it as bad as that father?"
"It's coming to it. But I'll fight him as long as iver I can. If he is Yorkshire, so am I. I won't give in as long as I can hit back. And when he's got all my money, and ruined my business, and turned me out of my home, I can still crow over him, if he hesn't got thee."
"I do not believe Anthony wants me."
"Doesn't he? Ay, but he does! Thou art what he is fighting for. He thinks when he hes driven thee out o' thy fine home, and me today's work, thou wilt be glad to turn thy back on me."
"Never! I'd never, never do that."
The tears trembled in Jonathan's eyes, and his lips quivered as he spoke. Eleanor bent forward and took his hands in hers, and kissed them, and said solemnly, once more, "I would never, never do that, father."
But the conversation made her very miserable. It was quite evident from it that Jonathan neither expected nor desired a compromise, and that any reconciliation she made with her husband would be repudiated by him; for, in spite of what he had said to his daughter about his utter ruin, he still believed in his case, and felt certain of success if he could only keep going for a few months longer. But, oh! the misery of the law's delay! The fears and hopes and doubts that broke that long summer to pieces left traces on both Jonathan and Eleanor that no future years ever quite effaced.
Towards the end of December, when the crisis in Jonathan's affairs was approaching, he became strangely calm. It was as if he had exhausted every energy in some tremendous effort and a patient watching for events was all that remained for him. Or else it was the result of a submission of heart that had come with the sense that he had done all that it was possible for him to do. At any rate, the mood was so obvious, even to himself, that he could not help speaking to Ben Holden about it.
And Ben, always sympathetic, heartily rejoiced in it. "Thou art full of human nature, Jonathan," he replied; "and human nature is about t' same thing as it iver was. T' disciples were just like thee. They toiled and they tewed all night long in t' storm, and when they were beat out, then they woke up t' Christ, and were wilting he should do for 'em what they couldn't do for theirsens."
"Well, I think a deal better of t' disciples for it We've got a right to try and help oursens, Ben. When you set a new hand to a job of work, you'd think little of him if he didn't do all and iver he could do before he came to thee and said, 'Master, I'm fair beat wi' t' job. I hev got t' threads all tangled up, and I want thee to put 'em right for me.' Now, I'm none ashamed to go to God and tell Him, 'I hev done all I can. I can do no more. Thou undertake my enemy for me.'"
"And will ta do whatever he tells thee to do?"
"Ay, will I."
"Well, I believe thee, Jonathan."
God giveth his beloved in their sleep. Surely some swift and subtle intelligence visited Jonathan one night in the Christmas week. His affairs had not apparently changed in any way for the better, yet he rose in a restful, passive mood, feeling only the patient care of a submissive heart. Softly as a chidden yet forgiven child he dressed himself, facing, as he did so, the consequences of his rash, self-willed temper.
For the very first time it struck him consciously that others would suffer in his ruin quite as much as himself. How hard it would be for the daintily reared Eleanor to bear the limitations of actual, bare, cramping poverty. And Sarah! And all the hands, to whom he had ever been a just and kind master! He remembered this morning that the closing of Burley's Mill would mean, to most of them, the breaking up of their homes, and perhaps the scattering of their effects, the separation of families, and the beginning of new lives in unknown places and among strange people. These thoughts made him speak with a singular tenderness to his daughter, and he saw the tears come into her eyes with happy surprise at it.
The day was a cold winter day, and the whole country white and spectral with unbroken snow. The farm-houses and the scattered mills rose up from it dark and well-defined, like islands in a spellbound sea. In some way it seemed exactly to fit his mood, and he walked to the mill that morning wondering at the subdued, resigned influence that swayed him.
Ben Holden met him at the gates, and said something to him about the machinery in the lower weaving-room. He went with him and examined it, and then slowly ascended to the upper shed. He had not been in it for weeks. One-half of the looms were idle, but Sarah Benson was in her old place.
He had avoided her, consciously avoided her lately, not that he loved her less, but because, in the gathering difficulties of his life, any happy termination to his love seemed so impossible. But he looked at her steadily and inquiringly this morning. Her lips quivered, and she returned the glance with one of infinite sorrow and sympathy. Steve was not in his place. Their eyes met again over his empty loom, and Sarah dropped hers with a sigh. Jonathan could no longer be silent He stood near her and asked, "How is ta, dear lass?"
"I'm well, master."
But Jonathan felt a keen pang at the words. For her face was white and wasted. There were dark, heavy rings around her eyes, and the eyes themselves were wells of sorrow. For when the weird is very long, and the cup very bitter, it always leaves a permanent shadow in the eyes. It was hard work to pass her without another word, but Jonathan did it.
About the middle of the day Ben Holden came to him, and said, "I hev just heard that Aske is home again."
"Varry well. Let him come. He can only hurt me as far as he's let hurt me."
"And after a', Jonathan, what's t' good o' worriting thysen to death about such trash as looms and money?"
"There is a good deal o' use in it, Ben. Job didn't call God's gifts trash. He didn't tell himsen that it was a good thing when his riches were taken away from him. The Eternal hed given, and it was a gift; he hed taken away, and it was a loss. And I want thee to notice in particular, that it wasn't his poverty, nor his ulcers, that made Job angry. It was t' exasperating advices and condolences o' his friends. Now it isn't my losses, I'm none feared to work, it's my friends and my neighbors, and the things they'll hev to say, that bothers me."
"Well, if ta holds thy peace, they'll soon get tired of talking. Wi' silence you can plague t' devil. I hev done it."
"I'd a deal rather talk up to him. Sarah Benson is looking varry badly; does ta know how Steve is getting on?"
"He's not getting on at all. Sarah hes Steve's family to find for, in t' main. As for Steve, he works an hour or two now and then, but he's far more like a gypsy than a Christian. He's niver happy but when he's away to t' sea-side or to t' moors, Joyce is niver well. There are two children now, and poor Sarah hes to keep things together, or they'd be in t' work-house. She's fair worn out, poor lass!"
"God help her! I see that."
"Thou looks more like thysen, Jonathan, than I have seen thee for a long while. Hes ta any good news?"
"Ay, I think I hev. I got a letter from my old uncle Shuttleworth half an hour ago. He says he hes just heard from a friend o' mine of t' fight I am having with Aske. And he says he isn't a bit too old to hev a hand in it, and he's going to hev fair play for me, if money can get it. So I'm going oover to Keighley to see him this afternoon. Shuttleworth hes a mint o' brass, and I'll give Aske another tussle, with his help."
"Is it any use, Jonathan?"
"Ay, is it, I won't give up now. Truth and oil are bound to come to t' top."
"Is it worth it?"
"It is worth it to me. I'm not Ben Holden. Thou cares so little for this world that there would be no risk in t' devil taking thee up into a high mountain, and showing thee all t' kingdoms of t' world. And I'm in t' right. That's where it is. I know I am, and I'm going to fight for my right to t' last shilling I can lawfully get. Shuttleworth hes offered to help me. It's a fair wonder. He never gave me a penny in his life; no, nor anybody else one. He's seventy-five years old, and he's keen to fight Aske oover again, if needs be. I'm going to see him this afternoon, and I'll stay at Keighley until iverything is settled."
"Does ta know when ta will be back? I want to go to Otley this Christmas Feast to see my sister."
"I won't be back before Christmas-eve."
"Am I to give t' hands their extra pay this Christmas? Can ta afford it?"
"Ay, I feel as if I could afford them all they have iver had, and a shilling more. Don't make it a penny less, and tell them I wish 'em all 'A Merry Christmas and a Good New Year.'"