Between Two Loves/15

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CHAPTER XV.

BEN HOLDEN'S MARRIAGE.

"All love is sweet,
Given or returned. Common as light is love,
And its familiar voice wearies not ever. ****** They who inspire it most are fortunate
As I am now; but those who feel it most
Are happier still."Shelly.

One beautiful morning in August Ben stood at the big door of the new mill. He was its manager, and he felt to the utmost the importance of his position. Every loom was at work in the building, which was a very handsome stone structure, white inside as lime could make it, and as airy as a bird cage. The multitude of clicking, clacking sounds were the sweetest music to him, and he now was seriously debating with himself as to the necessity of working over hours in order to fill requisitions in fair time. Never had Ben felt so little like "bothering with women-folks" as at that very moment, and perhaps it was for this reason Cupid sent little Nelly Lewthwaite Ben's way. Nelly was a slip of a lass, not seventeen years old, and though Ben had a consciousness that some such human being was crossing the yard, he was looking far beyond her, until she stood at his side, and, dropping a courtesy, said, "Master Holden, I'd like to work for thee."

Ben looked down at her, and his stern face softened all over. She had the wonderful Lancashire eyes, with bands of rippling brown hair above them, and a small mouth, bow-shaped and rosy.

"Why, then, thou shall work for me," he answered kindly. "Where does ta come from? Thou art none of our folk."

"I come from Manchester way."

"Ay, for sure. Are they folk with thee?"

"I have none, master. Father and mother died last year with t' fever, thou would hear how bad it was?"

And she looked sadly down at her black dress, and touched a bit of crape at her throat.

"Hes ta no brothers and sisters?"

"I hed; but they got married, and wedding changed 'em some way. They couldn't be bothered wi' me after it."

"That's like enough. Where is ta staying?"

"I've got a nice place to stay. I'm with Sybil Johnson. She used to work with my mother."

"Sybil is a good woman. See thou bides with her, and does what she tells thee to do, then thou won't go far out of thy way. What can ta do in a mill?"

"I can either spin or weave."

"I'll give thee a loom to-morrow morning."

"Why, thank thee, master. Sybil said thou was a kind man. I'm glad I came to thee."

Then Nelly, with a smile, went away, and Ben Holden bothered his head about her more than enough. Her childish, confiding manner had touched the spring of Ben's heart, and set the door wide open for her.

All day her innocent face and bright eyes were constantly before him, and he felt as if the pretty, girlish form was at his side as he went up and down the mill. Then he worried himself for not having set her to work at once. She might be tempted to go to some other mill, and find a master who would not be as just and kind to her as he intended to be.

"A poor little orphan lass among strangers," he kept saying to himself. "A poor little lass, and nobody to say a kind word to her." And though this consideration for a pretty girl was such an unusual, such an absolutely new thing to Ben, he had not a suspicion of what had really happened to him.

In the morning he watched anxiously for Nelly, and was pleased to see her among the first arrivals. He took her himself to her loom. It made him happy to find the bonny childish form mounting the steps at his side. He felt a constant temptation to cast his eyes down at the eyes lifted to him. And such little bits of hands as Nelly had! Ben touched them almost pitifully. "Only to think of them having to work for a living! Poor little lass! No friends to care for her! Poor lass! poor lass!"

All day such reflections ran through his mind, and towards afternoon he went to Sarah and told her about Nelly. "She's nobbut an orphan child among strangers, Sarah, and I look to thee to see after her a bit," he said. "There's so many ways, thou knows, for a little one to be led out of t' right road."

He was pleased to see that Sarah had found the little one before leaving the mill, for he saw them go out of the gates together, and he was disappointed Nelly did not look his way. Yet he knew that was a thing he had no right to expect, and one which he would not have expected from any other hand.

However, Sybil Johnson was a woman whom he knew well, for, in spite of her poverty, she was a somewhat important person in the chapel, since it was generally Sybil who nursed the sick of the congregation, and who performed the last offices for the dead. But when Ben remembered this fact it troubled him. Necessarily, Sybil had to be much from her own home, and then Nelly would be left alone. A sudden fear made him heart-sick. She was such a pretty, gentle little Iamb, and there were so many wolves about in the shape of handsome mill lads. He honestly felt as if it was his particular duty not only to warn Sybil of this danger, but also to take some chaise in the matter himself.

It was not long before he found an opportunity, and he called at Sybil's cottage. It was a Saturday evening, a lovely, warm August evening, with a full moon in the clear blue sky. Sybil was ironing by the fading daylight, and Nelly was sitting beside her, trimming her bonnet with a new ribbon. Ben had come to tell Sybil of a lad who had got hurt, and wanted her care a bit; and as Sybil would be away for a couple of hours, Ben asked Nelly to take a walk with him. He had put on a handsome suit, and he was not at all a bad-looking fellow, tall and well-made, with a large, pleasant face, a little pock-marked. Nelly was glad of the walk, and she made herself so charming that before they parted Ben had sought and obtained permission to call for her on his way to the chapel the next evening.

"A poor little orphan lass." He was never done making this apology to himself, and taking it as an excuse for going every other night to see if Nelly was comfortable; for going with her to chapel on Sundays, for fear she might neglect her duty; for seeing that she went walking on the moor frequently, lest the hot air in the mills should make the roses in her cheeks fade away; for going with her to Morecambe sands on half-holidays, lest she might go there in company not so good for her as his own. He was completely captive before he even suspected that he was on dangerous ground, and never was there a man so foolishly, so completely, so thoroughly in love as Ben Holden.

Now there was a pretty house near by the new mill. Aske had built it for Sykes, and it was now owned by Jonathan. As soon as Ben had a revelation touching the condition of matters between his heart and Nelly Lewthwaite, he wrote to Jonathan about this house. "I want to buy it," he said; "it is near the mill, and handy to live in, and I have got a notion in my head to furnish and have a house of my own, if thou will sell it."

The proposition seemed a very natural one to Jonathan. He reflected that Ben had now a very responsible and important position; that he was far from being poor, and that a man who is not a householder is very like a nobody, no matter how rich he is. The sum Ben offered for the house was a fair one; not too much, not too little; and Jonathan was glad to be able to please so old and dear a friend.

"Thou can have the house and welcome," he wrote, "at thy own price, and I am glad above everything that thou art thinking of a home of thy own. Married or not married home is a full cup. I wish thou would get thee a wife, Ben; there are a lot of women good enough, if thou could only think so, but I am feared thou will never be wise enough for that." And Ben laughed grimly when he thought how astonished Jonathan would be.

As soon as the house was his own, he went into Leeds and had a consultation with a firm whose business it was to know just what things were necessary and pretty for such a home. He had sense enough to leave it entirely to them, and as the principle between Ben and all tradesmen was ready cash, and full value for it, the furnishing was perfectly and suitably done.

And perhaps he had never had happier hours than those which he first spent in his own home. The neatly-served meals in his own parlor, the smoke by his own fireside, the rest in his own handsome bedroom, were a new revelation of solid comfort to him. Besides, there was upon the parlor hearth-rug a pretty American rocking-chair, with a cushion of blue damask, and bows and trimmings of blue satin ribbon on it, and though it was yet vacant, Ben had a vision of a bonny young orphan lass in it, and this vision made it the pleasantest kind of object to look at.

On the Saturday afternoon, following his own occupation, he called for Nelly Lewthwaite and took her for a long walk over Aske Common. When her feet began to weary, and he saw that she was tired and hungry, he led her to his house, and said as he pointed it out, "Come thy ways in, and let my house-keeper give thee a cup o' tea. She was making cheese cakes when I left, and they smelled good enough to make a body hungry. Come, Nelly, will ta?"

"Would ta like me to come in a bit?"

"What is ta teasing me for? Thou knows I would like nothing better."

"Then I'll hev a cup o' tea and some cheese-cakes. I'm as fond as a child o' them, and I'm hungry, too."

"Why, thou isn't much more than a child. So come thy ways in, and eat as many as iver thou can. I hev just bought t' house, and I'd like some woman like thee to tell me if it is furnished as it ought to be."

The housekeeper received Nelly a little stiffly. She had a shrewd idea as to Ben's intentions, and yet she felt that there was nothing to be gained by opposing them. So she took Nelly up-stairs to remove her bonnet, and made her notice the line blue and crimson damasks of which the furnishings of the best rooms were composed, the bright chintzes of the others, the soft thick carpets and rugs, the ruffled pillow-shams and the dressed toilet-tables, and all these things filled Nelly's young heart with astonishment and longing.

But she forgot even these splendors when she was introduced to the parlor, with its fine lace curtains and blue velvet upholstery. And the table was set with gilded china, and fine damask, and real silver forks, and for the first time Nelly realized how much better veal pies and raspberry tarts and cheese-cakes may taste with such accessories. It was a wonderful meal to her. She was yet young enough to be delightfully hungry, and honest enough to enjoy with child-like gusto the good things her lover had provided.

After tea was over, Ben sat down for his smoke, and while the housekeeper removed the china, and "tidied-up" after the little feast, Nelly sat opposite him, in the rocking-chair, her curly brown head lying comfortably and coquettishly among the blue satin trimmings. Ben thought it the very prettiest object he had ever looked at in all his life, and as Nelly chattered away about her past life, and he smoked, a sense of something serenely, sweetly, deliciously happy seemed to fill the room, and made him loathe to speak or move.

But he felt that this hour was his opportunity, and that he must not lose it. In a moment's pause, as Nelly rocked softly backward and forward, and appeared to be as lost in thought as himself, Ben stooped forward and touched her hand. "Nelly, my dear," he said, "what does ta think of t' house?"

"It's a beautiful house. I niver saw a house that was half as fine as this is. Even t' kitchen is perfect There's nowt at all wanting in it, only if ta hed a nicer housekeeper."

"Ay, I want a nicer housekeeper, thou is just right about that."

"For I like thy teas, and I'd like to come again, but I could see that she didn't think much o' me, and I didn't think much o' her."

"Thou can send her packing to-morrow if ta likes to do so, Nelly. This house is thine, and so is everything in it, if ta like to hev it and keep it."

"Is ta asking me to marry thee, Ben?"

"That is what I mean, Nelly. Thou will hev to take me with t' house. Will I be varry hard to take?"

"Nay, I don't think thou will. Nobody was iver so good to me as thou hes been. I couldn't help liking thee, even if I tried to, and I'm none going to try—now;" and Nelly smiled bewitchingly and put her hands in Ben's. And then Ben took her in his arms, and sealed her promise with a kiss.

It is quite characteristic of late lovers that they love extravagantly and impatiently. Ben was for being married the next day. "I am ready," he said, "and t' house is ready, and what's to hinder, dear lass?" he asked, "I am not ready," answered Nelly, "not quite." "It is such a busy time," pleaded Ben. Nelly said they could wait till business was slack. Ben had found out that he did not like his house-keeper. Nelly said he could easily get another. He was so lonely. Nelly asked why he had never found that out before? Then at last the truth came out. Nelly would not be married without a wedding dress. That was an objection Ben did not understand very well, and did not know how to oppose. He tried to persuade Nelly that no dress could make her look prettier than the one she had on; but she answered with a bewitching little nod, "Wait and see." So that night Ben got, quite unconsciously, his first lesson in marital obedience. He was obliged to wait, not a day, nor a week, but a whole month, a month during which he admitted to Jonas Shuttleworth, the world seemed upside down to him.

Shuttleworth laughed. Old as he was, he had not quite outgrown some youthful sympathies, and he took Ben's proposed marriage in a way Ben had hardly expected.

"There's two things I like about thy wedding, Ben," he said, "one is, thou hast built thy nest before thou went a-mating. Second is, thou hes chosen a bird of thy own feather. Bless thee, lad! Marrying is easy enough, it is house-keeping that's hard, and thou would hev found it partic'larly hard if ta had gone after a line lady to do it for thee."

At length the wonderful day, Ben's wedding-day, arrived. The ceremony was, to be performed on Sunday morning, and Ben was to wait in the chapel the arrival of his bride. He managed somehow to get through his Sunday school duties; and he listened with a kind of far-away sense to the preliminary services. Then, just before the sermon, the bride, attended by Sarah Benson and a little crowd of her acquaintances, entered. She had on a white muslin gown, and a little bonnet covered with orange-blossoms, and a white tulle veil, and Ben had never been before, and never would be again, at once so proud and so ashamed as when he joined her at the communion rails.

Some days before the marriage Nelly had shown him her white dress, and he had thought it very simple and suitable, but the tulle veil and the orange-blossoms took him quite by surprise. He told himself that as soon as he got Nelly home he would say a few words to her about them, but somehow he could not say them, and, having let this opportunity pass for asserting his own views and opinions, he never since has had another. In fact, very shortly after his marriage he began to see the superiority of Nelly's opinions, until he eventually came to consider her the one perfect piece of feminine workmanship that the Creator had achieved.

Sarah had taken the greatest pleasure in Ben and Nelly's wedding, and it was to her deft fingers Nelly owed the beauty and fitness of her marriage garments; for she thoroughly approved Ben's choice, knowing that there were far more chances for his happiness with a little lass so young and simple that submission to her pleasure was no more humiliating than submission to the whims of a child, than there would have been had he united himself to some discreet, experienced woman, whom he must have met on equal grounds, and whose opposition to his will would have been a serious offense.

At this time Sarah was very happy. True, she heard next to nothing of Jonathan, for as everything is known in a mill village, it had been thought best to deny themselves the pleasure of a correspondence, from which many unjust and unkind suspicions might arise. But she trusted entirely in her lover, and Jonathan's heart was firmly placed on her. Also, the letters which came from Steve were more and more encouraging, and the promises they contained had received frequent emphatic redemptions in cash, a very literal and unromantic, but yet a very certain and satisfactory evidence of his well-doing.

One night in the beginning of December Sarah was coming from the mill. It was a clear, frosty night, and she saw the bright blaze of the cottage fire glinting cheerfully through the darkness. She was thinking of Steve, thinking of him tossing on the stormy Atlantic, and yet thinking of him with a glad and grateful heart. Last year at that very time they had been in such poverty and anxiety. Steve's life then seemed to be altogether waste material. He had almost slipped beyond even her ever-green hope. Oh, how good God had been to him! When every one else's love and patience had been worn out, God's was still fresh. "His loving-kindness faileth not"—the words were on her lips when the village postman touched her.

"Here's a letter for thy folks, Sarah, an American letter. Happen there'll be good news in it."

"Happen there will, Joe. Good news comes to them as look and hope for it, and our Joyce says she has hed a feeling like it." She took the letter and hurried home, and gave it into Joyce's hand with a kiss. In a few moments she heard Joyce calling her in an excited manner, and she hurried down-stairs.

"Look thee here, Sarah. I hev gotten a post-office order for ₤20! For ₤20, Sarah! Hid ta iver hear of t' like? But that's nowt to t' rest. Steve will be in Liverpool about t' both of this month, and he says we are all to be there, me and t' childer, and he hes a home in New York ready for us, and we are going, Sarah. Oh, my! Going away from all t' bad memories of cold and hunger and sorrow! And he's quartermaster of t' Arion, Sarah! Oh, my! oh, my! I niver, niver hoped for such a joy as this! Oh, my! oh, my!" and Joyce walked rapidly about the kitchen, with Steve's letter in one hand and the money-order in the other, far too much excited to talk sensibly for some time about the good news that had come to her.

Sarah kissed her heartily again. "Try and settle thysen a bit, Joyce," she pleaded; "there's a deal for thee to look after: Warm, decent clothing to get, and t' furniture to sell, and many a thing that thou won't want to sell to be packed up. Thou will hev to be busy night and day, I'll warrant."

"And thou will hev to stop from t' mill and and help me, for I'm that flustered I don't know what I am doing. I'll hev to rely on thee, Sarah; but it is t' last time, lass, it is t' last time!"

Very soon the news spread through the village, and it lost nothing in the spreading. Steve was now as much praised as a year ago he had been condemned. His old mates found out that they had always thought well of Steve, and remembered, as most of them could do, small acts of kindness he had done them. They called upon Joyce with congratulations, and sent many a pleasant message to her husband, so that Joyce's last days in her native village were the proudest and happiest days of her life.

On the 19th she left for Liverpool, and Sarah went with her, for there were half a dozen boxes as well as the children to care for, and Joyce had, in an excessive degree, the restless, fearful, fussy temper which makes travelling a terror to such women. However, in spite of Joyce's convictions that everyone wanted to steal her boxes, and that they were certainly on the wrong road, Liverpool was safely reached. The Arion was in port, and though Steve was very busy, the captain managed to spare him long enough to bring his family on board. It was a joyful meeting, and Sarah was amazed to see her brother. The free, open-air life had developed him physically, as well as mentally and morally. He was brown and merry and strong, and full of fun.

"Oh, my dear, dear lad," she cried, "but I am glad to see thee! Why, thou isn't t' same Steve at all!"

"Mebbe I'm not, Sarah; but I am t' right Steve now. I am t' Steve that God and nature meant me to be. Why, Joyce and Sarah, lasses, I am t' quartermaster already, and some day I'll sail my own ship to every port I hev read and dreamed about. See if I don't!"

Sarah fully believed him. She was standing by his side on the deck of the Arion, and thinking how handsome he looked in his blue sailor dress, and how bright and purpose-like were all his ways. Half an hour afterwards she bid him farewell, but it was a farewell full of hope and and satisfaction. She had a positive conviction of his future success, and when she turned away from the dock, she saw through happy tears the quartermaster of the Arion holding the baby shoulder-high for her last look, and Joyce and Charlotta Victoria and little Billy standing beside him.

And ere we bid farewell to Steve, we must say this thing of him: he has amply redeemed all his promises; and there is not to-day in all the merchant-service a safer, bolder, or more trusted captain than Stephen Benson. Also, so many of his own dreams have been realized. He has sailed his ship to Indian seas and Mediterranean cities, and to tropical South American harbors, and found time, without neglecting his legitimate business, to make a good many interesting observations on animal and vegetable life, and to collect all kinds of beautiful and singular specimens in this pretty home on the New Jersey coast.