"SORRY to hear my
fellow-workmen speak so disparagin' o' me?
Well, Mester, that's as
it may be, yo know. Happen my fellow- workmen ha made a bit o' a mistake --
happen what seems loike crustiness to them beant so much crustiness as summut
else -- happen I mought do my bit o' complainin' too. Yo munnot trust aw yo
hear, Mester; that's aw I can say."
I looked at the man's
bent face quite curiously, and, judging from its rather heavy but still not
unprepossessing outline, I could not really call it a bad face, or even a sulky
one. And yet both managers and hands had given me a bad account of Tim
Hibblethwaite. "Surly Tim" they called him, and each had something to
say about his sullen disposition to silence, and his short answers. Not that he
was accused of anything like misdemeanor, but he was "glum loike,"
the factory people said, and "a surly fellow well deserving his
name," as the master of his room had told me.
I had come to
Lancashire to take the control of my father's spinning-factory a short time
before, and, being anxious to do my best toward the hands, I often talked to
one and another in a friendly way, so that I could the better understand their
grievances and remedy them with justice to all parties concerned. So, in
conversing with men, women, and children, I gradually found out that Tim
Hibblethwaite was in bad odor, and that he held himself doggedly aloof from
all; and this was how, in the course of time, I came to speak to him about the
matter, and the opening words of my story are the words of his answer. But they
did not satisfy me by any means. I wanted to do the man justice myself, and see
that justice was done to him by others; and then again when, after my curious
look at him, he lifted his head from his work and drew the back of his hand
across his warm face, I noticed that he gave his eyes a brush, and, glancing at
him once more, I recognized the presence of a queer moisture in them.
In my anxiety to
conceal that I had noticed anything unusual, I am afraid I spoke to him quite
hurriedly. I was a young man then, and by no means as self-possessed as I ought
to have been.
"I hope you won't
misunderstand me, Hibblethwaite," I said; "I don't mean to complain
-- indeed, I have nothing to complain of, for Foxley tells me you are the
steadiest and most orderly hand he has under him; but the fact is I should like
to make friends with you all, and see that no one is treated badly. And somehow
or other I found out that you were not disposed to feel friendly towards the
rest, and I was sorry for it. But I suppose you have some reason of your
own."
The man bent down over
his work again, silent for a minute, to my discomfiture, but at last he spoke,
almost huskily.
"Thank yo,
Mester," he said; "yo're a koindly chap or yo wouldn't ha noticed.
An' yo're not fur wrong either. I ha reasons o' my own, tho' I'm loike to keep
'em to mysen most o' toimes. Th' fellows as throws their slurs on me would na
understond 'em if I were loike to gab, which I never were. But happen th'
toime'll come when Surly Tim'll tell his own tale, though I often think its
loike it wunnot come till th' Day o' Judgment."
"I hope it will
come before then," I said, cheerfully. "I hope the time is not far
away when we shall all understand you, Hibblethwaite. I think it has been
misunderstanding so far which has separated you from the rest, and it cannot
last always, you know."
But he shook his head
-- not after a surly fashion, but, as I thought, a trifle sadly or heavily --
so I did not ask any more questions, or try to force the subject upon him.
But I noticed him
pretty closely as time went on, and the more I saw of him the more fully I was
convinced that he was not so surly as people imagined. He never interfered with
the most active of his enemies, or made any reply when they taunted him, and
more than once I saw him perform a silent, half-secret act of kindness. Once I
caught him throwing half his dinner to a wretched little lad who had just come
to the factory, and worked near him; and once again, as I was leaving the
building on a rainy night, I came upon him on the stone steps at the door
bending down with an almost pathetic clumsiness to pin the woolen shawl of a
poor little mite who, like so many others, worked with her shiftless father and
mother to add to their weekly earnings. It was always the poorest and least
cared for of the children whom he seemed to befriend, and very often I noticed
that even when he was kindest, in his awkward man fashion, the little waifs
were afraid of him, and showed their fear plainly.
The factory was
situated on the outskirts of a thriving country town near Manchester, and at the
end of the lane that led from it to the more thickly populated part there was a
path crossing a field to the pretty church and church-yard, and this path was a
short cut homeward for me. Being so pretty and quiet, the place had a sort of
attraction for me, and I was in the habit of frequently passing through it on
my way, partly because it was pretty and quiet, perhaps, and partly, I have no
doubt, because I was inclined to be weak and melancholy at the time, my health
being broken down under hard study.
It so happened that in
passing here one night, and glancing in among the graves and marble monuments
as usual, I caught sight of a dark figure sitting upon a little mound under a
tree and resting its head upon its hands, and in this sad-looking figure I recognized
the muscular outline of my friend Surly Tim.
He did not see me at
first, and I was almost inclined to think it best to leave him alone; but as I
half turned away he stirred with something like a faint moan, and then lifted
his head and saw me standing in the bright, clear moonlight.
"Who's
theer?" he said. "Dost ta want owt?"
"It is only
Doncaster, Hibblethwaite," I returned, as I sprang over the low stone wall
to join him. "What is the matter, old fellow? I thought I heard you groan
just now."
"Yo mought ha
done, Mester," he answered heavily. "Happen tha did. I dunnot know
mysen. Nowts th' matter though, as I knows on, on'y I'm a bit out o'
soarts."
He turned his head
aside slightly and began to pull at the blades of grass on the mound, and all
at once I saw that his hand was trembling nervously.
It was almost three
minutes before he spoke again.
"That un belongs
to me," he said suddenly at last, pointing to a longer mound at his feet.
"An' this little un," signifying with an indescribable gesture the
small one upon which he sat.
"Poor
fellow," I said, "I see now."
"A little lad o'
mine," he said, slowly and tremulously. "A little lad o' mine an' --
an' his mother."
"What!" I
exclaimed, "I never knew that you were a married man, Tim."
He dropped his head
upon his hand again, still pulling nervously at the grass with the other.
"Th' law says I
beant, Mester," he answered in a painful strained fashion. "I canna
tell mysen what God-a'-moighty'ud say about it."
"I don't
understand," I faltered; "you don't mean to say the poor girl never
was your wife, Hibblethwaite."
"That's what th'
law says," slowly; "I thowt different mysen, an' so did th' poor
lass. That's what's the matter, Mester: that's th' trouble."
The other nervous hand
went up to his bent face for a minute and hid it, but I did not speak. There
was so much of strange grief in his simple movement that I felt words would be
out of place. It was not my dogged inexplicable "hand" who was
sitting before me in the bright moonlight on the baby's grave; it was a man
with a hidden history of some tragic sorrow long kept secret in his homely
breast -- perhaps a history very few of us could read aright. I would not
question him, though I fancied he meant to explain himself. I knew that if he was
willing to tell me the truth it was best that he should choose his own time for
it, and so I left him alone.
And before I had waited
very long he broke the silence himself, as I had thought he would.
. . . . . . .
"It wor welly
about six year ago I cum 'n here," he said, "more or less, welly
about six year. I wor a quiet chap then, Mester, an' had na many friends, but I
had more than I ha' now. Happen I wor better nater'd, but just as loike I wor
loighter- hearted -- but that's nowt to do wi' it.
"I had na been
here more than a week when theer comes a young woman to moind a loom i' th'
next room to me, an' this young woman bein' pretty an' modest takes my fancy.
She wor na loike th' rest o' the wenches -- loud talkin' an' slattern i' her
ways, she wor just quiet loike and nowt else. First time I seed her I says to
mysen, 'Theer's a lass 'at's seed trouble;' an' somehow every toime I seed her
afterward I says to mysen, 'There's a lass 'at's seed trouble.' It wur in her
eye -- she had a soft loike brown eye, Mester -- an' it wur in her voice -- her
voice wur soft loike, too -- I sometimes thowt it wur plain to be seed even i'
her dress. If she'd been born a lady she'd ha' been one o' th' foine soart, an'
as she'd been born a factory-lass she wur one o' th' foine soart still. So I
took to watchin' her an' tryin' to mak' friends wi' her, but I never had much
luck wi' her till one neet I was goin' home through th' snow, and I seed her
afore fighten' th' drift wi' nowt but a thin shawl over her head; so I goes up
behind her an' I says to her, steady and respecful, so as she wouldna be feart,
I says: --
"'Lass, let me see
thee home. It's bad weather fur thee to be out in by thysen. Tak' my coat an'
wrop thee up in it, an' tak' hold o' my arm an' let me help thee along.'
"She looks up
right straight forrad i' my face wi' her brown eyes, an' I tell yo, Mester, I
wur glad I wur an honest man 'stead o' a rascal, fur them quiet eyes 'ud ha fun
me out before I'd ha' done sayin' my say if I'd meant harm.
"'Thaank yo
kindly, Mester Hibblethwaite,' she says, 'but dunnot tak' off tha' coat fur me;
I'm doin' pretty nicely. It is Mester Hibblethwaite, beant it?'
"'Aye, lass,' I
answers, 'it's him. Mought I ax yo're name.'
"'Aye, to be
sure,' said she. 'My name's Rosanna -- 'Sanna Brent th' folk at th' mill allus
ca's me. I work at th' loom i' th' next room to thine. I've seed thee often an'
often.'
"So we walks home
to her lodgings, an' on th' way we talks together friendly an' quiet loike, an'
th' more we talks th' more I sees she's had trouble, an' by an' by -- bein' ony
common workin' folk, we're straightforrad to each other in our plain way -- it
comes out what her trouble has been.
"'Yo p'raps
wouldn't think I've been a married woman, Mester,' she says; 'but I ha', and' I
wedded an' rued. I married a sojer when I wur a giddy young wench, four years
ago, an' it wur th' worst thing as ever I did i' aw my days. He wur one o'
yo're handsome fastish chaps, an' he tired o' me as men o' his stripe allers do
tire o' poor lasses, an' then he ill-treated me. He went to th' Crimea after
we'n been wed a year, an' left me to shift fur mysen. An' I heard six month
after he wur dead. He'd never writ back to me nor sent me no help, but I
couldna think he wur dead till th' letter comn. He wur killed th' first month
he wur out fightin' th' Rooshians. Poor fellow! Poor Phil! Th' Lord ha mercy on
him!'
"That wur how I
found out about her trouble, an' somehow it seemed to draw me to her, an' make
me feel kindly to'ards her 't wur so pitiful to hear her talk about th' rascal,
so sorrowful an' gentle, an' not gi' him a real hard word for a' he'd done. But
that's allers th' way wi' women folk -- th' more yo harry's them, th' more
they'll pity yo an' pray for yo. Why she wurna more than twenty-two then, an'
she must ha been nowt but a slip o' a lass when they wur wed.
"How-'sever,
Rosanna Brent an' me got to be good friends, an' we walked home together o'
nights, an' talked about our bits o' wage, an' our bits o' debt, an' th' way that
wench 'ud keep me up i' spirits when I wur a bit down-hearted about owt, wur
just a wonder. She wur so quiet an' steady, an' when she said owt she meant it,
an' she never said too much or too little. Her brown eyes allers minded me o'
my mother, though th' old woman deed when I were nobbut a little chap, but I
never seed 'Sanna Brent smile 'bout thinkin' o' how my mother looked when I wur
kneelin' down sayin' my prayers after her. An' bein' as th' lass wur so dear to
me, I made up my mind to ax her to be summat dearer. So once goin' home along
wi her, I takes hold o' her hand an' lifts it up an' kisses it gentle -- as
gentle an' wi' summat th' same feelin' as I'd kiss th' Good Book.
"''Sanna,' I says,
'bein' as yo've had so much trouble wi' yo're first chance, would yo' be afeard
to try a second? Could yo' trust a mon again? Such a mon as me, 'Sanna?'
"'I wouldna be
feart to trust thee, Tim,' she answers back soft an' gentle after a manner. 'I
wouldna be feart to trust thee any time.'
"I kisses her hand
again, gentler still.
"'God bless thee,
lass,' I says. 'Does that mean yes?'
"She crept up
closer to me i' her sweet, quiet way.
"'Aye, lad,' she
answers. 'It means yes, an' I'll bide by it.'
"'An' tha shalt
never rue it, lass,' said I. 'Tha's gi'en thy life to me, an' I'll gi' mine to
thee, sure and true.'
"So we wur axed i'
th' church t' next Sunday, an' a month fra then we were wed, an' if ever God's
sun shone on a happy mon, it shone on one that day, where we come out o' church
together -- me and Rosanna -- an' went to our bit o' a home to begin life
again. I couldna tell thee, Mester -- there beant no words to tell how happy
an' peaceful we lived fur two year after that. My lass never altered her sweet
ways, an' I just loved her to make up to her fur what had gone by. I thanked
God-a'-moighty fur his blessing every day, an' every day I prayed to be made
worthy of it. An' here's just wheer I'd like to ax a question, Mester, about
summat 'ats worretted me a good deal. I dunnot want to question th' Maker, but
I would loike to know how it is 'at sometime it seems 'at we're clean forgot --
as if He couldna fash hissen about our troubles, an' most loike left 'em to
work out theirsens. Yo see, Mester, an' we aw see sometime he thinks on us an'
gi's us a lift, but hasna tha thysen seen times when tha stopt short an' axed
thysen, 'Wheer's God-a'-moighty 'at he isna straighten things out a bit? Th'
world's i' a power o' a snarl. Th' righteous is forsaken 'n his seed's beggin'
bread. An' th' devil's topmost again.' I've talked to my lass about it
sometimes, an' I dunnot think I meant harm, Mester, for I felt humble enough --
an' when I talked, my lass she'd listen an' smile soft an' sorrowful, but she
never gi' me but one answer.
"'Tim,' she'd say,
'this is on'y th' skoo' an' we're th' scholars, an' He's teachin' us His way.
We munnot be loike th' children o' Israel i' th' Wilderness, an' turn away fra
th' cross 'cause o' th' Sarpent. We munnot say, "Theers a snake:" we
mun say, "Theers th' Cross, an' th' Lord gi' it to us." Th' teacher
wouldna be o' much use, Tim, if th' scholars knew as much as he did, an' I
allers think it's th' best to comfort mysen wi' sayin', Th' Lord-a'-moighty, he
knows.'
"An' she allers
comforted me too when I wur worretted. Life looked smooth somehow them three
year. Happen th' Lord sent 'em to me to make up fur what wur comin. [sic]
"At th' eend o'
th' first year th' child wur born, th' little lad here," touching the turf
with his hand, "'Wee Wattie' his mother ca'd him, an' he wur a fine
lightsome little chap. He filled th' whole house wi' music day in an' day out,
crowin' an' crowin' -- an' cryin' too sometime. But if ever yo're a feyther,
Mester, yo'll find out 'at a baby's cry 's music often enough, an' yo'll find,
too, if yo ever lose one, 'at yo'd give all yo'd getten just to hear even th'
worst o' cryin'. Rosanna she couldna find i' her heart to set th' little 'un
out o' her arms a minnit, an' she'd go about th' room wi' her eyes aw leeted
up, an' her face bloomin' like a slip o' a girl's, an' if she laid him i' th'
cradle her head 'ud be turnt o'er her shoulder aw' [sic] th' time lookin' at
him an' singin' bits o' sweet-soundin' foolish woman-folks' songs. I thowt then
'at them old nursery songs wur th' happiest music I ever heard, an' when 'Sanna
sung 'em they minded me o' hymn-tunes.
"Well, Mester,
before th' spring wur out Wee Wat was toddlin' round holdin' to his mother's
gown, an' by th' middle o' th' next he was cooin' like a dove, an' prattlin'
words i' a voice like hers. His eyes wur big an' brown an' straightforrad like
hers, an' his mouth was like hers, an' his curls wur the color o' a brown bee's
back. Happen we set too much store by him, or happen it wur on'y th' Teacher
again teachin' us his way, but how'sever that wur, I came home one sunny
mornin' fro' th' factory, an' my dear lass met me at th' door, all white an'
cold, but tryin' hard to be brave an' help me to bear what she had to tell.
"'Tim,' said she,
'th' Lord ha' sent us a trouble; but we can bear it together, canna we, dear
lad?'
"That wor aw, but
I knew what it meant, though t' poor little lamb had been well enough when I
kissed him last.
"I went in an' saw
him lyin' theer on his pillows strugglin' an' gaspin' in hard convulsions, an'
I seed aw' was over. An' in half an hour, just as th' sun crept across th' room
an' touched his curls, th' pretty little chap opens his eyes aw at once.
"'Daddy!" he
crows out. 'Sithee Dad -- !' an' he lifts hissen up, catches at th' floatin'
sunshine, laughs at it, and fa's back -- dead, Mester.
"I've allers thowt
'at th' Lord-a'-moighty knew what he wur doin' when he gi' th' woman t' Adam i'
th' Garden o' Eden. He knowed he wor nowt but a poor chap as couldna do fur
hissen; an' I suppose that's th' reason he gi' th' woman th' strength to bear
trouble when it comn. I'd ha' gi'en clean in if it hadna been fur my lass when
th' little chap deed. I never tackledt owt i' aw my days 'at hurt me as heavy
as losin' him did. I couldna abear th' sight o' his cradle, an' if ever I comn
across any o' his bits o' playthings, I'd fall to cryin' an' shakin' like a
babby. I kept out o' th' way o' th' neebors' children even. I wasna like
Rosanna. I couldna see quoite clear what th' Lord meant, an' I couldna help
murmuring sad and heavy. That's just loike us men, Mester; just as if th' dear
wench as had give him her life fur food day an' neet, hadna fur th' best reet
o' th' two to be weak an' heavy-hearted.
"But I getten
welly over it at last, an' we was beginnin' to come round a bit an' look forrad
to th' toime we'd see him agen 'stead o' lookin' back to th' toime we shut th'
round bit of a face under th' coffin lid. Day comn when we could bear to talk
about him an' moind things he'd said an' tried to say i' his broken babby way.
An' so we were creepin' back again to th' old happy quiet, an' we had been for
welly six month, when summat fresh come. I'll never forget it, Mester, th' neet
it happened. I'd kissed Rosanna at th' door an' left her standin' theer when I
went up to th' village to buy summat she wanted. It wur a bright moonlight
neet, just such a neet as this, an' th' lass had followed me out to see th'
moonshine, it wur so bright an' clear, an' just before I starts she folds both
her hands on my shoulder an' says, soft an' thoughtful: --
"'Tim, I wonder if
th' little chaps sees us?'
"'I'd loike to
know, dear lass,' I answers back. An' then she speaks again: --
"'Tim, I wonder if
he'd know he was ours if he could see, or if he'd ha' forgot? He wur such a
little fellow.'
"Them wur th' last
peaceful words I ever heerd her speak. I went up to th' village an' getten what
she sent me fur, an' then I comn back. Th' moon wur shinin' as bright as ever,
an' th' flowers i' her slip o' a garden wur aw sparklin' wi' dew. I seed 'em as
I went up th' walk, an' I thowt again of what she'd said bout th' little lad.
"She wasna
outside, an' I couldna see a leet about th' house, but I heerd voices, so I
walked straight in -- into th' entry an' into th' kitchen, an' theer she wur,
Mester -- my poor wench, crouchin' down by th' table, hidin' her face i' her
hands, an' close beside her wur a mon -- a mon i' red sojer clothes.
"My heart leaped
into my throat, an fur a minnit I hadna a word, for I saw summat wur up, though
I couldna tell what it wur. But at last my voice come back.
"'Good evenin',
Mester,' I says to him; 'I hope yo ha'not broughten ill-news? What ails thee,
dear lass?'
"She stirs a
little, an' gives a moan like a dyin' child; an' then she lifts up her wan,
broken-hearted face, an' stretches out both her hands to me.
"'Tim,' she says,
'dunnot hate me, lad, dunnot. I thowt he wur dead long sin'. I thowt 'at th'
Rooshans killed him an' I wur free, but I amna. I never wur. He never deed,
Tim, an' theer he is -- the mon as I wur wed to an' left by. God forgi' him,
an' oh, God forgi' me!'
"Theer, Mester,
theer's a story fur thee. What dost ta' think o't? My poor lass wasna my wife
at aw -- th' little chap's mother wasna his feyther's wife, an' never had been.
That theer worthless fellow as beat an' starved her an' left her to fight th'
world alone, had comn back alive an' well, ready to begin again. He could tak'
her away fro' me any hour i' th' day, an I couldna say a word to bar him. Th'
law said my wife -- th' little dead lad's mother -- belonged to him, body an'
soul. Theer was no law to help us -- it wur aw on his side.
"Theer's no use o'
goin' o'er aw we said to each other i' that dark room theer. I raved an' prayed
an' pled wi' th' lass to let me carry her across th' seas, wheer I'd heerd tell
theer was help fur such loike; but she pled back i' her broken patient way that
it wouldna be reet, an' happen it wur the Lord's will. She didna say much to
th' sojer. I scarce heerd her speak to him more than once, when she axed him to
let her go away by hersen.
"'Tha canna want
me now, Phil,' she said. 'Tha canna care fur me. Tha must know I'm more this
mon's wife than thine. But I dunnot ax thee to gi me to him because I know that
wouldna be reet; I ony ax thee to let me aloan. I'll go fur enough off an'
never see him more.'
"But th' villain
held to her. If she didna come wi him, he said, he'd ha' me up before th' court
fur bigamy. I could ha' done murder then, Mester, an' I would ha' done if it
hadna been for th' poor lass runnin' in betwixt us an' pleadin' wi' aw her
might. If we'n been rich foak theer might ha' been some help fur her, at least;
th' law might ha' been browt to mak him leave her be, but bein' poor workin'
foak theer was ony one thing: th' wife mun go wi' th' husband, an' theer th'
husband stood -- a scoundrel, cursing, wi' his black heart on his tongue.
"'Well,' says th'
lass at last, fair wearied out wi' grief, 'I'll go wi' thee, Phil, an' I'll do
my best to please thee, but I wunnot promise to forget th' mon as has been true
to me, an' has stood betwixt me an' th' world.'
"Then she turned
round to me.
"'Tim,' she said
to me, as if she wur haaf feart -- aye, feart o' him, an' me standin' by. Three
hours afore, th' law ud ha let me mill any mon 'at feart her. 'Tim,' she says,
'surely he wunnot refuse to let us go together to th' little lad's grave -- fur
th' last time.' She didna speak to him but to me, an' she spoke still an'
strained as if she wur too heart-broke to be wild. Her face was as white as th'
dead, but she didna cry, as any other woman would ha' done. 'Come, Tim,' she
said, 'he canna say no to that.'
"An' so out we
went 'thout another word, an' left th' black-hearted rascal behind, sittin' i'
th' very room t' little un deed in. His cradle stood theer i' th' corner. We
went out into th' moonlight 'thout speakin', an' we didna say a word until we
come to this very place, Mester.
"We stood here for
a minute silent, an' then I sees her begin to shake, an' she throws hersen down
on th' grass wi' her arms flung o'er th' grave, an' she cries out as ef her
death-wound had been give to her.
"'Little lad,' she
says, 'little lad, dost ta see thee mother? Canst na tha hear her callin' thee!
Little lad, git nigh to th' Throne an' plead!'
"I fell down
beside o' th' poor crushed wench an' sobbed wi' her. I couldna comfort her, fur
wheer wur there any comfort for us? Theer wur none left -- theer wur no hope.
We was shamed an' broke down - - our lives was lost. The' past wur nowt -- th'
future wur worse. Oh, my poor lass, how hard she tried to pray -- fur me,
Mester -- yes, fur me, as she lay theer wi' her arms round her dead babby's
grave, an' her cheek on th' grass as grew o'er his breast. 'Lord
God-a'-moighty,' she says, 'help us -- dunnot gi' us up -- dunnot, dunnot. We
canna do 'thowt thee now, if th' time ever wur when we could. Th' little chap mun
be wi' Thee, I moind th' bit o' comfort about getherin' th' lambs i' His bosom.
An', Lord, if Tha could spare him a minnit, send him down to us wi' a bit o'
leet. Oh, Feyther! help th' poor lad here -- help him. Let th' weight fa' on
me, not on him. Just help th' poor lad to bear it. If ever I did owt as wur
worthy i' Thy sight, let that be my reward. Dear Lord-a'-moighty, I'd be
willin' to gi' up a bit o' my own heavenly glory fur th' dear lad's sake.'
"Well, Mester, she
lay theer on t' grass prayin' an' cryin', wild but gentle, fur nigh haaf an
hour, an' then it seemed 'at she got quoite loike, an' she got up. Happen th'
Lord had hearkened an' sent th' child -- happen He had, fur when she getten up
her face looked to me aw white an' shinin' i' th' clear moonlight.
"'Sit down by me,
dear lad,' she said, 'an' hold my hand a minnit.' I set down an' took hold of
her hand, as she bid me.
"'Tim,' she said,
'this wur why th' little chap deed. Dost na tha see now 'at th' Lord knew
best?'
"'Yes, lass,' I
answers humble, an' lays my face on her hand, breakin' down again.
"'Hush, dear lad,'
she whispers, 'we hannot time fur that. I want to talk to thee. Wilta listen?'
"'Yes, wife,' I
says, an' I heerd her sob when I said it, but she catches hersen up again.
"'I want thee to
mak' me a promise,' said she. 'I want thee to promise never to forget what
peace we ha' had. I want thee to remember it allus, an' to moind him 'at's
dead, an' let his little hand howd thee back fro' sin an' hard thowts. I'll
pray fur thee neet an' day, Tim, an' tha shalt pray fur me, an' happen theer'll
come a leet. But ef theer dunnot, dear lad -- an' I dunnot see how theer could
-- if theer dunnot, an' we never see each other agen, I want thee to mak' me a
promise that if tha sees th' little chap first tha'lt moind him o' me, and
watch out wi' him nigh th' gate, and I'll promise thee that if I see him first,
I'll moind him o' thee an' watch out true an' constant.'
"I promised her,
Mester, as yo' can guess, an' we kneeled down an' kissed th' grass, an' she
took a bit o' th' sod to put i' her bosom. An' then we stood up an' looked at
each other, an' at last she put her dear face on my breast an' kissed me, as
she had done every neet sin' we were mon an' wife.
"'Good-bye, dear
lad,' she whispers -- her voice aw broken. 'Doant come back to th' house till
I'm gone. Good-bye, dear, dear lad, an' God bless thee.' An' she slipped out o'
my arms an' wur gone in a moment awmost before I could cry out.
. . . . . . .
"Theer isna much
more to tell, Mester -- th' eend's comin' now, an' happen it'll shorten off th'
story, so 'at it seems suddent to thee. But it were na suddent to me. I lived
alone here, an' worked, an' moinded my own business an' answered no questions
fur nigh about a year, hearin' nowt, an' seein' nowt, an' hopin' nowt, till one
toime when th' daisies were blowin' on th' little grave here, theer come to me
a letter fro' Manchester fro' one o' th' medical chaps i' th' hospital. It wur
a short letter wi' prent on it, an' the moment I seed it I knowed summat wur
up, an' I opened it tremblin'. Mester, theer wur a woman lyin' i' one o' th'
wards dyin' o' some long-named heart-disease, an' she'd prayed 'em to send fur
me, an' one o' th' young soft-hearted ones had writ me a line to let me know.
"I started aw'most
afore I'd finished readin' th' letter, an' when I getten to th' place I fun
just what I knowed I should. I fun Her -- my wife -- th' blessed lass, an' if
I'd been an hour later I would na ha' seen her alive, fur she were nigh past
knowin' me then.
"But I knelt down
by th' bedside an' I plead wi' her as she lay theer, until I browt her back to
th' world again fur one moment. Her eyes flew wide open aw' at onct, an' she
seed me and smiled, aw her dear face quiverin' i' death.
"'Dear lad,' she
whispered, 'th' path was na so long after aw. Th' Lord knew -- he trod it
hissen' onct, yo' know. I knowed tha'd come -- I prayed so. I've reached th'
very eend now, Tim, an' I shall see th' little lad first. But I wunnot forget
my promise -- no. I'll look out -- for thee -- for thee -- at th' gate.'
"An' her eyes shut
slow an' quiet, an' I knowed she was dead.
"Theer, Mester
Doncaster, theer it aw is, for theer she lies under th' daisies cloost by her
child, fur I browt her here an' buried her. Th' fellow as come betwixt us had
tortured her fur a while an' then left her again, I fun out -- an' she were so
afeard of doin' me some harm that she wouldna come nigh me. It wur heart
disease as killed her, th' medical chaps said, but I knowed better -- it wur
heart-break. That's aw. Sometimes I think o'er it till I canna stand it any
longer, an' I'm fain to come here an' lay my hand on th' grass, -- an'
sometimes I ha' queer dreams about her. I had one last neet. I thowt 'at she
comn to me aw at onct just as she used to look, ony, wi' her white face shinin'
loike a star, an' she says, 'Tim, th' path isna so long after aw -- tha's come
nigh to th' eend, an' me an th' little chap is waitin'. He knows thee, dear
lad, fur I've towt him.'
"That's why I comn
here to neet, Mester; an' I believe that's why I've talked so free to thee. If
I'm near th' eend I'd loike some one to know. I ha' meant no hurt when I seemed
grum an [sic] surly. It wurna ill-will, but a heavy heart."
. . . . . . .
He stopped here, and
his head drooped upon his hands again, and for a minute or so there was another
dead silence. Such a story as this needed no comment. I could make none. It
seemed to me that the poor fellow's sore heart could bear none. At length he
rose from the turf and stood up, looking out over the graves into the soft
light beyond with a strange, wistful sadness.
"Well, I mun go
now," he said slowly. "Good neet, Mester, good neet, an' thank yo fur
listenin'."
"Good night,"
I returned, adding, in an impulse of pity that was almost a passion, "And
God help you!"
"Thank yo again,
Mester!" he said, and then turned away; and as I sat pondering I watched
his heavy drooping figure threading its way among the dark mounds and white
marble, and under the shadowy trees, and out into the path beyond. I did not
sleep well that night. The strained, heavy tones of the man's voice were in my
ears, and the homely yet tragic story seemed to weave itself into all my
thoughts, and keep me from rest. I could not get it out of my mind.
In consequence of this
sleeplessness I was later than usual in going down to the factory, and when I
arrived at the gates I found an unusual bustle there. Something out of the
ordinary routine had plainly occurred, for the whole place was in confusion.
There was a crowd of hands grouped about one corner of the yard, and as I came
in a man ran against me, and showed me a terribly pale face.
"I ax pardon,
Mester Doncaster," he said in a wild hurry, "but theer's an accident
happened. One o' th' weavers is hurt bad, an' I'm goin' fur th' doctor. Th'
loom caught an' crushed him afore we could stop it."
For some reason or
other my heart misgave me that very moment. I pushed forward to the group in
the yard-corner, and made my way through it.
A man was lying on a
pile of coats in the middle of the bystanders, -- a poor fellow crushed and
torn and bruised, but lying quite quiet now, only for an occasional little moan
that was scarcely more than a quick gasp for breath. It was Surly Tim!
"He's nigh th'
eend o' it now!" said one of the hands pityingly. "He's nigh th' last
now, poor chap! What's that he's sayin', lads?"
For all at once some
flickering sense seemed to have caught at one of the speaker's words, and the
wounded man stirred, murmuring faintly -- but not to the watchers. Ah, no! to
something far, far beyond their feeble human sight -- to something in the broad
Without.
"Th' eend!"
he said; "aye, this is th' eend, dear lass, an' th' path's aw shinin' or
summat an! -- Why, lass, I can see thee plain, an' th' little chap too!"
Another flutter of the
breath, one slight movement of the mangled hand, and I bent down closer to the
poor fellow, -- closer, because my eyes were so dimmed that I could not see.
"Lads," I
said aloud a few seconds later, "you can do no more for him. His pain is
over!"
For with the sudden
glow of light which shone upon the shortened path and the waiting figures of
his child and its mother, Surly Tim's earthly trouble had ended.