XII. OLD ALICE'S BAIRN,
"I lov'd him not; and yet now he is gone, I feel I am alone. I check'd him while he spoke; yet could he speak, Alas! I would not check. For reasons not to love him once I sought, And wearied all my thought."--W. S. LANDOR.
And now Mary had, as she thought, dismissed both her lovers. Butthey looked on their dismissals with very different eyes. He wholoved her with all his heart and with all his soul, considered hisrejection final. He did not comfort himself with the idea, whichwould have proved so well founded in his case, that women havesecond thoughts about casting off their lovers. He had too muchrespect for his own heartiness of love to believe himself unworthyof Mary; that mock humble conceit did not enter his head. Hethought he did not "hit Mary's fancy"; and though that may sound atrivial every-day expression, yet the reality of it cut him to theheart. Wild visions of enlistment, of drinking himself intoforgetfulness, of becoming desperate in some way or another, enteredhis mind; but then the thought of his mother stood like an angelwith a drawn sword in the way to sin. For, you know, "he was theonly son of his mother, and she was a widow"; dependent on him fordaily bread. So he could not squander away health and time, whichwere to him money wherewith to support her failing years. He wentto his work, accordingly, to all outward semblance just as usual;but with a heavy, heavy heart within.
Mr. Carson, as we have seen, persevered in considering Mary'srejection of him as merely a "charming caprice." If she were atwork, Sally Leadbitter was sure to slip a passionately loving noteinto her hand, and then so skilfully move away from her side, thatMary could not all at once return it, without making some sensationamong the workwomen. She was even forced to take several home withher. But after reading one, she determined on her plan. She madeno great resistance to receiving them from Sally, but kept themunopened, and occasionally returned them in a blank half-sheet ofpaper. But far worse than this, was the being so constantly waylaidas she went home by her persevering lover; who had been so longacquainted with all her habits, that she found it difficult to evadehim. Late or early, she was never certain of being free from him.Go this way or that, he might come up some cross street when she hadjust congratulated herself on evading him for that day. He couldnot have taken a surer mode of making himself odious to her.
And all this time Jem Wilson never came! Not to see her--that shedid not expect--but to see her father; to--she did not know what,but she had hoped he would have come on some excuse, just to see ifshe hadn't changed her mind. He never came. Then she grew wearyand impatient, and her spirits sank. The persecution of the onelover, and the neglect of the other, oppressed her sorely. Shecould not now sit quietly through the evening at her work; or, ifshe kept, by a strong effort, from pacing up and down the room, shefelt as if she must sing to keep off thought while she sewed. Andher songs were the maddest, merriest, she could think of. "BarbaraAllen," and such sorrowful ditties, did well enough for happy times;but now she required all the aid that could be derived from externalexcitement to keep down the impulse of grief.
And her father, too--he was a great anxiety to her, he looked sochanged and so ill. Yet he would not acknowledge to any ailment.She knew, that be it as late as it would, she never left off workuntil (if the poor servants paid her pretty regularly for the oddjobs of mending she did for them) she had earned a few pence, enoughfor one good meal for her father on the next day. But veryfrequently all she could do in the morning, after her late sittingup at night, was to run with the work home, and receive the moneyfrom the person for whom it was done. She could not stay often tomake purchases of food, but gave up the money at once to herfather's eager clutch; sometimes prompted by a savage hunger it istrue, but more frequently by a craving for opium.
On the whole he was not so hungry as his daughter. For it was along fast from the one o'clock dinner hour at Miss Simmonds' to theclose of Mary's vigil, which was often extended to midnight. Shewas young, and had not yet learned to bear "clemming."
One evening, as she sang a merry song over her work, stoppingoccasionally to sigh, the blind Margaret came groping in. It hadbeen one of Mary's additional sorrows that her friend had beenabsent from home, accompanying the lecturer on music in his roundamong the manufacturing towns of Yorkshire and Lancashire. Hergrandfather, too, had seen this a good time for going hisexpeditions in search of specimens; so that the house had been shutup for several weeks.
"O Margaret, Margaret! how glad I am to see you. Take care. Therenow, you're all right, that's father's chair. Sit down."--Shekissed her over and over again.
"It seems like the beginning o' brighter times, to see you again,Margaret. Bless you! And how well you look!"
"Doctors always send ailing folk for change of air: and you knowI've had plenty o' that same lately."
"You've been quite a traveller for sure! Tell us all about it, do,Margaret. Where have you been to, first place?"
"Eh, lass, that would take a long time to tell. Half o'er theworld, I sometimes think. Bolton and Bury, and Owdham, and Halifax,and--but Mary, guess who I saw there? Maybe you know, though, soit's not fair guessing."
"No, I dunnot. Tell me, Margaret, for I cannot abide waiting andguessing."
"Well, one night as I were going fra' my lodgings wi' the help on alad as belonged to th' landlady, to find the room where I were tosing, I heard a cough before me, walking along. Thinks I, that'sJem Wilson's cough, or I'm much mistaken. Next time came a sneezeand cough, and then I were certain. First I hesitated whether Ishould speak, thinking if it were a stranger he'd maybe think meforrard.* But I knew blind folks must not be nesh about using theirtongues, so says I, 'Jem Wilson, is that you?' And sure enough itwas, and nobody else. Did you know he were in Halifax, Mary?"
*Forrard; forward.
"No," she answered, faintly and sadly; for Halifax was all the sameto her heart as the Antipodes; equally inaccessible by humblepenitent looks and maidenly tokens of love.
"Well, he's there, however: he's putting up an engine for somefolks there, for his master. He's doing well, for he's getten fouror five men under him; we'd two or three meetings, and he telled meall about his invention for doing away wi' the crank, or somewhat.His master's bought it from him, and ta'en out a patent, and Jem's agentleman for life wi' the money his master gied him. But you'llha' heard all this, Mary?"
No! she had not.
"Well, I thought it all happened afore he left Manchester, and thenin course you'd ha' known. But maybe it were all settled after hegot to Halifax; however, he's gotten two or three hunder pounds forhis invention. But what's up with you, Mary? you're sadly out ofsorts. You've never been quarrelling wi' Jem, surely?"
Now Mary cried outright; she was weak in body, and unhappy in mind,and the time was come when she might have the relief of telling hergrief. She could not bring herself to confess how much of hersorrow was caused by her having been vain and foolish; she hopedthat need never be known, and she could not bear to think of it.
"O Margaret! do you know Jem came here one night when I were putout, and cross. Oh, dear! dear! I could bite my tongue out when Ithink on it. And he told me how he loved me, and I thought I didnot love him, and I told him I didn't; and, Margaret,--he believedme, and went away so sad, and so angry; and now, I'd do anything--Iwould indeed"; her sobs choked the end of her sentence. Margaretlooked at her with sorrow, but with hope; for she had no doubt inher own mind, that it was only a temporary estrangement,
"Tell me, Margaret," said Mary, taking her apron down from her eyes,and looking at Margaret with eager anxiety, "what can I do to bringhim back to me? Should I write to him?"
"No," replied her friend, "that would not do. Men are so queer,they like to have a' the courting to themselves."
"But I did not mean to write him a courting letter," said Mary,somewhat indignantly.
"If you wrote at all, it would be to give him a hint you'd taken therue, and would be very glad to have h
im now. I believe now he'drather find that out himself."
"But he won't try," said Mary, sighing. "How can he find it outwhen he's at Halifax?"
"If he's a will he's a way, depend upon it. And you would not havehim if he's not a will to you, Mary! No, dear!" changing her tonefrom the somewhat hard way in which sensible people too often speak,to the soft accents of tenderness which come with such peculiargrace from them, "you must just wait and be patient. You may dependupon it, all will end well, and better than if you meddled in itnow."
"But it's so hard to be patient," pleaded Mary.
"Ay, dear; being patient is the hardest work we, any of us, have todo through life, I take it. Waiting is far more difficult thandoing. I've known that about my sight, and many a one has known itin watching the sick; but it's one of God's lessons we all mustlearn, one way or another." After a pause--"Have ye been to see hismother of late?"
"No; not for some weeks. When last I went she was so frabbit* withme, that I really thought she wished I'd keep away."
*Frabbit; ill-tempered.
"Well! if I were you I'd go. Jem will hear on't, and it will do youfar more good in his mind than writing a letter, which, after all,you would find a tough piece of work when you came to settle to it.'T would be hard to say neither too much nor too little. But I mustbe going, grandfather is at home, and it's our first night together,and he must not be sitting wanting me any longer."
She rose up from her seat, but still delayed going.
"Mary! I've somewhat else I want to say to you, and I don't rightlyknow how to begin. You see, grandfather and I know what bad timesis, and we know your father is out of work, and I'm getting moremoney than I can well manage; and, dear, would you just take thisbit o' gold, and pay me back in good times?" The tears stood inMargaret's eyes as she spoke.
"Dear Margaret, we're not so bad pressed as that." (The thought ofher father and his ill looks, and his one meal a day, rushed uponMary.) "And yet, dear, if it would not put you out o' your way--Iwould work hard to make it up to you;--but would not yourgrandfather be vexed?"
"Not he, wench! It were more his thought than mine, and we havegotten ever so many more at home, so don't hurry yourself aboutpaying. It's hard to be blind, to be sure, else money comes in soeasily now to what it used to do; and it's downright pleasure toearn it, for I do so like singing."
"I wish I could sing," said Mary, looking at the sovereign.
"Some has one kind of gifts, and some another. Many's the time whenI could see, that I longed for your beauty, Mary! We're likechilder, ever wanting what we han not got. But now I must say justone more word. Remember, if you're sore pressed for money, we shalltake it very unkind if you donnot let us know. Good-bye to ye."
In spite of her blindness she hurried away, anxious to rejoin hergrandfather, and desirous also to escape from Mary's expressions ofgratitude.
Her visit had done Mary good in many ways. It had strengthened herpatience and her hope; it had given her confidence in Margaret'ssympathy; and last, and really least in comforting power (of solittle value are silver and gold in comparison to love, that gift inevery one's power to bestow), came the consciousness of themoney-value of the sovereign she held in her hand. The many thingsit might purchase! First of all came the thought of the comfortablesupper for her father that very night; and acting instantly upon theidea, she set off in hopes that all the provision shops might notyet be closed, although it was so late.
That night the cottage shone with unusual light and fire gleam; andthe father and daughter sat down to a meal they thought almostextravagant. It was so long since they had had enough to eat.
"Food gives heart," say the Lancashire people; and the next day Marymade time to go and call on Mrs. Wilson, according to Margaret'sadvice. She found her quite alone, and more gracious than she hadbeen the last time Mary had visited her. Alice was gone out, shesaid.
"She would just step up to the post-office, all for no earthly use.For it were to ask if they hadn't a letter lying there for her fromher foster-son, Will Wilson, the sailor-lad."
"What made her think there were a letter?" asked Mary.
"Why, yo see, a neighbour as has been in Liverpool, telled us Will'sship were come in. Now he said last time he were in Liverpool, he'dha' come to ha' seen Alice, but his ship had but a week holiday, andhard work for the men in that time, too. So Alice makes sure he'llcome this, and has had her hand behind her ear at every noise in th'street, thinking it were him. And to-day she were neither to havenor to hold, but off she would go to th' post, and see if he had nasent her a line to th' old house near yo. I tried to get her togive up going, for let alone her deafness she's getten so dark, shecannot see five yards afore her; but no, she would go, poor oldbody."
"I did not know her sight failed her; she used to have good eyesenough when she lived near us."
"Ay, but it's gone lately a good deal. But you never ask after Jem"--anxious to get in a word on the subject nearest her heart.
"No," replied Mary, blushing scarlet. "How is he?"
"I cannot justly say how he is, seeing he's at Halifax; but he werevery well when he wrote last Tuesday. Han ye heard o' his goodluck?"
Rather to her disappointment, Mary owned she had heard of the sumhis master had paid him for his invention.
"Well! and did not Margaret tell you what he'd done wi' it? It'sjust like him, though, ne'er to say a word about it. Why, when hewere paid, what does he do but get his master to help him to buy anincome for me and Alice. He had her name put down for her life;but, poor thing, she'll not be long to the fore, I'm thinking.She's sadly failed of late. And so, Mary, yo see, we're two ladieso' property. It's a matter o' twenty pound a year, they tell me. Iwish the twins had lived, bless 'em," said she, dropping a fewtears. "They should ha' had the best o' schooling, and theirbellyfuls o' food. I suppose they're better off in heaven, only Ishould so like to see 'em."
Mary's heart filled with love at this new proof of Jem's goodness;but she could not talk about it. She took Jane Wilson's hand, andpressed it with affection and then turned the subject to Will, hersailor nephew. Jane was a little bit sorry, but her prosperity hadmade her gentler, and she did not resent what she felt at Mary'sindifference to Jem and his merits.
"He's been in Africa, and that neighbourhood, I believe. He's afine chap, but he's not getten Jem's hair. His has too much o' thered in it. He sent Alice (but, maybe, she telled you) a matter o'five pound when he were over before: but that were nought to anincome, yo know."
"It's not every one that can get a hundred or two at a time," saidMary.
"No! no! that's true enough. There's not many a one like Jem.That's Alice's step," said she, hastening to open the door to hersister-in-law. Alice looked weary, and sad, and dusty. Theweariness and the dust would not have been noticed either by her, orthe others, if it had not been for the sadness.
"No letters?" said Mrs. Wilson.
"No, none! I must just wait another day to hear fra' my lad. It'svery dree work, waiting," said Alice.
Margaret's words came into Mary's mind. Every one has their timeand kind of waiting.
"If I but knew he were safe, and not drowned!" spoke Alice. "If Ibut knew he WERE drowned, I would ask grace to say, Thy will bedone. It's the waiting."
"It's hard work to be patient to all of us," said Mary; "I know Ifind it so, but I did not know one so good as you did, Alice; Ishall not think so badly of myself for being a bit impatient, nowI've heard you say you find it difficult."
The idea of reproach to Alice was the last in Mary's mind; and Aliceknew it was. Nevertheless, she said--
"Then, my dear, I beg your pardon, and God's pardon, too, if I'veweakened your faith, by showing you how feeble mine was. Half ourlife's spent in waiting, and it ill becomes one like me, wi' so manymercies, to grumble. I'll try and put a bridle o'er my tongue, andmy thoughts too." She spoke in a humble and gentle voice, like oneasking forgiveness.
"
Come, Alice," interposed Mrs. Wilson, "don't fret yoursel for e'era trifle wrong said here or there. See! I've put th' kettle on, andyou and Mary shall ha' a dish o' tea in no time."
So she bustled about, and brought out a comfortable-lookingsubstantial loaf, and set Mary to cut bread and butter, while sherattled out the tea-cups--always a cheerful sound.
Just as they were sitting down, there was a knock heard at the door,and without waiting for it to be opened from the inside, some onelifted the latch, and in a man's voice asked, if one George Wilsonlived there?
Mrs. Wilson was entering on a long and sorrowful explanation of hishaving once lived there, but of his having dropped down dead; whenAlice, with the instinct of love (for in all usual and commoninstances sight and hearing failed to convey impressions to heruntil long after other people had received them), arose, andtottered to the door.
"My bairn!--my own dear bairn!" she exclaimed, falling on WillWilson's neck.
You may fancy the hospitable and welcoming commotion that ensued;how Mrs. Wilson laughed, and talked, and cried, all together, ifsuch a thing can be done; and how Mary gazed with wondering pleasureat her old playmate; now a dashing, bronzed-looking, ringletedsailor, frank, and hearty, and affectionate.
But it was something different from common to see Alice's joy atonce more having her foster-child with her. She did not speak, forshe really could not; but the tears came coursing down her oldwithered cheeks, and dimmed the horn spectacles she had put on, inorder to pry lovingly into his face. So what with her failingsight, and her tear-blinded eyes, she gave up the attempt oflearning his face by heart through the medium of that sense, andtried another. She passed her sodden, shrivelled hands, alltrembling with eagerness, over his manly face, bent meekly down inorder that she might more easily make her strange inspection. Atlast, her soul was satisfied.
After tea, Mary feeling sure there was much to be said on bothsides, at which it would be better none should be present, not evenan intimate friend like herself, got up to go away. This seemed toarouse Alice from her dreamy consciousness of exceeding happiness,and she hastily followed Mary to the door. There, standing outside,with the latch in her hand, she took hold of Mary's arm, and spokenearly the first words she had uttered since her nephew's return.
"My dear! I shall never forgive mysel, if my wicked words to-nightare any stumbling-block in your path. See how the Lord has putcoals of fire on my head! O Mary, don't let my being an unbelievingThomas weaken your faith. Wait patiently on the Lord, whatever yourtrouble may be."