Between Two Loves/06

 

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CHAPTER VI.

STEVE'S FAIR CHANCE.

"Amid the fretful dwellings of mankind we have a foretaste of eternal peace."

"God's spice we are, and pounding is our due,
For pounding spice both taste and sense doth please."

Hope is something more than a blessing, it is a duty and a virtue, and Jonathan, dimly conscious of this fact, kept his heart turned to the light, both as regarded his daughter and Sarah Benson. He knew how essential to his own happiness a regular, well-established groove of life was, and he thought, that Eleanor's restlessness and dissatisfaction might well enough arise from the unfamiliarity of the circumstances attending so radical a change as marriage.

The elation and pleasure of her first letters from London delighted him. Like some brilliant bird of passage, she was flitting through the charmed circle which hedged in the splendid majesty of the throne, and he felt all the glow of her social triumph and all the pleasure of ​her apparent gratification. But the sunshine soon shadowed. In a month she began to complain. Anthony was jealous of her. He grudged her the full measure of the joy he had introduced her to. He counted up carefully the expenses of the honor she had everywhere done him. Jonathan took no notiee of her complaints. He rather enlarged upon the unexpected enjoyments that had fallen to her lot. He expressed without stint his pride in her, and in her position, and he always spoke of Anthony with respect and admiration.

"Things will rub themselves smooth and right if nobody interferes with them," he thought; and then he called to mind several matrimonial cases where things had rubbed themselves "smooth and right."

Aske had taken the house in London for three months, and the term was rapidly drawing to a close. In the beginning of August Eleanor would be at home again, and he began to look forward to her arrival with a sense of pleasant expectation. One morning he awoke with her name on his lips, and she was his first thought as he opened his eyes. It troubled him that his heart fell with it It was a hot, sunny day, and ​he sent the carriage to the park gates, for he determined to walk through the grass and under the trees to meet it. He hoped in the stillness and solitude to find a peace that had somehow slipped away from him in a moment.

But this was just one of those days which the hyper-sensitive mind finds aggressive. Nature was so uncompromisingly green, the grass had such an intense color, the foliage of the beeches and elms and oaks was so lustrous and positive, the vistas of pasture-land so decidedly verdant, that their very certainty seemed to repress thought and induce sadness. He tried to lift himself into a higher atmosphere, into the blue of heaven, but all his efforts were failures; he had that chill presentiment, that stubborn bosom weight, that

"No philosophy can lift."

He looked anxiously at Ben Holden, who was standing at the mill door in his long checked pinafore, with his hands in his pockets, and a general air about him of a comfortable satisfaction with life. Ben said a cheerful good-morning, and Jonathan perceived that all was right among the frames and workers. Then he knew ​that a fear about Sarah had been at least one element of his depression.

There was a large mail waiting for him, and the topmost letter was one from Eleanor. He lifted and laid it aside until he had attended to every other communication. He expected something disagreeable to come out of that small, smooth, emblazoned envelope, and he was not deceived. Eleanor was in debt, and afraid to tell her husband She accused him of a stingy unreasonableness. She said he expected her to visit lords and ladies, and yet would not understand that many changes of clothing were necessary for such visits. The end and sum of the complaint was that she needed live hundred pounds to enable her to leave London honorably.

And Jonathan sent her the five hundred pounds at once, though he did not fail to give her with it much salutary advice, for running into debt was one of those social sins he found it hard, under any circumstances, to excuse. By the next post he received his money back, with a sternly polite note from Aske. It was evident that Aske had received the letter intended for his wife, and that he was ​exceedingly angry at its contents and the revelation of extravagance which it made.

After all, there was something in Aske's note which compelled Jonathan's respect, yet he waited in great anxiety Eleanor's next letter. It was a few lines of passionate rebellion that made him wretched. She said Anthony had decided to take her to some small German town to teach her economy and self-restraint; and she added, with a touch of that obstinacy which Jonathan understood so well, "If he thinks to conquer Eleanor Aske by isolating her he is very much mistaken." She went to Germany, however, without further resistance, but Aske undoubtedly had the worst of the discipline he had planned for his wife. She no longer complained, she expressed neither content nor discontent, but she convinced him thoroughly that a silent woman who does not eat, and who regards life with a vacant unconcern that nothing can stir, may be ten times more aggravating than the veriest scold.

Jonathan dreaded to see a letter from her, and yet if letters did not come he was restless and anxious, and completely taken possession of by the absent child whom he so dearly loved. ​So that, if Sarah had her trials and cares during the miserable summer and autumn inaugurated by that unhappy christening, Jonathan's riches did not shield him from very similar ones. Often during their hot, dusty days he stood watching his frames with a heavy heart, and thinking—"full purse or empty purse, the weft o' life comes through a sorrowful shuttle."

It was in the early part of June when Steve borrowed the first sovereign from Sarah. It had been a little hard for him to make that application, but he felt less at the next one, and it soon became a very common thing for his sister to find him waiting in her room, especially on Saturday afternoon, when she received her wages. For Steve did not succeed in finding work, though he disappeared continually under the pretence of looking for it. He would be absent for three or four days, perhaps a week, if the weather were fine, and then return hungry and penniless, but just as cheerful as if he had been earning his living.

And Joyce, sitting anxious and suffering in her denuded cottage, was angered by his good-tempered indifference, and she made him feel her anger, in all those unequivocal ways at the ​command of uneducated women. Alas! she did not understand that reproaches never yet brought back the wanderer. For though Steve loved his wife and child in his own fashion, his home had become an unhappy place, and he found it more agreeable to stay away from it than to do his duty and make it happy. Unfortunately, too, he began to meet in his tramps men of the same nomadic tastes as himself, but with far less innocent habits. Sarah trembled when she saw what disreputable characters lounged at the street-comers waiting for him when he paid her his almost regular weekly visit.

"Thou wilt surely get into trouble, Steve, if thou goes with bad company," she said, holding his hand, the hand in which she had just put half of her wage. "Thou art so simple and open-hearted, they'll make a tool of thee, see if they doan't! My dear lad, I doan't like t' look of that man that is waiting for thee."

"He's a real good fellow, Sarah, only he's out of luck, as I am. There isn't a flower nor plant in t' hedge-row he doesn't know all about. I can tell thee, he is better than many a book."

​"Still, thou hes no call to share thy money with him. Go home to Joyce, do, my lad."

"Nay, not I; she'll hev a scolding waiting for me. I'm most sure of work next week at Satterley's, and then I'll go to Joyce."

It was one of Steve's peculiarities to be always most sure of some good thing next week. And for a long time Sarah trusted in him. His open face, his frank speech, his positive air of satisfaction, were hard to doubt, especially when she didn't want to doubt them. None are so blind as they who will not see, and long after every one in the village was convinced of Steve's utter worthlessness Sarah continued to expect good from him, and for him.

But one dreary evening in November the full significance of the change which had taken place in her brother's life was revealed to her. She had come home from the mill, weary, cold, and wet, with a bitter indifference in her heart, for she felt as if happiness had said to her, "No! no! no!" until she was full of cold despair. As soon as she entered the door, Martha Crossley said to her, "Here hes been little Polly Sands for thee, Sarah. Joyce sent her."

"What for?" She was removing her wet ​shoes, and she asked the question listlessly, almost querulously.

"Why, I should think Joyce is in trouble of some kind. Polly said thou wast to go to Steve's cottage as soon as iver ta could."

"Did Joyce send for me? Thou knows I said I'd niver cross her door-stone again until she did."

"It isn't like thee, Sarah, to put if and but in t' way of a kindness. Joyce sent for thee, but happen it is God's message, too, my lass. Thou'lt niver say no, I'm sure."

Sarah was crying softly, she could not have said exactly why.

"Take a drink o' tea—it's ready for thee, and make thy feet dry, and then go thy ways. I'll warrant thou willn't be sorry for it."

"Ay, I'll go, Martha," and having determined to be generous, she made haste to be so. In half an hour she stood within the familiar house-place. A pitiful sight met her. Its best furniture was all gone. There was no fire on the hearth. There was no bread in the cupboard, and Joyce, who was fretful with want and anxiety, was scolding the child crying with hunger on her knee.

​"Thou hes wished me ill iver since thy brother married me, Sarah Benson. Now, then, I hev sent for thee to see what thy ill wishes hev brought me to."

Sarah's heart was too full of pity to be angry at the unreasonable woman. She lifted the weeping child, and said, "Nay, then, Joyce, I am thy true friend. What can I do for thee?"

"Get Lotta some bread and milk, t' little lass is fair starving. I'm well used to clemming lately, and I can bear it better."

Sarah had but a few shillings in her pocket, but she spent them freely, and she did not go away until she had made a good fire, and seen mother and child sleeping, after a full meal. During it, Joyce's complaints revealed, without extenuation, the dangerous condition into which her brother had fallen. In this confidence all foolish pride vanished, and the two women, completely reconciled, consulted heartily as to the best way of bringing Steve back to steady work and steady habits. Steady work was the first step, and Sarah determined to go to Jonathan Burley and ask it for him.

It was a painful step for Sarah to take, and in the morning it appeared twice as difficult, for ​she was under the tyranny of the weather. Monotonous rain filled the air, and saddened and weakened her. The conflict for bare existence, begun before daylight every morning, seemed on this morning almost too hard to bear. She lifted her little tin can and started for the mill. There was a long string of workers before her, and the clattering of their clogs upon the stone pavements hurt her in every nerve. Ben Holden was at the gates, but she did not speak to him, until the looms stopped for breakfast at eight o'clock. Then she said, "Ben Holden, I want to speak to t' master to-day."

"There's nobody will hinder thee. Is ta in trouble, Sarah?"

"Ay, above a bit. It's about Steve. I hev prayed, and I hev better prayed to God, to keep him in t' right road, and it seems like he is letting t' poor lad get varry far out of it."

"Don't thee reckon to know so much. God lets us go from one side of t' road to t' other and act a good deal as it pleases wersens; but we are fast tethered to His hand, after all, my lass, and when we think we are carrying out our own wills, we are carrying out His will too, and we ​find wersens in t' place He wanted us sooner than we thought for."

"It is all a muddle, Ben. I feel varry near broken-hearted this morning."

"Nay, nay, my lass! Thou musn't speak in that fashion. And there is nothing mends sooner than a broken heart, if it be a good heart. Thou hed better see Burley about thy brother. T' master will do right, ay, he will that, whether he wants to do it or not."

About ten o'clock Sarah left her loom and went to Jonathan's office. She was the last person whom he expected to see there; and when he said, Come in, in response to her knock, he did not turn to see to whom he had spoken.

"I'm in trouble, and I hev come to you, master."

He lifted his head and looked pitifully at her.

"I'm in trouble too, Sarah, and I hev been thinking about going to my Master with it; only a woman's quarrelling and fratching is such a thing to trouble Him with. Yet, as He made women, He'll know how to deal with 'em, if any one does. But I'm not thinking of thee, dear lass. How can I help thee?"

​"I want thee to take Steve back."

"Nay, nay; I can't do that. If thou was my own dear wife, and asked me to do that thing, I would say no to thee."

"It isn't for my sake, sir. Oh no, not for my sake. Steve is going down t' road to hell as fast as drink and idleness can take him there. Nothing but steady work can give him another chance. Master, is he to hev t' chance? Not for my sake, master. I'll stand behind thee, so thou can't see me. It's between thee and tha' conscience, now."

"Oh, Sarah! Sarah!"

"Not for my sake, master, for Christ's sake, will ta give Steve another chance?"

"Ay, I will. Twenty chances, seventy times seven chances! Go, my lass, tell him to come back and do his duty, and oh, Sarah! I thank thee, I thank thee for coming."

He stood up, and raised his face full of confidence and light. In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, one of those mysterious confidences which pass between souls and the Father of Spirits had lifted him into the sunshine. In the act of doing good, a token for good had been granted to him also.

​In the enthusiasm of the action he had quite forgotten himself, quite forgotten Sarah. To do God's will, on earth, even as it is done in heaven! That was the pure and perfect joy that satisfied his soul for the moment. Sarah understood the spiritual exaltation, and she slipped away ere he could mar the gracious act by any thought of earthly approval or reward. She did not go back to work, Ben Holden was in the yard, and she said to him, "Thou must let me off to-day. I'm none fit for my loom."

"Why-a! Whativer's t' matter with thee? T' master niver said no to thy question?"

"He said yes with all his heart. He's a good man. I want to find Steve and tell him t' news; and there is Joyce, poor lass! It would be selfish like in me not to see her as soon as iver I could get there."

"Go thy ways, Sarah Benson. If there were more women like thee, there wouldn't be so many bad husbands."

"Don't thee say that. Why should men lay their sins on any poor woman? They take their own ill way, most oft' time. It 'ud be just as fair to say, if all men were like thee and t' master, there would be no bad wives."

​He had opened the gates as they were talking, and he let her through with a smile. "There's a deal o' something better than human nature in men and women," he thought; but ere the thought was well formed, it was lost in the necessity for giving Lot Yates "a bit of his mind," for Lot had a deal of something worse than human nature in him, and was beating his horses unmercifully.

In spite of the rain and murky fog full of bits of coal-dust and burned flakes of carbon, in spite of the gutters running with black water, in spite of the sodden, slipshod men and women, Sarah trod the miserable lanes with a light heart. She hastened to Steve's cottage, though she had little hope of seeing him there. Still, Joyce could be comforted, and perhaps some one found who, knowing where Steve was, would go after him. Ere she opened the door, the shrill voice of Joyce, raised in loud, querulous tones, was audible enough; and when she entered, the sight that met her eyes was a painful one. Steve, wet, ragged, and perfectly reckless-looking, was standing upon the hearth-stone, and the once pretty Joyce, almost equally ragged, and in a violent passion, was railing at him in ​unmeasured terms of reproach and indignation. As Sarah entered, she turned to her, "Ay, come thy ways in, and look at thy brother. Did ta iver see a bigger vagabond than he is? Here he's back home again, and without work, and without a penny, and thou knows t' little one and I were pretty well clemmed to death when thou got us a bit o' bread and meat last night. We were that!"

"Steve, my dear lad."

"Sarah, lass, I'm glad to see thee."

"I hev brought thee good news, Steve. Joyce, be quiet now, all is going to be right and happy again. Master Burley says, 'Tell Steve to come back to his loom.' Thou can start to-morrow morn, Steve."

Joyce threw her apron over her head, and began to cry softly, tears of hope and relief. Steve stood sullen and silent, glancing first at Sarah and then at his worn-out shoes and ragged clothes. She understood his thought. She even divined the kind of repugnance he felt to go back at all to daily work, especially among the old comrades whom he had so pridefully deserted, and she put her hand on his wet, ragged coat-sleeve, and said, soothingly, "Thou ​art tired out, and no wonder. Go up-stairs to thy bed, and I'll make thee a bit of warm breakfast, and then thou can sleep for twenty hours, if ta likes to."

"How can I go back to Burley's in such a rig as this?" and he lifted his foot, and looked almost, pathetically at his muddy suit of rags.

"Hesn't ta a better suit?"

"Ay, there is one at Jonas Hardcastle's. What good is that, though?"

"Hes ta t' ticket for it?"

"Joyce hes it."

"Varry well. I'll see after things. Thee go to thy bed, and sleep off t' weariness. I'll not let thee go back to Burley's in dirt and rags, thou can be sure o' that."

"There's few lasses as trustable as thee, Sarah. I'm fair beat out, and I'll be thankful to hev a bit o' meat and a bit o' peace."

In half an hour coffee was boiling, and bacon frying, and a comfortable breakfast was soon ready for the tired wanderer. "Now, Joyce, dear lass, take it up-stairs to him, and give him a kiss with it. Thou must make up thy mind to put up with a deal, and to forgive and forget a deal, but Steve is most like t' prodigal in t' ​New Testament, and thou must go and meet him. Do, lass! do, lass—for Lotta's sake!"

"Bible folks are Bible folks, Sarah. I niver got religion, yet, and I can't frame mysen to act like them. I'm angry at Steve, and I hev reason—"

"To be sure thou hest reasons, plenty o' them. But come, Joyce, t' coffee is getting cold and t' bacon; take them up-stairs to Steve, take them kindly, do! All depends on thee, after all. I am going now to get his best suit home."

Into the rain and gloom she went, and when she returned, with the suit in her arms, Joyce and Steve were eating together as happy as two children who had just made up a quarrel. Steve was then ready to make any promise the two women wanted, and, after a happy hour with them, he was left to sleep in the darkened room. Then new shoes had to be bought for him, and Sarah went for them; for the rest, she was hard at work till late at night, patching, washing, and ironing. She had her reward, however, for next morning, when Steve called her, he was as clean and tidy as a good workman ought to be.

It was something of a trial for him to return to his old place, and Sarah expected he would ​have to bear many an unpleasant look and gibe. She knew also that Steve was on the alert for offence, and a man in that condition is very apt to get what he is looking for. She dreaded the dinner-hour. The rude jokes, so natural to the men and women, and so pleasantly given and taken as a general thing, had always riled Steve's sensitive nature, and she felt that he was in precisely that temper which appropriates and resents the most innocent freedoms.

As twelve o'clock approached she became heart-sick with fear, but a few minutes before it the master entered the room. He walked straight to Steve's loom, and every eye was upon him. Sarah's hands trembled, her face flushed, and then turned deadly pale, and she could not help but watch the meeting, upon which so much depended.

But if she had known Jonathan better she would have been sure that his visit meant kindness. In fact, the master, having been himself a hand, knew pretty well the drift of Steve's fears and feelings, nor had he forgotten the gauntlet of the noon hour's mirth which Steve might have to run. Ben Holden had said, "Let ​him have it It will do him good. He will hear some plain truths that happen he'll hear nowhere else." Jonathan thought differently. "Gibing at a man's faults never yet helped to cure them. It is better to trust than to mock, thou may depend upon it, Ben," he answered.

For, to do a half-kindness, to give a reproachful forgiveness, to season favor with punishment, these were things Jonathan Burley could not do. He had forgiven Steve, forgiven him freely, and he meant to give him a fair chance in every way. So, in the sight of all, he walked straight to Steve's loom. "I am glad to see thee at thy place again, Steve Benson." He said the words plainly and heartily, and those who could not hear them saw the pleasant look on his face, and saw him put out his hand and give the renegade worker a hearty welcome back.

Undoubtedly Jonathan had a thought of Sarah also in this kind deed. None of our motives ring clear through every depth, and he knew well that any scorn or offence offered to Steve would hurt Steve's sister in a double measure. As he turned from the young man he glanced at Sarah. Her face was radiant. ​Her eyes like two stars. No words could have thanked him as well. Her evident joy went to his heart like sunshine. He colored brightly in his pleasure, and went out of the room, for that hour, at least, a thoroughly happy man.