Chapter 2

“'Little lad,' she says, 'little lad, dost ta see thy mother? Canst na tha hear her callin' thee? Little lad, get nigh to th' Throne an' plead!'

“I fell down beside o' th' poor crushed wench an' sobbed wi' her. I couldna comfort her, for 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. Th' 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 conna 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 th' grass pray in' an crying 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 hond 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 if 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 softhearted 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' 'f 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 an' 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--fur thee--fur thee--at th' gate.'

“An' her eyes shut slow an' quiet, an' I knowed she was dead.

“Theer, Mester Doncaster, theer it aw is, fur 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 wur 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 conna 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, on'y, 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' 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 by-standers,--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 savin', 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 a 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.