Surly Tim's Trouble

by Fannie Hodgson

  "'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.