So four years passed.
One Saturday night, as the little family sat round the fire, over which spluttered eggs and bacon for supper, — as Henry dozed, Frank netted, Emma worked for her baby, and Sarah turned the rashers, a noise of quarrelling outside roused the two men. They started up, but before they could reach the door a loud crash was heard of something falling and breaking on the pavement; then three or four voices cried ‘Shame!’ They ran out, and the women were left alone in some anxiety.
After a few minutes old Hardiman returned. ‘Sally,’ explained he, ‘here’s a poor travelling showman whose box of things has just been smashed by big Ben, because he said the sun would take his likeness. Ben, I reckon, has had a glass too much. So I think it will be but Christian-like to take him in for to-night, as he’s quite a stranger here, and seems a decent body, if you’ll shake him down a bed, my darling.’
‘Yes, father,’ answered the girl; and just then Frank and a young man entered, bearing between them the wrecks of a portable photographic apparatus.
‘Sit down and be kindly welcome,’ Sarah said, blushing like a rose; she set a chair for the stranger, and, with practical hospitality, broke three more eggs, and put three more rashers into the frying-pan. Then she placed those already cooked on the table, with cheese, butter, home-made bread, and strong beer.
At supper the guest warmly thanked his entertainers, and proceeded to gratify their curiosity about himself. His name was John Lane; both his parents were dead, and, indeed, he had no near relation in the world. His business was to take photographs, at sixpence and upwards; for this purpose he travelled from town to town, seldom remaining in one place for more than a few weeks: ‘Till to-night,’ he continued, somewhat bitterly, ‘I never met with an ignorant brute.’ He then drew from his pocket a small case containing specimens of his art, both portraits and landscapes.
Frank looked at them in silent admiration; but Sarah observed, pointing to a coloured head, ‘I like that best; I always want to know what eyes and hair people have.’ John Lane glanced up at her: ‘Yes,’ said he, ‘the sun can’t paint eyes and hair.”Well, Mr. Lane,’ interposed Emma, ‘I must get you to do Jenny’s portrait. When will you be able?”I will come as soon as I possibly can,’ he answered, eagerly. So that evening concluded.
Next morning, while they sat at breakfast, Sarah said to the guest, ‘Our old church is worth seeing: I think when you’ve been there with us, you’ll want to take its likeness too.’ But John Lane, flushing crimson, replied, without looking up, ‘I can’t go there, thank you: I’m what you call a Methodist.’
Certainly John Lane by no means exaggerated in his own favour when he told his story. He might have said that during some years he had been the sole support of a bedridden mother, for her sake often denying himself all save bare necessaries; that by perseverance and ingenuity he had attained proficiency in his art; that he had laid up a. sum of money, and was in the way to add to it. Any one who knew him well could have related these facts and more. Two years before this period, about the time of his mother’s death, he stopped one Sunday afternoon to hear an itinerant preacher, who, bareheaded, Bible in hand, went out — to use his own phrase — into the highways and hedges, to compel men to come in. John stopped to kill time; but the rough, zealous words pricked his conscience to the quick: before he went his way he had resolved to redeem the time. From that day he was an altered man: he read his Bible with fervent, persistent prayer, and at the first opportunity introduced himself to the preacher whose words had convinced him of sin. These two men, both honest, both zealous, both uninstructed, provoked each other to good works; but, utterly alien from church unity, ignored many vital doctrines. The elder man, constrained by the love of Christ, sailed as a missionary to India: John Lane then believed that he was called to fill the gap; to lift up his voice like a trumpet, and proclaim the gospel to souls perishing for lack of knowledge. Therefore he gave up his fixed quarters in London, and wandering from town to town, endeavoured to speak a word in season to persons who came to him in the way of business; and on Sundays, after attending one service in the Methodist chapel, devoted his afternoon to out-of-door preaching.
This was the man whom what we call accident, but what is in fact the appointment or permission of God, brought to the fisherman’s cottage; to Hardiman and Frank, staunch churchgoers; to Emma, not over partial to her sister-in-law; to beautiful Sarah, with her winning ways and disengaged heart.
Of course John Lane deemed himself in duty bound to bear witness for the truth here as elsewhere. Hardiman listened to him, but shook his head when he spoke of the love of the Establishment having waxed cold, of experience, and professors. ‘I like practisers,’ said Henry Hardiman; and trudged to St. Clement’s as heretofore. Emma went once to the Methodist chapel, but was mightily offended when the preacher, looking, as she declared, full at her light blue bonnet, observed, ‘It might have been better for Dives in hell if he had not dressed so finely.’ Sarah, who would not grieve her father, continued a regular attendant at the old parish church once every Sunday; but if, as frequently happened, in her afternoon stroll she caught sight of John Lane surrounded by a group of listeners, too often idlers, she was sure to join his audience and add her sweet voice to their hymns. Then followed the walk together home; the earnest communings by the way, of God, and Jesus, and heaven, of the everlasting burnings to be fled from, and the everlasting prize to be run for.
So these two came to love each other: Henry only saw that the young man loved his beautiful daughter.
‘John Lane,’ said he one day, ‘you love Sarah, and mean well by her; but I tell you plainly she’s not for such as you. She’s said “No” to many a man already, and she’ll say “No’’ to you when you ask her: for she shall never have my blessing on her marrying a Methodist, and gadding from place to place making mischief. Take my advice, my lad, and keep away from Sarah, and she won’t run after you.’
So John kept away from the cottage; and if Sarah fretted, she said not a word of her troubles to any one.
About a week had elapsed since they last saw each other, when she, having finished some work for a lady at Halton, set off to carry it home. A long round led her to the field-path, beset by fence and gates: on the right, where the West Hill slopes towards the town, haymaking was going on with a pleasant smell. Scarcely a breath of wind stirred: and when for a few minutes she sat on a wayside bench to cool herself, she noticed how a subtle exhalation rising from the heated ground became perceptible where it slightly altered the appearance of objects seen through it.
Her business at Halton was quickly transacted; and with lightened hands, if not a lightened heart, she was turning homewards, when straight before her, pack on back, stood John Lane.
Sarah looked very tall and stately: ‘Goodbye, Mr. Lane,’ said she, ‘since I see you’ re on your travels again; and I hope you’ll find a kinder welcome where you ‘re going than you got at Hastings.’
‘Good-bye, indeed;’ he answered, gravely, ‘if you call me Mr. Lane; and I hope I shall never find such another kind welcome, if it’s only to break my heart afterwards.’
It was not in human nature to part so: no wonder Sarah’s look softened; no wonder John forgot his pack and his migration, and turned back towards Hastings with her. He told her all: how her father had called him a mischief-making Methodist; had said lie had no chance, and had better keep away; how he had prayed and wrestled against temptation; ‘because,’ added he, simply, ‘I wasn’t sure, Sarah, that you would say” No.” But God gave me grace to esteem the reproach of Christ better than all the — ah, better than much more than all the treasures of Egypt.’ Again he said, ‘Goodbye;’ but Sarah said, ‘Stuff! you know, John, I can’t answer “Yes” or “No” till you ask me something.’
So in the field-path John asked, and she answered. Then from gate to gate along the steaming fields, whilst haymakers rested and birds sat silent in the noon heat, they two walked, talking earnestly. At the last gate t
hey parted, Sarah saying, ‘Very well, now that’s settled. John, I do believe my soul is at stake in this matter, for it’s only you in all the world who have taught me to love God; and though father won’t bless my marrying a Methodist, he’ll bless me when I am married.’
They were married secretly one Sunday morning at the Methodist chapel — not without keen stings of conscience, which neither owned to the other. When that same day Henry Hardiman heard from them what was done, he uttered no angry words, but took the blow stoutly. To his daughter’s eager expressions of affection he merely answered, ‘Maybe, maybe, Sally;’ and when a week later she and her husband set off for Eastbourne, he blessed her gravely before she went, But that one trouble had made an old man of him. Soon Frank went alone to fish, while Henry sat at home in the chimney-corner, holding Emma’s youngest bom on his knee, or crept along the Tackle Way, with a finger in Jane’s chubby fist to help her in toddling. Next, days came when he could only sit moping in the chimney-corner: the doctor, looking at him, shook his head; and Frank wrote Sarah word that if she cared for her father’s pardon she must come now and ask it. She came: was received coldly by her brother and sister-in-law, kindly by her father; only when she hung about him with tears and fond words, he answered patiently, ‘Maybe, maybe, Sally.’ So he died.
A few more months, and Sarah became mother of a small, weak baby — a little Henry. A few more years, and still wearing black for her dead only son, she sat beside her husband’s death-bed: her kind husband, who never once had spoken a harsh word to her. Long ago they had repented of the cruel wrong done to the old man; had confessed their fault one to the other, exchanged forgiveness, and prayed together for pardon. Their store of money wasted during John’s tedious illness; and Sarah, watching him as he lay dying, felt a sort of satisfaction in the thought that she had just enough left to bury her dead out of sight before asking help of her relations.
His last look was at her; his last words were, ‘Thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.’
PART II.
THURSDAY afternoon arrived. Frank, Jane, and little Harry, went down to the station to meet Sarah Lane; whilst Emma stayed at home in the puffy new muslin, preparing tea and making ready for her sister-in-law’s reception. She was in high good humour; for Frank before setting off had praised her pretty face, and observed, ‘Poor Sally won’t look like that, I fancy, when she comes home again.’
She came. Just the old stately grace and fine features, but none of the old bloom; her eyes were dim and sunken, her cheeks hollow; instead of bright colours she wore widow’s weeds. She came back to the familiar home, the fond warm-hearted brother, the sister-in-law who had never loved her; only the dear old man was wanting, whose grey hairs she had brought down with sorrow to the grave.
Frank kissed his sister when she crossed the threshold, but could not utter one word of welcome, struck dumb by her changed face: it was Emma, who, really touched, came forward and welcomed her cordially. Not much was said that evening. Sarah held little Henry — so like his grandfather — on her lap till he fell fast asleep there, and Frank carried him upstairs for Jane to put to bed. Then Sarah, left alone with her sister-in-law, rose, and holding out her hand said, ‘Emma, I promised John to ask your pardon for the ill-will there has been between us, and I do ask it. Please God, I shall not stand in your way any more to vex you, nor eat the bread of idleness for long. Good-night.’ To judge by her wasted form and frequent hacking cough, she would not for long eat the bread of men at all.
The next day, and the next, Sarah went amongst her neighbours seeking for needlework, but without success. Many old friends greeted her coldly, for Henry Hardiman’s death was generally laid at her door. Some promised to employ her, but had no work just then. She called at several houses from which she used to receive orders, but her richer customers had not yet left London for the sea-side: she trudged to Halton, and found that the young lady who employed her there had married long ago, and gone away to the Lake country.
Poor Sarah! she was a widow indeed, and desolate, trusting in God.
On Sunday morning, before setting out for chapel, she said, ‘Don’t wait dinner for me, as I dare say I shan’t be back much before tea-time.’ Emma tossed her head in its flowered crape bonnet, and wondered to Frank ‘which of her Methodist friends will give her a dinner?’
Sarah Lane sat down to no dinner that day; but when she felt pretty certain that the congregation must have dispersed from St. Clement’s, she went into the churchyard and sat down on her father’s grave. There, motionless, silent, past crying, she remained for hours. Will, mental powers, life itself, seemed at a standstill; whilst, as if of their own accord, old days came back before her eyes. She remembered toddling along, helped by the unwearied finger; being rowed out to sea in pleasant weather, till, grown tired, she nestled to sleep under the rough greatcoat; changing once a-week from lessons and school discipline to snug home; walking hand in hand to church. She remembered being installed mistress of the cottage; altering, renewing, embellishing, just as she pleased; being fondled, cared for, scarcely allowed to work for him who toiled night and day for her; continuing first and dearest even after Frank brought a wife to live with them. She remembered the new love that hardened her against the old; the tacit deceit; the short parting, with its blessing, grave and sorrowful; the long, long parting, with its patient, unvaried ‘Maybe, maybe, Sally.’ Over and over again her eye mechanically read, —
‘HENRY HARDIMAN,
AGED 55.
Affliction sore long time he bore,
Physicians were in vain,
Till God did please his soul release,
And ease him of his pain.’
She did not perceive that these lines are doggrel; she only felt that they were true. Her baby, her dear John, — their loss seemed light while she sat by her dead father whom she had killed, and heard his feeble voice saying in her ears, ‘Maybe, maybe, Sally.’
‘My!’ cried Emma, when, as the kettle sang on the fire, and Jane knelt on the hearth toasting huge slices for tea, Sarah crept into the cottage with a few daisies and blades of grass in her hand: ‘you startled me just like a ghost, and I declare you’re as white as one.’
It cost Sarah’s pride a severe struggle before she could bring herself to apply for work to Mrs. Grey, the curate’s wife: she feared some harsh word might be dropped concerning her own conduct years ago; and John blamed for what, as she persisted in saying, she led him into. But no employment offered elsewhere; and the words of Holy Scripture, ‘If any would not work, neither should he eat,’ kept goading her; till one afternoon, by a great effort, she set off towards the curate’s old-fashioned house in the Croft. A strange servant opened the door, and perceiving a decent-looking widow; led her straight into the sitting-room. Mrs. Grey heard some one enter, but not catching the name, looked up from her writing, and seeing as she supposed a stranger, rose and inquired civilly to whom she had the pleasure of speaking.
‘You don’t recollect me, ma’am,’ began Sarah; but at the sound of that familiar voice Mrs. Grey started forward, and cordially pressing her hand, exclaimed, ‘Oh, Sarah Hardiman — Mrs. Lane — how glad I am to see you! I heard you were come home, and thought it would not be long before you paid me a visit. Sit down, and let me help you off with your bonnet and shawl; for now that you are here I shall not let you go so easily.’
This kindness quite overcame the poor widow. A great flow of tears relieved her; and when Mrs. Grey spoke soothing words, she answered, ‘Let be, ma’am, let be: it’s the first time since I buried John, and it does me good.’
So the curate’s wife, who had known her from a baby, seated herself by her; and drawing the bowed-down head to her bosom, let her sob there; not attempting to check her grief, but only whispering that she understood the lightest part of it, having lost her own youngest boy five months ago. When the sobs grew less choking, she poured out a glass of wine and made her eat some cake — little guessi
ng how sorely her guest stood in need of food; since Sarah grudged herself every morsel she ate whilst she earned nothing and was a burden to Frank and Emma.
At length the purpose of her visit was told: ‘I came to ask,’ said Sarah, ‘whether you would give me some needlework. I have been trying ever since I came back to find employment, and no one wants my services. Will you let me work for you?’
Mrs. Grey replied directly, ‘I have plenty of things to make just now, and you shall have them all if you. like to begin to-morrow.’ Then, remembering that in days of yore there was not much cordiality between the sisters-in-law, she added, ‘If you don’t mind, I should prefer your not taking them home, at least not at first, but working here with me. Perhaps some day it may comfort you to tell me about your troubles: you don’t know how often, I thought of you and felt for you whilst you were away.’
Just then little Jane Hardiman, whose course of study had undergone temporary suspension on account of the extra bustle at home, came in for her hour’s lesson. Sarah rose to go; but Mrs. Grey begged her to sit down if she was not in a hurry, and wait till her niece was ready to walk home with her. Then business commenced.
The addition sum was produced, worked at last without one blunder; the blotted B elicited a mild rebuke; a flower-pot added to the sampler was inspected and approved. Next Jane, who had, in preparation, read it over by herself, was questioned on the parable of the lost sheep (Luke, xv. 4).
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Christina Rossetti Page 95