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Title: "Surly Tim"
       A Lancashire Story

Author: Frances Hodgson Burnett

Release Date: November 4, 2007 [EBook #23324]
Last Updated: March 2, 2018

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK "SURLY TIM" ***




Produced by David Widger
 









“SURLY TIM.”  

A LANCASHIRE STORY.  

By Frances Hodgson Burnett 

Copyright, 1877  






“Sorry to hear my fellow-workmen speak so disparagin' o' me? Well, Mester,  that's as it may be yo' know. Happen my fellow-workmen ha' made a bit o' a  mistake—happen what seems loike crustiness to them beant so much  crustiness as summat else—happen I mought do my bit o' complainin'  too. Yo' munnot trust aw yo' hear, Mester; that's aw I can say.”  
I looked at the man's bent face quite curiously, and, judging from its  rather heavy but still not unprepossessing outline, I could not really  call it a bad face, or even a sulky one. And yet both managers and hands  had given me a bad account of Tim Hibblethwaite. “Surly Tim,” they called  him, and each had something to say about his sullen disposition to  silence, and his short answers. Not that he was accused of anything like  misdemeanor, but he was “glum loike,” the factory people said, and “a  surly fellow well deserving his name,” as the master of his room had told  me.  
I had come to Lancashire to take the control of my father's  spinning-factory a short time before, being anxious to do my best toward  the hands, and, I often talked to one and another in a friendly way, so  that I could the better understand their grievances and remedy them with  justice to all parties concerned. So in conversing with men, women, and  children, I gradually found out that Tim Hibblethwaite was in bad odor,  and that he held himself doggedly aloof from all; and this was how, in the  course of time, I came to speak to him about the matter, and the opening  words of my story are the words of his answer. But they did not satisfy me  by any means. I wanted to do the man justice myself, and see that justice  was done to him by others; and then again when, after my curious look at  him, he lifted his head from his work and drew the back of his hand across  his warm face, I noticed that he gave his eyes a brush, and, glancing at  him once more, I recognized the presence of a moisture in them.  
In my anxiety to conceal that I had noticed anything unusual, I am afraid  I spoke to him quite hurriedly. I was a young man then, and by no means as  self-possessed as I ought to have been.  
“I hope you won't misunderstand me, Hibblethwaite,”  
I said; “I don't mean to complain—indeed, I have nothing to complain  of, for Foxley tells me you are the steadiest and most orderly hand he has  under him; but the fact is, I should like to make friends with you all,  and see that no one is treated badly. And somehow or other I found out  that you were not disposed to feel friendly towards the rest, and I was  sorry for it. But I suppose you have some reason of your own.”  
The man bent down over his work again, silent for a minute, to my  discomfiture, but at last he spoke, almost huskily.  
“Thank yo', Mester,” he said; “yo're a koindly chap or yo' wouldn't ha'  noticed. An' yo're not fur wrong either. I ha' reasons o' my own, tho' I'm  loike to keep 'em to mysen most o' toimes. Th' fellows as throws their  slurs on me would na understond 'em if I were loike to gab, which I never  were. But happen th' toime 'll come when Surly Tim 'll tell his own tale,  though I often think its loike it wunnot come till th' Day o' Judgment.”  
“I hope it will come before then,” I said, cheerfully. “I hope the time is  not far away when we shall all understand you, Hibblethwaite. I think it  has been misunderstanding so far which has separated you from the rest,  and it cannot last always, you know.”  
But he shook his head—not after a surly fashion, but, as I thought,  a trifle sadly or heavily—so I did not ask any more questions, or  try to force the subject upon him.  
But I noticed him pretty closely as time went on, and the more I saw of  him the more fully I was convinced that he was not so surly as people  imagined. He never interfered with the most active of his enemies, nor  made any reply when they taunted him, and more than once I saw him perform  a silent, half-secret act of kindness. Once I caught him throwing half his  dinner to a wretched little lad who had just come to the factory, and  worked near him; and once again, as I was leaving the building on a rainy  night, I came upon him on the stone steps at the door bending down with an  almost pathetic clumsiness to pin the woolen shawl of a poor little mite,  who, like so many others, worked with her shiftless father and mother to  add to their weekly earnings. It was always the poorest and least cared  for of the children whom he seemed to befriend, and very often I noticed  that even when he was kindest, in his awkward man fashion, the little  waifs were afraid of him, and showed their fear plainly.  
The factory was situated on the outskirts of a thriving country town near  Manchester, and at the end of the lane that led from it to the more  thickly populated part there was a path crossing a field to the pretty  church and church-yard, and this path was a short cut homeward for me.  Being so pretty and quiet the place had a sort of attraction for me; and I  was in the habit of frequently passing through it on my way, partly  because it was pretty and quiet, perhaps, and partly, I have no doubt,  because I was inclined to be weak and melancholy at the time, my health  being broken down under hard study.  
It so happened that in passing here one night, and glancing in among the  graves and marble monuments as usual, I caught sight of a dark figure  sitting upon a little mound under a tree and resting its head upon its  hands, and in this sad-looking figure I recognized the muscular outline of  my friend Surly Tim.  
He did not see me at first, and I was almost inclined to think it best to  leave him alone; but as I half turned away he stirred with something like  a faint moan, and then lifted his head and saw me standing in the bright,  clear moonlight.  
“Who's theer?” he said. “Dost ta want owt?”  
“It is only Doncaster, Hibblethwaite,” I returned, as I sprang over the  low stone wall to join him. “What is the matter, old fellow? I thought I  heard you groan just now.”  
“Yo' mought ha' done, Mester,” he answered heavily. “Happen tha did. I  dunnot know mysen. Nowts th' matter though, as I knows on, on'y I'm a bit  out o' soarts.”  
He turned his head aside slightly and began to pull at the blades of grass  on the mound, and all at once I saw that his hand was trembling nervously.  
It was almost three minutes before he spoke again.  
“That un belongs to me,” he said suddenly at last, pointing to a longer  mound at his feet. “An' this little un,” signifying with an indescribable  gesture the small one upon which he sat.  
“Poor fellow,” I said, “I see now.”  
“A little lad o' mine,” he said, slowly and tremulously. “A little lad o'  mine an'—an' his mother.'  
“What!” I exclaimed, “I never knew that you were a married man, Tim.”  
He dropped his head upon his hand again, still pulling nervously at the  grass with the other.  
“Th' law says I beant, Mester,” he answered in a painful, strained  fashion. “I conna tell mysen what God-a'-moighty 'ud say about it.”  
“I don't understand,” I faltered; “you don't mean to say the poor girl  never was your wife, Hibblethwaite.”  
“That's what th' law says,” slowly; “I thowt different mysen, an' so did  th' poor lass. That's what's the matter, Mester; that's th' trouble.”  
The other nervous hand went up to his bent face for a minute and hid it,  but I did not speak. There was so much of strange grief in his simple  movement that I felt words would be out of place. It was not my dogged,  inexplicable “hand” who was sitting before me in the bright moonlight on  the baby's grave; it was a man with a hidden history of some tragic sorrow  long kept secret in his homely breast,—perhaps a history very few of  us could read aright. I would not question him, though I fancied he meant  to explain himself. I knew that if he was willing to tell me the truth it  was best that he should choose his own time for it, and so I let him  alone.  
And before I had waited very long he broke the silence himself, as I had  thought he would.  
“It wur welly about six year ago I comn here,” he said, “more or less,  welly about six year. I wur a quiet chap then, Mester, an' had na many  friends, but I had more than I ha' now. Happen I wur better nater'd, but  just as loike I wur loigh-ter-hearted—but that's nowt to do wi' it.  
“I had na been here more than a week when theer comes a young woman to  moind a loom i' th' next room to me, an' this young woman bein' pretty an'  modest takes my fancy. She wur na loike th' rest o' the wenches—loud  talkin' an' slattern i' her ways; she wur just quiet loike and nowt else.  First time I seed her I says to mysen, 'Theer's a lass 'at's seed  trouble;' an' somehow every toime I seed her afterward I says to mysen,  'Theer's a lass 'at's seed trouble.' It wur i' her eye—she had a  soft loike brown eye, Mester—an' it wur i' her voice—her voice  wur soft loike, too—I sometimes thowt it wur plain to be seed even  i' her dress. If she'd been born a lady she'd ha' been one o' th' foine  soart, an' as she'd been born a factory-lass she wur one o' th' foine  soart still. So I took to watchin' her an' tryin' to mak' friends wi her,  but I never had much luck wi' her till one neet I was goin' home through  th' snow, and I seed her afore tighten' th' drift wi' nowt but a thin  shawl over her head; so I goes up behind her an' I says to her, steady and  respecful, so as she wouldna be feart, I says:—  
“'Lass, let me see thee home. It's bad weather fur thee to be out in by  thysen. Tak' my coat an' wrop thee up in it, an' tak' hold o' my arm an'  let me help thee along.'  
“She looks up right straightforrad i' my face wi' her brown eyes, an' I  tell yo' Mester, I wur glad I wur a honest man 'stead o' a rascal, fur  them quiet eyes 'ud ha' fun me out afore I'd ha' done sayin' my say if I'd  meant harm.  
“'Thank yo' kindly Mester Hibblethwaite,' she says, 'but dunnot tak' off  tha' coat fur me; I'm doin' pretty nicely. It is Mester Hibblethwaite,  beant it?'  
“'Aye, lass,' I answers, 'it's him. Mought I ax yo're name.'  
“'Aye, to be sure,' said she. 'My name's Rosanna—'Sanna Brent th'  folk at th' mill alius ca's me. I work at th' loom i' th' next room to  thine. I've seed thee often an' often.'  
“So we walks home to her lodgins, an' on the way we talks together  friendly an' quiet loike, an th' more we talks th' more I sees she's had  trouble an' by an' by—bein' on'y common workin' folk, we're  straightforrad to each other in our plain way—it comes out what her  trouble has been.  
“'Yo' p'raps wouldn't think I've been a married woman, Mester,' she says;  'but I ha', an' I wedded an' rued. I married a sojer when I wur a giddy  young wench, four years ago, an' it wur th' worst thing as ever I did i'  aw my days. He wur one o' yo're handsome, fastish chaps, an' he tired o'  me as men o' his stripe alius do tire o' poor lasses, an' then he  ill-treated me. He went to th' Crimea after we'n been wed a year, an' left  me to shift fur mysen. An' I heard six month after he wur dead. He'd never  writ back to me nor sent me no help, but I couldna think he wur dead till  th' letter comn. He wur killed th' first month he wur out fightin' th'  Rooshians. Poor fellow! Poor Phil! Th' Lord ha' mercy on him!'  
“That wur how I found out about her trouble, an' somehow it seemed to draw  me to her, an' mak' me feel kindly to'ards her; 'twur so pitiful to hear  her talk about th' rascal, so sorrowful an' gentle, an' not gi' him a real  hard word for a' he'd done. But that's alius th' way wi' women folk—th'  more yo' harry's them, th' more they'll pity yo' an' pray for yo'. Why she  wurna more than twenty-two then, an' she must ha' been nowt but a slip o'  a lass when they wur wed.  
“Hows'ever, Rosanna Brent an' me got to be good friends, an' we walked  home together o' nights, an talked about our bits o' wage, an' our bits o'  debt, an' th' way that wench 'ud keep me up i' spirits when I wur a bit  down-hearted about owt, wur just a wonder. She wur so quiet an' steady,  an' when she said owt she meant it, an' she never said too much or too  little. Her brown eyes alius minded me o' my mother, though th' old woman  deed when I were nobbut a little chap, but I never seed 'Sanna Brent smile  th'out thinkin' o' how my mother looked when I wur kneelin' down sayin' my  prayers after her. An' bein' as th' lass wur so dear to me, I made up my  mind to ax her to be summat dearer. So once goin' home along wi' her, I  takes hold o' her hand an' lifts it up an' kisses it gentle—as  gentle an' wi' summat th' same feelin' as I'd kiss th' Good Book.  
“''Sanna,' I says, 'bein' as yo've had so much trouble wi' yo're first  chance, would yo' be afeard to try a second? Could yo' trust a mon again?  Such a mon as me, 'Sanna?'  
“'I wouldna be feart to trust thee, Tim,' she answers back soft an' gentle  after a manner. 'I wouldna be feart to trust thee any time.'  
“I kisses her hand again, gentler still.  
“'God bless thee, lass,' I says. 'Does that mean yes?'  
“She crept up closer to me i' her sweet, quiet way.  
“'Aye, lad,' she answers. 'It means yes, an' I'll bide by it.'  
“'An' tha shalt never rue it, lass,' said I 'Tha's gi'en thy life to me,  an' I'll gi' mine to thee, sure and true.'  
“So we wur axed i' th' church th' next Sunday, an' a month fro then we wur  wed, an' if ever God's sun shone on a happy mon, it shone on one that day,  when we come out o' church together—me and Rosanna—an' went to  our bit o' a home to begin life again. I coujdna tell thee, Mester—theer  beant no words to tell how happy an' peaceful we lived fur two year after  that. My lass never altered her sweet ways, an' I just loved her to make  up to her fur what had gone by. I thanked God-a'-moighty fur his blessing  every day, and every day I prayed to be made worthy of it. An' here's just  wheer I'd like to ax a question, Mester, about sum m at 'ats worretted me  a good deal. I dunnot want to question th' Maker, but I would loike to  know how it is 'at sometime it seems 'at we're clean forgot—as if He  couldna fash hissen about our troubles, an' most loike left 'em to work  out their-sens. Yo' see, Mester, an' we aw see sometime He thinks on us  an' gi's us a lift, but hasna tha thysen seen times when tha stopt short  an' axed thysen, 'Wheer's God-a'-moighty 'at he isna straighten things out  a bit? Th' world's i' a power o' a snarl. Th' righteous is forsaken, 'n  his seed's beggin' bread. An' th' devil's topmost agen.' I've talked to my  lass about it sometimes, an' I dunnot think I meant harm, Mester, for I  felt humble enough—an' when I talked, my lass she'd listen an' smile  soft an' sorrowful, but she never gi' me but one answer.  
“'Tim,' she'd say, 'this is on'y th' skoo' an we're th' scholars, an' He's  teachin' us his way. We munnot be loike th' children o' Israel i' th'  Wilderness, an' turn away fro' th' cross 'cause o' th' Sarpent. We munnot  say, “Theer's a snake:” we mun say, “Theer's th' Cross, an' th' Lord gi'  it to us.” Th' teacher wouldna be o' much use, Tim, if th' scholars knew  as much as he did, an' I allus think it's th' best to comfort mysen wi'  sayin', “Th' Lord-a'-moighty, He knows.”'  
“An' she alius comforted me too when I wur worretted. Life looked smooth  somewhow them three year. Happen th' Lord sent 'em to me to make up fur  what wur comin'.  
“At th' eend o' th' first year th' child wur born, th' little lad here,”  touching the turf with his hand, “'Wee Wattie' his mother ca'd him, an' he  wur a fine, lightsome little chap. He filled th' whole house wi' music day  in an' day out, crowin' an' crowin'—an' cryin' too sometime. But if  ever yo're a feyther, Mester, yo'll find out 'at a baby's cry's music  often enough, an' yo'll find, too, if yo' ever lose one, 'at yo'd give all  yo'd getten just to hear even th' worst o' cryin'. Rosanna she couldna  find i' her heart to set th' little un out o' her arms a minnit, an' she'd  go about th' room wi' her eyes aw leeted up, an' her face bloomin' like a  slip o' a girl's, an' if she laid him i' th' cradle her head 'ud be turnt  o'er har shoulder aw th' time lookin' at him an' singin' bits o'  sweet-soundin' foolish woman-folks' songs. I thowt then 'at them old  nursery songs wur th' happiest music I ever heard, an' when 'Sanna sung  'em they minded me o' hymn-tunes.  
“Well, Mester, before th' spring wur out Wee Wat was toddlin' round  holdin' to his mother's gown, an' by th' middle o' th' next he was cooin'  like a dove, an' prattlin' words i' a voice like hers. His eyes wur big  an' brown an' straightforrad like hers, an' his mouth was like hers, an'  his curls wur the color o' a brown bee's back. Happen we set too much  store by him, or happen it wur on'y th' Teacher again teachin' us his way,  but hows'ever that wur, I came home one sunny mornin' fro' th' factory,  an' my dear lass met me at th' door, all white an' cold, but tryin' hard  to be brave an' help me to bear what she had to tell.  
“'Tim,' said she, 'th' Lord ha' sent us a trouble; but we can bear it  together, conna we, dear lad?'  
“That wur aw, but I knew what it meant, though th' poor little lamb had  been well enough when I kissed him last.  
“I went in an' saw him lyin' theer on his pillows strugglin' an' gaspin'  in hard convulsions, an' I seed aw was over. An' in half an hour, just as  th' sun crept across th' room an' touched his curls th' pretty little chap  opens his eyes aw at once.  
“'Daddy!' he crows out. 'Sithee Dad—! an' he lift' hissen up,  catches at th' floatin' sun shine, laughs at it, and fa's back—dead,  Mester.  
“I've allus thowt 'at th' Lord-a'-moighty knew what He wur doin' when he  gi' th' woman t' Adam i' th' Garden o' Eden. He knowed he wur nowt but a  poor chap as couldna do fur hissen; an' I suppose that's th' reason he gi'  th' woman th' strength to bear trouble when it comn. I'd ha' gi'en clean  in if it hadna been fur my lass when th' little chap deed. I never  tackledt owt i' aw my days 'at hurt me as heavy as losin' him did. I  couldna abear th' sight o' his cradle, an' if ever I comn across any o'  his bits o' playthings, I'd fa' to cryin' an' shakin' like a babby. I kept  out o' th' way o' th' neebors' children even. I wasna like Rosanna. I  couldna see quoite clear what th' Lord meant, an' I couldna help murmuring  sad and heavy. That's just loike us men, Mester; just as if th' dear wench  as had give him her life fur food day an' neet, hadna fur th' best reet o'  th' two to be weak an' heavy-hearted.  
“But I getten welly over it at last, an' we was beginnin' to come round a  bit an' look forrard to th' toime we'd see him agen 'stead o' luokin' back  to th' toime we shut th' round bit of a face under th' coffin-lid. Th' day  comn when we could bear to talk about him an' moind things he'd said an'  tried to say i' his broken babby way. An' so we wur creepin' back again to  th' old happy quiet, an' we had been for welly six month, when summat  fresh come. I'll never forget it, Mester, th' neet it happened. I'd kissed  Rosanna at th' door an' left her standin' theer when I went up to th'  village to buy summat she wanted. It wur a bright moon light neet, just  such a neet as this, an' th' lass had followed me out to see th'  moonshine, it wur so bright an' clear; an' just before I starts she folds  both her hands on my shoulder an' says, soft an' thoughtful:—  
“'Tim, I wonder if th' little chap 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 min nit I hadna a word, fur I  saw summat wui 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; and then she  lifts up her wan, brokenhearted 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 agen. He could tak' her away fro' me any hour i'  th' day, and 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 conna want me now, Phil,' she said. 'Tha conna 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 on'y 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'  her 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 wur on'y one thing: th'  wife mun go wi' th' husband, an' theer th' husband stood—a  scoundrel, cursin', 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 ti me, an' she spoke still an' strained as if she wui too  heart-broke to be wild. Her face was as white as th' dead, but she didna  cry, as ony other woman would ha' done. 'Come, Tim,' she said, 'he conna  say no to that.'  
“An' so out we went 'thout another word, an' left th' black-hearted rascal  behind, sittin' i' th' very room th' 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 if her death-wound had been give to her.  
“'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.  
 












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