Surly Tim A Lancashire Story | Page 6

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