Surly Tim A Lancashire Story | Page 8

'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