Surly Tim A Lancashire Story | Page 4

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'