things. He would on himself Have wreaked such penance as had reached the height Of fleshy suffering,—yea, which being told, With its portentous rigour should have made The memory of his fault o’erpowered and lost, In shuddering pity and astonishment, Fade like a feeble horror.” —SOUTHEY’S Roderick.
As Mary was turning into the street where the Wilsons lived, Jem overtook her. He came upon her suddenly, and she started. “You’re going to see mother?” he asked tenderly, placing her arm within his, and slackening his pace.
“Yes, and you too. O Jem, is it true? tell me.”
She felt rightly that he would guess the meaning of her only half-expressed inquiry. He hesitated a moment before he answered her.
“Darling, it is; it’s no use hiding it—if you mean that I’m no longer to work at Duncombe’s foundry. It’s no time (to my mind) to have secrets from each other, though I did not name it yesterday, thinking you might fret. I shall soon get work again, never fear.”
“But why did they turn you off, when the jury had said you were innocent?”
“It was not just to say turned off, though I don’t think I could have well stayed on. A good number of the men managed to let out they should not like to work under me again; there were some few who knew me well enough to feel I could not have done it, but more were doubtful; and one spoke to young Mr. Duncombe, hinting at what they thought.”
“O Jem! what a shame!” said Mary, with mournful indignation.
“Nay, darling! I’m not for blaming them. Poor fellows like them have nought to stand upon and be proud of but their character, and it’s fitting they should take care of that, and keep that free from soil and taint.”
“But you—what could they get but good from you? They might have known you by this time.”
“So some do; the overlooker, I’m sure, would know I’m innocent. Indeed, he said as much to-day; and he said he had had some talk with old Mr. Duncombe, and they thought it might be better if I left Manchester for a bit; they’d recommend me to some other place.”
But Mary could only shake her head in a mournful way, and repeat her words—
“They might have known thee better, Jem.”
Jem pressed the little hand he held between his own work-hardened ones. After a minute or two, he asked—
“Mary, art thou much bound to Manchester? Would it grieve thee sore to quit the old smoke-jack?”
“With thee?” she asked, in a quiet, glancing way.
“Ay, lass! Trust me, I’ll never ask thee to leave Manchester while I’m in it. Because I have heard fine things of Canada; and our overlooker has a cousin in the foundry line there. Thou knowest where Canada is, Mary?”
“Not rightly—not now, at any rate;—but with thee, Jem,” her voice sunk to a soft, low whisper, “anywhere”—
What was the use of a geographical description?
“But father!” said Mary, suddenly breaking that delicious silence with the one sharp discord in her present life.
She looked up at her lover’s grave face; and then the message her father had sent flashed across her memory.
“O Jem, did I tell you? Father sent word he wished to speak with you. I was to bid you come to him at eight tonight. What can he want, Jem?”
“I cannot tell,” replied he. “At any rate, I’ll go. It’s no use troubling ourselves to guess,” he continued, after a pause for a few minutes, during which they slowly and silently paced up and down the by-street, into which he had led her when their conversation began. “Come and see mother, and then I’ll take thee home, Mary. Thou wert all in a tremble when first I came up to thee; thou’rt not fit to be trusted home by thyself,” said he, with fond exaggeration of her helplessness.
Yet a little more lovers’ loitering! a few more words, in themselves nothing—to you nothing—but to those two, what tender passionate language can I use to express the feelings which thrilled through that young man and maiden, as they listened to the syllables made dear and lovely through life by that hour’s low-whispered talk.
It struck the half-hour past seven.
“Come and speak to mother; she knows you’re to be her daughter, Mary, darling.”
So they went in. Jane Wilson was rather chafed at her son’s delay in returning home, for as yet he had managed to keep her in ignorance of his dismissal from the foundry; and it was her way to prepare some little pleasure, some little comfort for those she loved; and if they, unwittingly, did not appear at the proper time to enjoy her preparation, she worked herself up into a state of fretfulness which found vent in upbraidings as soon as ever the objects of her care appeared, thereby marring the peace which should ever be the atmosphere of a home, however humble; and causing a feeling almost amounting to loathing to arise at the sight of the “stalled ox,” which, though an effect and proof of careful love, has been the cause of so much disturbance.
Mrs. Wilson at first sighed, and then grumbled to herself, over the increasing toughness of the potato-cakes she had made for her son’s tea.
The door opened, and he came in; his face brightening into proud smiles, Mary Barton hanging on his arm, blushing and dimpling, with eyelids veiling the happy light of her eyes—there was around the young couple a radiant atmosphere—a glory of happiness.
Could his mother mar it? Could she break into it with her Martha-like cares? Only for one moment did she remember her sense of injury,—her wasted trouble,—and then her whole woman’s heart heaving with motherly love and sympathy, she opened her arms, and received Mary into them, as shedding tears of agitated joy, she murmured in her ear—
“Bless thee, Mary, bless thee! Only make him happy, and God bless thee for ever!”
