Part 38 (2/2)
”That's much same with myself,” said Jacob. ”I've none as belongs me; leastways I cannot find 'em.”
”Indeed!” exclaimed the other. ”Well, we'll talk more about that just now. Deborah, ye see, is widow Cartwright's wench; and a good wench she is too, as e'er clapped clog on a foot. She comes in each morn, and sees as fire's all right, and fills kettle for my breakfast. Then at noon she comes in again to see as all's right. And after mill's loosed, she just looks in and sets all straight. And then, afore she goes to bed, she comes in, and stretches all up gradely.”
”And are you quite alone now?”
”Quite. But I've a better Friend as never leaves me nor forsakes me-- the Lord Jesus Christ. I hope, my lad, you know summat about him.”
”Yes; thank the Lord, I do,” replied Jacob. ”I learned to love him when I was far away in Australia.”
”In Australia!” cried the old man. ”Deborah'll be glad to hear what you have to say about Australia, for she's a brother there. And how long have you been come back from yon foreign land?”
”Not so very long; but I almost wish as I'd never been.”
”And why not?”
”'Cos I shouldn't have knowed one as has caused me heavy sorrow.”
Poor Jacob hid his face in his hands, and, spite of himself; the tears _would_ ooze out and trickle through his fingers.
”Come, my lad,” said his new friend, compa.s.sionately; ”you mustn't fret so. You say you love the Lord; well, he will not leave you comfortless.”
”It's the drink, the cursed drink, as done it,” said the other, half to himself.
”Well, my lad; and if you _have_ been led astray, and are gradely sorry for it, there's room in the Lord's heart for you still.”
”Nay, it isn't that. I'm a total abstainer to the back-bone, and have been for years.”
”The Lord be praised!” cried Old Crow, rising from his seat, and grasping the hand of his companion with all his might. ”I shall love you twice over now. I'm an old teetotaller myself; and have been these many years. Come, you tell me your tale; and when we've had our tea, I'll tell you mine.”
Jacob then told his story, from his first encountering Captain Merryweather at Liverpool, till the time when he lost sight of his young master.
”And now, old friend,” he concluded, ”I'm just like a s.h.i.+p afloat as don't know which way to steer. I'm fair weary of the sea, an' I don't know what to turn myself to on land.”
”Perhaps we may set that right,” replied the old man. ”But here's Deborah; so we'll just get our tea.”
The kitchen in which they were seated was a low but comfortable apartment. There was nothing much in the way of furniture there, but everything was clean and tidy; while the neat little window-curtain, the well-stuffed cus.h.i.+on in the old man's rocking-chair, and the broad warm rug on the hearth, made of countless slips of cloth of various colours dexterously sewn together, showed that loving female hands had been caring for the knife-grinder's comfort. Deborah was a bright, cheery- looking factory-girl, who evidently loved the old man, and worked for him with a will. The tea was soon set out, Deborah joining them by Old Crow's invitation. Jacob had much to tell about Australia which deeply interested both his hearers, especially Deborah. When the tea-things were removed, and Old Crow and Jacob were left alone, the former said,--
”Come; friend Jacob, draw thy chair to the fire. Thou hast given me thy tale, and a sad one it is; now thou shalt hear mine.”
They drew closer up on to the hearth, and the old man proceeded with his story.
”I were born and reared in a village many miles from Bolton; it makes no odds where it were, my tale will be all the same. My fayther and mother were G.o.dly people, and taught me to love the Lord by precept and example too. I worked in the pit till I were about twenty; when one day, as my b.u.t.ty and me was getting coal a long way off from the shaft, the prop nearest me began to crack, and I knowed as the roof were falling in. I sung out to him, but it were too late. I'd just time to save myself, when down came a big stone a-top of him, poor lad. I shouted for help, and we worked away with our picks like mad; and by the help of crows we managed to heave off the stone. The poor young man were sadly crushed.
We carried him home as softly as we could; but he were groaning awful all the way. He were a ghastly sight to look on as he lay on his bed; and I'd little hope for him, for he'd been a heavy drinker. I'd talked to him scores of times about it, but he never heeded. He used to say-- 'Well, you're called a sober man, and I'm called a drunkard; but what's the difference? You takes what you like, and I takes what I like. You takes what does you good, and I takes what does me good.' 'No,' says I, 'you takes what does you harm.' 'Ah, but,' says he, 'who's to say just where good ends and harm begins? Tom Roades takes a quart more nor me, and yet he's called to be a sober man; I suppose 'cos he don't fuddle so soon.' Well, but to come back to my poor b.u.t.ty's misfortune. There he lay almost crushed out of all shape, with lots of broken bones. They sends for the doctor, and he says-- 'You must keep him quiet. Nurse him well; and whatever ye do, don't let him touch a drop of beer or spirits till I give ye leave.' Well--would ye believe it?--no sooner were doctor's back turned than they pours some rum down the poor lad's throat, sure as it'd do him good. And so they went on; and the end on it was, they finished him off in a few days, for the poor fellow died mad drunk. Arter that I couldna somehow take to the pit again, and I couldn't have anything more to do with the drink. I said to myself; 'No one shall take encouragement to drink from _you_ any more.' So I joined a Temperance Society, and signed the pledge. I'd saved a little money, and looked about for summat to do. I hadn't larning enough to go into an office as a writer; and I wouldn't have gone if I had, for I should have wasted to skin and bone if I'd sat up all the day on a high stool, scrat, scratting with a pen, and my nose almost growing to the papper.
So I bethowt me as I'd larn to be a knife-grinder. It'd just suit me.
I could wander about from place to place, and have plenty of fresh air, and my liberty too. So I paid a chap to teach me the trade, and set myself up with my cart and all complete. But after a bit, my fayther and mother died; and I felt there were one thing as I were short on, and that were a wife. My brothers and sisters had all gotten married; so I wanted a home. But I wasn't going to take up with any sort; I meant to get a real good wife, or I'd have none at all. Well, I found one just the right make for me--a tidy, loving Christian she were. I loved my home, and were seldom off more nor two or three days at a time, when I took my cart a little further nor usual. We never had but one child; and she were a girl, and as likely a wench as were to be found in all the country round. She were a good daughter to me, Jacob, for many a long year; for her mother died when she were but ten year old, and I didn't wed again. Poor Rachel! she were no ordinary wench, you may be sure. She were quite a little woman afore she were as high as my waistcoat. All the neighbours used to say, 'He'll get a good wife as gets your Rachel;' and I used to say, 'Well, I don't want her to leave me, but I'll ne'er say No if she keeps company with a fellow as loves his Bible and hates the drink.' Well, there were an old widow in our village as made a great profession of religion. She were always at chapel and meeting, and as full of pious talk as an egg's full of meat.
Our Rachel thought her almost too good for this sinful world; but somehow I couldn't take to her myself. I feared she were not the right side out. I had many a talk with Ruth Canters--for that were her name.
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