night was dark and close, and Jonathan was unusually sad, for it is the best natures that are most easily subjugated by moral miasmas. He had been full of love and hope, and suddenly a supposition of evil and sorrow had put its hand upon him. He could not close his eyes or pass it by. It had taken its place upon his hearth-stone, and he was compelled to listen to it He was in the atmosphere of an ill-conditioned temper, of a soul determined to quarrel with existence, and he was worried by an uncertainty which doubled his anxieties. For though he was angry with Eleanor, he was yet inclined to believe that her rebellion was, in some way or other, entirely Aske's fault. "It isn't fair," he muttered, "to badger a lass into such a way! I think little of a man that can't give up a bit to his wife."
When he reached his park gates, Ben Holden was slowly walking about in front of them. He came up to the gig as Jonathan tightened the reins, and said, "Thou's earlier than might he."
"What ever art thou here for? Is owt wrong at t' mill?"
"Not likely. There is an offer from Longworthy, and he wants yes or no in t' morning. Thou knows thy mind on that subject, and we'd better send a night message."
"Ay, we had. Get into t' gig, and we'll talk it over."
When the house was reached, Burley said, "That's all about Longworthy; but come in and hev a bit o' cold meat. I want to talk to thee." Then turning to the groom: "Mind thou rubs t' little beast down well, and give him a good supper and bed. I'll mebbe be in to see after thee."
There was a rack in the chimney-corner full of long, clean clay pipes, and after the "bit o' cold meat" the two men sat down to smoke. Hitherto their talk had been of wool and yams and wages, but after a short silence Jonathan said, "I hev been to Aske Hall."
"Well?"
"Nay, it isn't well. It is varry ill, as far as I can see. I don't know whativer is come over my lass. She was always bidable wi' me. I can't help blaming Aske, though he was as patient and kind as niver was to-night."
"Aske is a tight master, he's more than likely to be a tight husband."
"And my Eleanor is none used to take either bid or buffet."
"That's where all t' trouble wi' womankind begins. If Aske hedn't set her up on a monument when he was courting her, she wouldn't hev hed to come down to t' common level after it. If iver I go a-courting, I'll tell no lies to t' lass. I'll not mak' her an angel before t' wedding, and nobbut a wife after it."
"Thou art a wise man, Ben, but when thou fells in love thou wilt do as wiser men than thee hev done."
"Ah, when I fell in love. But this is what I mean. Aske, before he got wed, was niver happy but when he was doing this and doing that, and running here and running there, to pleasure his lady. It was 'What can I get thee?' and 'What shall I say to thee?' and 'What can I do for thee?' And whether she smiled or frowned she was perfect. He liked to dawdle round her better than to go hunting or shooting. He thought little o' Aske Hall then, and was forever at thy house. His place on t' magistrate's bench was always empty, for he were sitting at Miss Burley's feet. As for farming matters, or government matters, he reckoned nowt o' them. He were too happy singing fal-la-la songs wi' thy lass, or rambling hand in hand wi' her in t' garden or park. Now then, he gets wed, and all at once t' angel, and t' queen, and t' mistress of his soul and life is turned into a varry faultable woman. He not only stops all his false worship, but he wants to get up on t' monument himsen and hev t' deposed idol do the worshipping. My word! It's not natural to expect it, that is, if t' idol has any feelings more than a stick or a stone."
"Now thou talks sensible. But heving found out t' cause o' t' trouble, what would ta do to mend it?"
"I would speak to Aske quietly, and advise him to tak' his freedom without any swagger. Mistress Aske will come down step by step, if he'll give her a helping hand and a pleasant word. And I'd speak to her likewise, and tell her that a wife's glory is her obedience. Thou knows."
"Nay, Ben, it's bachelors that know all about women and wives; I'll tell thee what, it's hard on my Eleanor, in any case."
For Jonathan loved his daughter very tenderly, and her little joyful cry of "Father! father!" still echoed in his memory. He looked around his lonely, silent rooms, and remembered how bright and gay they had been during the few happy years when she had held a kind of court in them. Nothing that his friend had said had helped him much, yet it had been some comfort to talk of his trouble to one whom he knew to be both wise and faithful. Still, at the end of an hour's conversation little had been gained, and as their friendship had no pretences, Ben said, as he was leaving, "I hevn't done thee any good;" and Jonathan answered, "No, thou hesn't. I didn't expect it."
"Varry well, then, thou knows Who can do thee good, and if I'd been thee I would hev gone to Him first off."
And Jonathan bent his head in reply, and then went to his lonely room, where he sat still, brooding over his heavy thoughts for some time. For, though he kept saying to himself, "It's only a bit of a tiff and most couples have them," he could not get rid of a presentiment that he had entered into the chill of a long-shadowed sorrow. But when he rose up from fats sombre meditation he went to a little table on which there was a Bible, and he laid his open palm upon it, and said, softly, "Like as a father pitieth his children—" and in the solemn pause and upward glance there was a mighty and a comprehensive petition that only God could answer.
The Master's Love
CHAPTER IV.
THE MASTER'S LOVE.
"Our lives most dear are never near,
Our thoughts are never far apart,
Though all that draws us heart to heart
Seems fainter now, and now more clear.
"To-night love claims his full control,
And with desire and with regret
My soul this hour has drawn your soul
A little nearer yet."
An admirable reticence distinguishes the Anglo-Saxon concerning the woman he loves. A Frenchman will talk you blind about his Julia's eyes, and ride about the world with the name of his lady-love forever on the tip of his tongue; but not even to Ben Holden did Jonathan talk much of his love for Sarah Benson. Yet it had become the sweetest part of his life. Without absolutely watching her, he was aware of all things which concerned her, and her presence and movements made upon him that impression which the most trifling facts connected with the person we love must make.
It was a fine night in the middle of January, and Jonathan had been to the chapel at a leader's meeting. The financial affairs of the circuit were very much in his hands, and he managed them with the same prudence that he managed the affairs of his own mill. But it was not of them he was musing as he walked thoughtfully home in the moonlight. His daughter's troubles lay heavy upon his heart, for things had not grown pleasanter between Aske and his wife during the past three months. With all the love and authority which his relationship warranted he had advised the unhappy woman, but advice is a medicine few people ever really take. And even where it accorded with Eleanor's own convictions of right, she generally found excuses for setting it aside. "The more I submit, father," she had said, passionately, that very afternoon, "the more unreasonable and tyrannical he is;" and Jonathan had reflected with a sigh that such a result was natural, and to be expected.
Little good came of his anxiety and worry, but yet he could not keep his daughter's marriage out of his mind, and doubtless he let it "fret him to evil" every time he entertained it. This night as he thought of his beautiful child, and of the fifty thousand pounds which he had so cheerfully given to make her happy, he felt bitter and hard towards his son-in-law. And to Aske he had not been able to speak. Once only he had attempted to open the delicate subject, and the young husband had met the overture with such a frigid coldness and haughty air as to effectually check Jonathan's