His sorrow made him feel his loneliness, his need of human kindness and of human love, and then his heart turned to Sarah Benson. He had hoped that when his daughter went to Aske, Sarah would be more inclined to listen to his suit, but even in this respect things had gone badly with him. He felt that she avoided him, and he saw that her eyes were full of trouble. The road between Barton Chapel and Burley House was a lonely bit of highway, running along the edge of the moor, with Barton Woods on one side of it. Men in groups of two or three passed him at intervals; they were mill-hands, with the loud, grating voices of men leading a hard life, so he easily gathered from their conversation that they had been to the weekly prayer-meeting. They all gave him a "Good-night, master!" as they passed; and he watched them trudging down the hill to their little cottages, with a half-conscious remembrance of the days when he had been their fellow.
There were several paths through Barton Woods leading from the road to the little villages on the other side of it. Suddenly Jonathan heard the voice of some one coming singing through the lonely place, singing as the untutored sing, with a shrill melancholy, dwelling chiefly on the high notes. He knew the voice well, and he stood still to listen.
"'I have waited for thee,' He murmured,
'Through weary nights and days,
Beside the well in the twilight,
And along thy devious ways—
But thou wert content to miss me,'
And I met His tender gaze.
"'Content no more, sweet Master,
Except Thou be with me
From this time forth in the city,
Where my daily toil must be;
And at evening-time by the fountain.
Where I will sing to Thee."
He raised me up and blessed me,
That sweet yet awful Priest;
He gave me the Cup of Blessing
From the eternal Feast,
The wine with hues more radiant
Than sunrise in the east."
Here the singer came to a little stile, fifty yards in advance of Jonathan, passed over it into the highway, and went forward, singing,
"Dear heart. I have found the Master.
He is sweet beyond compare;
He will save and comfort the weary soul.
He will make thee white and fair.
Not as I gave will He give,
But wine divine and rare."
"Sarah!"
"He is with me in the tumult
Of the city harsh and dim;
And at evening by the fountain.
Where I sit and sing to Him.
Now He wears a veil of shadows
On the face divine and fair,
But His angels whisper to me,
'There will be no shadows there."
"Sarah!"
She turned and stood still until Jonathan reached her.
"I thought it was thy voice I heard in Barton Woods. Eh, lass! I am glad to see thee. Is all well wi' thee?"
"I try to think so, master. One mustn't expect too much o' this life."
"Steve's loom has stood still varry often lately. It's enough to try anybody's patience. It is that"
"I know it master. But thou wilt bear a bit longer wi' him?"
"Is that what thou thinks?"
"Ay, it is."
"I'll do anything thou asks me to do. Sarah, can thou give me one kind thought? I would be glad to bear a' thy crosses for thee. If thou would marry me I would put up wi' all that thou loves for thy dear sake. Can ta see thy way clear to wed me, Sarah?"
As they stood together he lifted her hand and clasped it between his own. The moon-light fell all over Sarah's slight figure in its black cloak, and gave a touching beauty to her face, perfectly outlined by the little woollen kerchief pinned tightly over the head and under the chin.
"Can ta see thy way clear to wed me, Sarah?"
"Nay, I can't. I am in a deal o' trouble about Steve."
"I'll do owt thou wishes for Steve. He is thy brother, and I can do a deal for thy sake."
"He's a varry proud lad, sir. He'll not take a halfpenny from anybody."
"Not he. He takes thy money, and thy time, and all thou hes."
"Ay, he does that, but he has a right to 'em. Five minutes before mother died she asked me niver to give Steve up, niver to leave him as long as he needed me. She entered heaven wi' my promise in her hands. Dost ta think I can break it? Would ta want me to break it? I can't give my life to him and to thee, too. Thou wouldn't want me with a broken vow and a half heart, Jonathan Burley?"
"God bless thee, Sarah. Do thy duty, my lass, I can go on loving and waiting."
"Then good-night, master. I'll go home without thee. We might happen meet folk nearer t' village, and there's them that would see wrong if their eyes were out."
Jonathan waited at the stile and watched her down the hill. She sung no more. She felt that he had come very close to her heart, and the longing for the rest and for the higher things which would be a part of the love offered her, was so strong for a moment or two that it cost her a few heavy tears to put all hope of them away. Her eyes were still misty when she reached the cottage. The key had been left at a neighbor's, and she hoped Steve was at home. But all was dark and lonely.
If for a little while she had fainted in spirit the weakness was over. She put the fire together, and the cheery blaze was soon making pictures among the pewter and crockery on the cottage walls. Then she brought the table before it and laid it for supper. "He'll varry like be hungry when he comes in," she whispered to herself; and she cut a slice of cold mutton and shred an onion with it, and set the pan to simmer on the hob. She hurried for fear all would not be ready when he arrived, but ten o'clock struck, and the savory dish began to waste away, and she was so hungry that she was compelled to eat her haver-cake and cheese alone.
It was eleven o'clock when Steve came, and there was a look on his face she had never seen there before, a look of exultation and pleasure, uncertain in character, and attended with an unusual silence.
"My lad, what's the matter wi' thee? Thou doesn't eat thy victuals, either; there's summat up."
"Ay, there is ; but I'm feared to tell thee."
"Nay, but thou needn't be. Is ta in any trouble?"
"Not I, lass. I'm varry happy. Nobbut I'm going to be wed."
"Thou—art—what?"
"Going to be wed."
She stood up and looked at him, turning white as she did so, even to her lips. A sense of wrong and a great anger welled up in her heart; and she lifted the loaf and went with it into the pantry to hide the tears she could not suppress.
Steve kept his eyes on his plate. He was eating with a keen relish, now that his confession was made, but there was a bitter moment or two in Sarah's heart, ere she could command herself sufficiently to ask, "Who is ta going to wed?"
"Joyce Barnes."
"Niver!"
"Ay, it's a wonder such a bonny lass should hev me. But Joyce hes promised, and I'm that set up to-night, I can scarce tell what I'm doing or saying."
"How is ta going to keep her?"
"I'll work steady now. I've been so bothered about Joyce lately that I couldn't work; but I'll miss