XXXI. HOW MARY PASSED THE NIGHT.
"To think That all this long interminable night, Which I have passed in thinking on two words-- 'Guilty'--'Not Guilty!'--like one happy moment O'er many a head hath flown unheeded by; O'er happy sleepers dreaming in their bliss Of bright to-morrows--or far happier still, With deep breath buried in forgetfulness. O all the dismallest images of death Did swim before my eyes!" --WILSON.
And now, where was Mary?
How Job's heart would have been relieved of one of its cares if hecould have seen her: for he was in a miserable state of anxietyabout her; and many and many a time through that long night hescolded her and himself; her for her obstinacy, and himself for hisweakness in yielding to her obstinacy, when she insisted on beingthe one to follow and find out Will.
She did not pass that night in bed any more than Job; but she wasunder a respectable roof, and among kind, though rough people.
She had offered no resistance to the old boatman, when he hadclutched her arm, in order to insure her following him, as hethreaded the crowded dock-ways, and dived up strange by-streets.She came on meekly after him, scarcely thinking in her stupor whereshe was going, and glad (in a dead, heavy way) that some one wasdeciding things for her.
He led her to an old-fashioned house, almost as small as house couldbe, which had been built long ago, before all the other part of thestreet, and had a country-town look about it in the middle of thatbustling back-street. He pulled her into the house-place; andrelieved to a certain degree of his fear of losing her on the way,he exclaimed--
"There!" giving a great slap of one hand on her back.
The room was light and bright, and roused Mary (perhaps the slap onher back might help a little too), and she felt the awkwardness ofaccounting for her presence to a little bustling old woman who hadbeen moving about the fireplace on her entrance. The boatman tookit very quietly, never deigning to give any explanation, but sittingdown in his own particular chair, and chewing tobacco, while helooked at Mary with the most satisfied air imaginable, halftriumphantly, as if she were the captive of his bow and spear, andhalf defying, as if daring her to escape.
The old woman, his wife, stood still, poker in hand, waiting tobe told who it was that her husband had brought home sounceremoniously; but, as she looked in amazement, the girl's cheekflushed, and then blanched to a dead whiteness; a film came over hereyes, and catching at the dresser for support in that hot whirlingroom, she fell in a heap on the floor.
Both man and wife came quickly to her assistance. They raised herup, still insensible, and he supported her on one knee, while hiswife pattered away for some cold fresh water. She threw it straightover Mary; but though it caused a great sob, the eyes still remainedclosed, and the face as pale as ashes.
"Who is she, Ben?" asked the woman, as she rubbed her unresisting,powerless hands.
"How should I know?" answered her husband gruffly.
"Well-a-well!" (in a soothing tone, such as you use to irritatedchildren), and as if half to herself, "I only thought you might, youknow, as you brought her home. Poor thing! we must not ask aughtabout her, but that she needs help. I wish I'd my salts at home,but I lent 'em to Mrs. Burton, last Sunday in church, for she couldnot keep awake through the sermon. Dear-a-me, how white she is!"
"Here! you hold her up a bit," said her husband.
She did as he desired, still crooning to herself, not caring for hisshort, sharp interruptions as she went on and, indeed, to her old,loving heart, his crossest words fell like pearls and diamonds, forhe had been the husband of her youth; and even he, rough and crabbedas he was, was secretly soothed by the sound of her voice, althoughnot for worlds, if he could have helped it, would he have shown anyof the love that was hidden beneath his rough outside.
"What's the old fellow after?" said she, bending over Mary, so as toaccommodate the drooping head. "Taking my pen, as I've had forbetter nor five year. Bless us, and save us! he's burning it! Ay,I see now, he's his wits about him; burnt feathers is always goodfor a faint. But they don't bring her round, poor wench! Nowwhat's he after next? Well! he is a bright one, my old man! That Inever thought of that, to be sure!" exclaimed she, as he produced asquare bottle of smuggled spirits, labelled "Golden Wasser," from acorner cupboard in their little room.
"That'll do!" said she, as the dose he poured into Mary's open mouthmade her start and cough. "Bless the man. It's just like him to beso tender and thoughtful!"
"Not a bit!" snarled he, as he was relieved by Mary's returningcolour, and opened eyes, and wondering, sensible gaze; "not a bit.I never was such a fool afore."
His wife helped Mary to rise, and placed her in a chair.
"All's right, now, young woman?" asked the boatman anxiously.
"Yes, sir, and thank you. I'm sure, sir, I don't know rightly howto thank you," faltered Mary softly forth.
"Be hanged to you and your thanks." And he shook himself, took hispipe, and went out without deigning another word; leaving his wifesorely puzzled as to the character and history of the strangerwithin her doors.
Mary watched the boatman leave the house, and then, turning hersorrowful eyes to the face of her hostess, she attempted feebly torise, with the intention of going away,--where she knew not.
"Nay! nay! whoe'er thou be'st, thou'rt not fit to go out into thestreet. Perhaps" (sinking her voice a little) "thou'rt a bad one; Ialmost misdoubt thee, thou'rt so pretty. Well-a-well! it's the badones as have the broken hearts, sure enough; good folk never getutterly cast down, they've always getten hope in the Lord; it's thesinful as bear the bitter, bitter grief in their crushed hearts,poor souls; it's them we ought, most of all, to pity and help. Sheshanna leave the house to-night, choose who she is--worst woman inLiverpool, she shanna. I wished I knew where th' old man picked herup, that I do."
Mary had listened feebly to this soliloquy, and now tried to satisfyher hostess in weak, broken sentences.
"I'm not a bad one, missis, indeed. Your master took me out to seeafter a ship as had sailed. There was a man in it as might save alife at the trial to-morrow. The captain would not let him come,but he says he'll come back in the pilot-boat." She fell to sobbingat the thought of her waning hopes, and the old woman tried tocomfort her, beginning with her accustomed--
"Well-a-well! and he'll come back, I'm sure. I know he will; sokeep up your heart. Don't fret about it. He's sure to be back."
"Oh! I'm afraid! I'm sore afraid he won't," cried Mary, consoled,nevertheless, by the woman's assertions, all groundless as she knewthem to be.
Still talking half to herself and half to Mary, the old womanprepared tea, and urged her visitor to eat and refresh herself. ButMary shook her head at the proffered food, and only drank a cup oftea with thirsty eagerness. For the spirits had thrown her into aburning heat, and rendered each impression received through hersenses of the most painful distinctness and intensity, while herhead ached in a terrible manner.
She disliked speaking, her power over her words seemed so utterlygone. She used quite different expressions to those she intended.So she kept silent, while Mrs. Sturgis (for that was the name of herhostess) talked away, and put her tea-things by, and moved aboutincessantly, in a manner that increased the dizziness in Mary'shead. She felt as if she ought to take leave for the night and go.But where?
Presently the old man came back, crosser and gruffer than when hewent away. He kicked aside the dry shoes his wife had prepared forhim, and snarled at all she said. Mary attributed this to hisfinding her still there, and gathered up her strength for an effortto leave the house. But she was mistaken. By-and-by, he said(looking right into the fire, as if addressing it), "Wind's rightagainst them!"
"Ay, ay, and is it so?" said his wife, who, knowing him well, knewthat his surliness proceeded from some repressed sympathy."Well-a-well, wind changes often at night. Time enough beforemorning. I'd b
et a penny it has changed sin' thou looked."
She looked out of her little window at a weathercock near,glittering in the moonlight; and as she was a sailor's wife, sheinstantly recognised the unfavourable point at which the indicatorseemed stationary, and giving a heavy sigh, turned into the room,and began to beat about in her own mind for some other mode ofcomfort.
"There's no one else who can prove what you want at the trialto-morrow, is there?" asked she.
"No one!" answered Mary.
"And you've no clue to the one as is really guilty, if t'other isnot?"
Mary did not answer, but trembled all over.
Sturgis saw it.
"Don't bother her with thy questions," said he to his wife. "Shemun go to bed, for she's all in a shiver with the sea-air. I'll seeafter the wind, hang it, and the weathercock too. Tide will help'em when it turns."
Mary went upstairs murmuring thanks and blessings on those who tookthe stranger in. Mrs. Sturgis led her into a little room redolentof the sea and foreign lands. There was a small bed for one sonbound for China; and a hammock slung above for another, who was nowtossing in the Baltic. The sheets looked made out of sail-cloth,but were fresh and clean in spite of their brownness.
Against the wall were wafered two rough drawings of vessels withtheir names written underneath, on which the mother's eyes caught,and gazed until they filled with tears. But she brushed the dropsaway with the back of her hand, and in a cheerful tone went on toassure Mary the bed was well aired.
"I cannot sleep, thank you. I will sit here, if you please," saidMary, sinking down on the window-seat.
"Come, now," said Mrs. Sturgis, "my master told me to see you tobed, and I mun. What's the use of watching? A watched pot neverboils, and I see you are after watching that weathercock. Why now,I try never to look at it, else I could do nought else. My heartmany a time goes sick when the wind rises, but I turn away and workaway, and try never to think on the wind, but on what I ha' gettento do."
"Let me stay up a little," pleaded Mary, as her hostess seemed soresolute about seeing her to bed.
Her looks won her suit.
"Well, I suppose I mun. I shall catch it downstairs, I know. He'llbe in a fidget till you're getten to bed, I know; so you mun bequiet if you are so bent upon staying up."
And quietly, noiselessly, Mary watched the unchanging weathercockthrough the night. She sat on the little window seat, her handholding back the curtain which shaded the room from the brightmoonlight without; her head resting its weariness against the cornerof the window-frame; her eyes burning and stiff with the intensityof her gaze.
The ruddy morning stole up the horizon, casting a crimson glow intothe watcher's room.
It was the morning of the day of trial!
Mary Barton Page 32
