ELIZABETH GASKELL Premium Collection: 10 Novels & 40+ Short Stories; Including Poems, Essays & Biographies (Illustrated). Elizabeth Gaskell
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She was in, but Charley had slipped off again. There was no holding that boy. Nothing kept him but lock and key, and they did not always; for once she had him locked up in the garret, and he had got off through the skylight. Perhaps now he was gone to see after the young woman down at the docks. He never wanted an excuse to be there.
Unasked, Job took a chair, resolved to await Charley's re-appearance.
Mrs. Jones ironed and folded her clothes, talking all the time of Charley and her husband, who was a sailor in some ship bound for India, and who, in leaving her their boy, had evidently left her rather more than she could manage. She moaned and croaked over sailors, and sea-port towns, and stormy weather, and sleepless nights, and trousers all over tar and pitch, long after Job had left off attending to her, and was only trying to hearken to every step and every voice in the street.
At last Charley came in, but he came alone.
"Yon Mary Barton has getten into some scrape or another," said he, addressing himself to Job. "She's not to be heard of at any of the piers; and Bourne says it were a boat from the Cheshire side as she went aboard of. So there's no hearing of her till to-morrow morning."
"To-morrow morning she'll have to be in court at nine o'clock, to bear witness on a trial," said Job, sorrowfully.
"So she said; at least somewhat of the kind," said Charley, looking desirous to hear more. But Job was silent.
He could not think of any thing further that could be done; so he rose up, and, thanking Mrs. Jones for the shelter she had given him, he went out into the street; and there he stood still, to ponder over probabilities and chances.
After some little time he slowly turned towards the lodging where he had left Mrs. Wilson. There was nothing else to be done; but he loitered on the way, fervently hoping that her weariness and her woes might have sent her to sleep before his return, that he might be spared her questionings.
He went very gently into the house-place where the sleepy landlady awaited his coming and his bringing the girl, who, she had been told, was to share the old woman's bed.
But in her sleepy blindness she knocked things so about in lighting the candle (she could see to have a nap by fire-light, she said), that the voice of Mrs. Wilson was heard from the little back-room, where she was to pass the night.
"Who's there?"
Job gave no answer, and kept down his breath, that she might think herself mistaken. The landlady, having no such care, dropped the snuffers with a sharp metallic sound, and then, by her endless apologies, convinced the listening woman that Job had returned.
"Job! Job Legh!" she cried out, nervously.
"Eh, dear!" said Job to himself, going reluctantly to her bed-room door. "I wonder if one little lie would be a sin as things stand? It would happen give her sleep, and she won't have sleep for many and many a night (not to call sleep), if things goes wrong to-morrow. I'll chance it, any way."
"Job! art thou there?" asked she again with a trembling impatience that told in every tone of her voice.
"Ay! sure! I thought thou'd ha' been asleep by this time."
"Asleep! How could I sleep till I knowed if Will were found?"
"Now for it," muttered Job to himself. Then in a louder voice, "Never fear! he's found, and safe, ready for to-morrow."
"And he'll prove that thing for my poor lad, will he? He'll bear witness that Jem were with him? Oh, Job, speak! tell me all!"
"In for a penny, in for a pound," thought Job. "Happen one prayer will do for the sum total. Any rate, I must go on now.—Ay, ay," shouted he, through the door. "He can prove all; and Jem will come off as clear as a new-born babe."
He could hear Mrs. Wilson's rustling movements, and in an instant guessed she was on her knees, for he heard her trembling voice uplifted in thanksgiving and praise to God, stopped at times by sobs of gladness and relief.
And when he heard this, his heart misgave him; for he thought of the awful enlightening, the terrible revulsion of feeling that awaited her in the morning. He saw the short-sightedness of falsehood; but what could he do now?
While he listened, she ended her grateful prayers.
"And Mary? Thou'st found her at Mrs. Jones's, Job?" said she, continuing her inquiries.
He gave a great sigh.
"Yes, she was there, safe enough, second time of going.—God forgive me!" muttered he, "who'd ha' thought of my turning out such an arrant liar in my old days?"
"Bless the wench! Is she here? Why does she not come to bed? I'm sure she's need."
Job coughed away his remains of conscience, and made answer,
"She was a bit weary, and o'er done with her sail; and Mrs. Jones axed her to stay there all night. It was nigh at hand to the courts, where she will have to be in the morning."
"It comes easy enough after a while," groaned out Job. "The father of lies helps one, I suppose, for now my speech comes as natural as truth. She's done questioning now, that's one good thing. I'll be off before Satan and she are at me again."
He went to the house-place, where the landlady stood wearily waiting. Her husband was in bed, and asleep long ago.
But Job had not yet made up his mind what to do. He could not go to sleep, with all his anxieties, if he were put into the best bed in Liverpool.
"Thou'lt let me sit up in this arm-chair," said he at length to the woman, who stood, expecting his departure.
He was an old friend, so she let him do as he wished. But, indeed, she was too sleepy to have opposed him. She was too glad to be released and go to bed.
Chapter 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 he could have seen her: for he was in a miserable state of anxiety about her; and many and many a time through that long night he scolded her and himself; her for her obstinacy, and himself for his weakness in yielding to her obstinacy, when she insisted on being the one to follow and find out Will.
She did not pass that night in bed any more than Job; but she was under a respectable roof, and among kind, though rough people.
She had offered no resistance to the old boatman, when he had clutched her arm, in order to insure her following him, as he threaded the crowded dock-ways, and dived up strange bye-streets. She came on meekly after him, scarcely thinking in her stupor where she was going, and glad (in a dead, heavy way) that some one was deciding things for her.
He led her to an old-fashioned house, almost as small as house could be, which had been built long ago, before all the other part of the street, and had a country-town look about it in the middle of that bustling back street. He pulled her into the house-place; and relieved 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