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 tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow 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 anything 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 firelight, 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 bedroom 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 tomorrow. 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 know’d 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 tomorrow.”
“And he’ll prove that thing for my poor lad, will he? He’ll bear witness that Jem were with him? O 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 shortsightedness 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’erdone 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.
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 tomorrows—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 by-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 room was light and bright, and roused Mary (perhaps the slap on her back might help a little too), and she felt the awkwardness of accounting for her presence to a little bustling old woman who had been moving about the fireplace on her entrance. The boatman took it very quietly, never deigning to give any explanation, but sitting down in his own particular chair, and chewing tobacco, while he looked at Mary with the most satisfied air imaginable, half triumphantly, as if she were the captive of his bow and spear, and half defying, as if daring her to escape.
The old woman, his wife, stood still, poker in hand, waiting to be told who it was that her husband had brought home so unceremoniously; but, as she looked in amazement, the girl’s cheek flushed, and then blanched to a dead whiteness; a film came over her eyes, and catching at the dresser for support in that hot whirling room, she fell in a heap on the floor.
Both man and wife came quickly to her assistance. They raised her up, still insensible, and he supported her on one knee, while his wife pattered away for some cold fresh water. She threw it straight over Mary; but though it caused a great sob, the eyes still remained closed, 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 irritated children), and as if half to herself, “I only thought you might, you know, as you brought her home. Poor thing! we must not ask aught about 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 could not keep awake through the sermon. Dear-a-me, how white she is!”