Surly Tim's Trouble Read online

  Hodgson, Fannie. "'Surly Tim's Trouble.'"

  A Lancashire Story.

  Scribner's Monthly 4 (1872): 220-226.

  "SORRY to hear my fellow-workmen speak so disparagin' o' me?

  Well, Mester, that's as it may be, yo know. Happen my fellow- workmen ha made a bit o' a mistake -- happen what seems loike crustiness to them beant so much crustiness as summut else -- happen I mought do my bit o' complainin' too. Yo munnot trust aw yo hear, Mester; that's aw I can say."

  I looked at the man's bent face quite curiously, and, judging from its rather heavy but still not unprepossessing outline, I could not really call it a bad face, or even a sulky one. And yet both managers and hands had given me a bad account of Tim Hibblethwaite. "Surly Tim" they called him, and each had something to say about his sullen disposition to silence, and his short answers. Not that he was accused of anything like misdemeanor, but he was "glum loike," the factory people said, and "a surly fellow well deserving his name," as the master of his room had told me.

  I had come to Lancashire to take the control of my father's spinning-factory a short time before, and, being anxious to do my best toward the hands, I often talked to one and another in a friendly way, so that I could the better understand their grievances and remedy them with justice to all parties concerned. So, in conversing with men, women, and children, I gradually found out that Tim Hibblethwaite was in bad odor, and that he held himself doggedly aloof from all; and this was how, in the course of time, I came to speak to him about the matter, and the opening words of my story are the words of his answer. But they did not satisfy me by any means. I wanted to do the man justice myself, and see that justice was done to him by others; and then again when, after my curious look at him, he lifted his head from his work and drew the back of his hand across his warm face, I noticed that he gave his eyes a brush, and, glancing at him once more, I recognized the presence of a queer moisture in them.

  In my anxiety to conceal that I had noticed anything unusual, I am afraid I spoke to him quite hurriedly. I was a young man then, and by no means as self-possessed as I ought to have been.

  "I hope you won't misunderstand me, Hibblethwaite," I said; "I don't mean to complain -- indeed, I have nothing to complain of, for Foxley tells me you are the steadiest and most orderly hand he has under him; but the fact is I should like to make friends with you all, and see that no one is treated badly. And somehow or other I found out that you were not disposed to feel friendly towards the rest, and I was sorry for it. But I suppose you have some reason of your own."

  The man bent down over his work again, silent for a minute, to my discomfiture, but at last he spoke, almost huskily.

  "Thank yo, Mester," he said; "yo're a koindly chap or yo wouldn't ha noticed. An' yo're not fur wrong either. I ha reasons o' my own, tho' I'm loike to keep 'em to mysen most o' toimes. Th' fellows as throws their slurs on me would na understond 'em if I were loike to gab, which I never were. But happen th' toime'll come when Surly Tim'll tell his own tale, though I often think its loike it wunnot come till th' Day o' Judgment."

  "I hope it will come before then," I said, cheerfully. "I hope the time is not far away when we shall all understand you, Hibblethwaite. I think it has been misunderstanding so far which has separated you from the rest, and it cannot last always, you know."

  But he shook his head -- not after a surly fashion, but, as I thought, a trifle sadly or heavily -- so I did not ask any more questions, or try to force the subject upon him.

  But I noticed him pretty closely as time went on, and the more I saw of him the more fully I was convinced that he was not so surly as people imagined. He never interfered with the most active of his enemies, or made any reply when they taunted him, and more than once I saw him perform a silent, half-secret act of kindness. Once I caught him throwing half his dinner to a wretched little lad who had just come to the factory, and worked near him; and once again, as I was leaving the building on a rainy night, I came upon him on the stone steps at the door bending down with an almost pathetic clumsiness to pin the woolen shawl of a poor little mite who, like so many others, worked with her shiftless father and mother to add to their weekly earnings. It was always the poorest and least cared for of the children whom he seemed to befriend, and very often I noticed that even when he was kindest, in his awkward man fashion, the little waifs were afraid of him, and showed their fear plainly.

  The factory was situated on the outskirts of a thriving country town near Manchester, and at the end of the lane that led from it to the more thickly populated part there was a path crossing a field to the pretty church and church-yard, and this path was a short cut homeward for me. Being so pretty and quiet, the place had a sort of attraction for me, and I was in the habit of frequently passing through it on my way, partly because it was pretty and quiet, perhaps, and partly, I have no doubt, because I was inclined to be weak and melancholy at the time, my health being broken down under hard study.

  It so happened that in passing here one night, and glancing in among the graves and marble monuments as usual, I caught sight of a dark figure sitting upon a little mound under a tree and resting its head upon its hands, and in this sad-looking figure I recognized the muscular outline of my friend Surly Tim.

  He did not see me at first, and I was almost inclined to think it best to leave him alone; but as I half turned away he stirred with something like a faint moan, and then lifted his head and saw me standing in the bright, clear moonlight.

  "Who's theer?" he said. "Dost ta want owt?"

  "It is only Doncaster, Hibblethwaite," I returned, as I sprang over the low stone wall to join him. "What is the matter, old fellow? I thought I heard you groan just now."

  "Yo mought ha done, Mester," he answered heavily. "Happen tha did. I dunnot know mysen. Nowts th' matter though, as I knows on, on'y I'm a bit out o' soarts."

  He turned his head aside slightly and began to pull at the blades of grass on the mound, and all at once I saw that his hand was trembling nervously.

  It was almost three minutes before he spoke again.

  "That un belongs to me," he said suddenly at last, pointing to a longer mound at his feet. "An' this little un," signifying with an indescribable gesture the small one upon which he sat.

  "Poor fellow," I said, "I see now."

  "A little lad o' mine," he said, slowly and tremulously. "A little lad o' mine an' -- an' his mother."

  "What!" I exclaimed, "I never knew that you were a married man, Tim."

  He dropped his head upon his hand again, still pulling nervously at the grass with the other.

  "Th' law says I beant, Mester," he answered in a painful strained fashion. "I canna tell mysen what God-a'-moighty'ud say about it."

  "I don't understand," I faltered; "you don't mean to say the poor girl never was your wife, Hibblethwaite."

  "That's what th' law says," slowly; "I thowt different mysen, an' so did th' poor lass. That's what's the matter, Mester: that's th' trouble."

  The other nervous hand went up to his bent face for a minute and hid it, but I did not speak. There was so much of strange grief in his simple movement that I felt words would be out of place. It was not my dogged inexplicable "hand" who was sitting before me in the bright moonlight on the baby's grave; it was a man with a hidden history of some tragic sorrow long kept secret in his homely breast -- perhaps a history very few of us could read aright. I would not question him, though I fancied he meant to explain himself. I knew that if he was willing to tell me the truth it was best that he should choose his own time for it, and so I left him alone.

  And before I had waited very long he broke the silence himself, as I had thought he would.

  . . . . . . .

  "It wor welly abou
t six year ago I cum 'n here," he said, "more or less, welly about six year. I wor a quiet chap then, Mester, an' had na many friends, but I had more than I ha' now. Happen I wor better nater'd, but just as loike I wor loighter- hearted -- but that's nowt to do wi' it.

  "I had na been here more than a week when theer comes a young woman to moind a loom i' th' next room to me, an' this young woman bein' pretty an' modest takes my fancy. She wor na loike th' rest o' the wenches -- loud talkin' an' slattern i' her ways, she wor just quiet loike and nowt else. First time I seed her I says to mysen, 'Theer's a lass 'at's seed trouble;' an' somehow every toime I seed her afterward I says to mysen, 'There's a lass 'at's seed trouble.' It wur in her eye -- she had a soft loike brown eye, Mester -- an' it wur in her voice -- her voice wur soft loike, too -- I sometimes thowt it wur plain to be seed even i' her dress. If she'd been born a lady she'd ha' been one o' th' foine soart, an' as she'd been born a factory-lass she wur one o' th' foine soart still. So I took to watchin' her an' tryin' to mak' friends wi' her, but I never had much luck wi' her till one neet I was goin' home through th' snow, and I seed her afore fighten' th' drift wi' nowt but a thin shawl over her head; so I goes up behind her an' I says to her, steady and respecful, so as she wouldna be feart, I says: --

  "'Lass, let me see thee home. It's bad weather fur thee to be out in by thysen. Tak' my coat an' wrop thee up in it, an' tak' hold o' my arm an' let me help thee along.'

  "She looks up right straight forrad i' my face wi' her brown eyes, an' I tell yo, Mester, I wur glad I wur an honest man 'stead o' a rascal, fur them quiet eyes 'ud ha fun me out before I'd ha' done sayin' my say if I'd meant harm.

  "'Thaank yo kindly, Mester Hibblethwaite,' she says, 'but dunnot tak' off tha' coat fur me; I'm doin' pretty nicely. It is Mester Hibblethwaite, beant it?'

  "'Aye, lass,' I answers, 'it's him. Mought I ax yo're name.'

  "'Aye, to be sure,' said she. 'My name's Rosanna -- 'Sanna Brent th' folk at th' mill allus ca's me. I work at th' loom i' th' next room to thine. I've seed thee often an' often.'

  "So we walks home to her lodgings, an' on th' way we talks together friendly an' quiet loike, an' th' more we talks th' more I sees she's had trouble, an' by an' by -- bein' ony common workin' folk, we're straightforrad to each other in our plain way -- it comes out what her trouble has been.

  "'Yo p'raps wouldn't think I've been a married woman, Mester,' she says; 'but I ha', and' I wedded an' rued. I married a sojer when I wur a giddy young wench, four years ago, an' it wur th' worst thing as ever I did i' aw my days. He wur one o' yo're handsome fastish chaps, an' he tired o' me as men o' his stripe allers do tire o' poor lasses, an' then he ill-treated me. He went to th' Crimea after we'n been wed a year, an' left me to shift fur mysen. An' I heard six month after he wur dead. He'd never writ back to me nor sent me no help, but I couldna think he wur dead till th' letter comn. He wur killed th' first month he wur out fightin' th' Rooshians. Poor fellow! Poor Phil! Th' Lord ha mercy on him!'

  "That wur how I found out about her trouble, an' somehow it seemed to draw me to her, an' make me feel kindly to'ards her 't wur so pitiful to hear her talk about th' rascal, so sorrowful an' gentle, an' not gi' him a real hard word for a' he'd done. But that's allers th' way wi' women folk -- th' more yo harry's them, th' more they'll pity yo an' pray for yo. Why she wurna more than twenty-two then, an' she must ha been nowt but a slip o' a lass when they wur wed.

  "How-'sever, Rosanna Brent an' me got to be good friends, an' we walked home together o' nights, an' talked about our bits o' wage, an' our bits o' debt, an' th' way that wench 'ud keep me up i' spirits when I wur a bit down-hearted about owt, wur just a wonder. She wur so quiet an' steady, an' when she said owt she meant it, an' she never said too much or too little. Her brown eyes allers minded me o' my mother, though th' old woman deed when I were nobbut a little chap, but I never seed 'Sanna Brent smile 'bout thinkin' o' how my mother looked when I wur kneelin' down sayin' my prayers after her. An' bein' as th' lass wur so dear to me, I made up my mind to ax her to be summat dearer. So once goin' home along wi her, I takes hold o' her hand an' lifts it up an' kisses it gentle -- as gentle an' wi' summat th' same feelin' as I'd kiss th' Good Book.

  "''Sanna,' I says, 'bein' as yo've had so much trouble wi' yo're first chance, would yo' be afeard to try a second? Could yo' trust a mon again? Such a mon as me, 'Sanna?'

  "'I wouldna be feart to trust thee, Tim,' she answers back soft an' gentle after a manner. 'I wouldna be feart to trust thee any time.'

  "I kisses her hand again, gentler still.

  "'God bless thee, lass,' I says. 'Does that mean yes?'

  "She crept up closer to me i' her sweet, quiet way.

  "'Aye, lad,' she answers. 'It means yes, an' I'll bide by it.'

  "'An' tha shalt never rue it, lass,' said I. 'Tha's gi'en thy life to me, an' I'll gi' mine to thee, sure and true.'

  "So we wur axed i' th' church t' next Sunday, an' a month fra then we were wed, an' if ever God's sun shone on a happy mon, it shone on one that day, where we come out o' church together -- me and Rosanna -- an' went to our bit o' a home to begin life again. I couldna tell thee, Mester -- there beant no words to tell how happy an' peaceful we lived fur two year after that. My lass never altered her sweet ways, an' I just loved her to make up to her fur what had gone by. I thanked God-a'-moighty fur his blessing every day, an' every day I prayed to be made worthy of it. An' here's just wheer I'd like to ax a question, Mester, about summat 'ats worretted me a good deal. I dunnot want to question th' Maker, but I would loike to know how it is 'at sometime it seems 'at we're clean forgot -- as if He couldna fash hissen about our troubles, an' most loike left 'em to work out theirsens. Yo see, Mester, an' we aw see sometime he thinks on us an' gi's us a lift, but hasna tha thysen seen times when tha stopt short an' axed thysen, 'Wheer's God-a'-moighty 'at he isna straighten things out a bit? Th' world's i' a power o' a snarl. Th' righteous is forsaken 'n his seed's beggin' bread. An' th' devil's topmost again.' I've talked to my lass about it sometimes, an' I dunnot think I meant harm, Mester, for I felt humble enough -- an' when I talked, my lass she'd listen an' smile soft an' sorrowful, but she never gi' me but one answer.

  "'Tim,' she'd say, 'this is on'y th' skoo' an' we're th' scholars, an' He's teachin' us His way. We munnot be loike th' children o' Israel i' th' Wilderness, an' turn away fra th' cross 'cause o' th' Sarpent. We munnot say, "Theers a snake:" we mun say, "Theers th' Cross, an' th' Lord gi' it to us." Th' teacher wouldna be o' much use, Tim, if th' scholars knew as much as he did, an' I allers think it's th' best to comfort mysen wi' sayin', Th' Lord-a'-moighty, he knows.'

  "An' she allers comforted me too when I wur worretted. Life looked smooth somehow them three year. Happen th' Lord sent 'em to me to make up fur what wur comin. [sic]

  "At th' eend o' th' first year th' child wur born, th' little lad here," touching the turf with his hand, "'Wee Wattie' his mother ca'd him, an' he wur a fine lightsome little chap. He filled th' whole house wi' music day in an' day out, crowin' an' crowin' -- an' cryin' too sometime. But if ever yo're a feyther, Mester, yo'll find out 'at a baby's cry 's music often enough, an' yo'll find, too, if yo ever lose one, 'at yo'd give all yo'd getten just to hear even th' worst o' cryin'. Rosanna she couldna find i' her heart to set th' little 'un out o' her arms a minnit, an' she'd go about th' room wi' her eyes aw leeted up, an' her face bloomin' like a slip o' a girl's, an' if she laid him i' th' cradle her head 'ud be turnt o'er her shoulder aw' [sic] th' time lookin' at him an' singin' bits o' sweet-soundin' foolish woman-folks' songs. I thowt then 'at them old nursery songs wur th' happiest music I ever heard, an' when 'Sanna sung 'em they minded me o' hymn-tunes.

  "Well, Mester, before th' spring wur out Wee Wat was toddlin' round holdin' to his mother's gown, an' by th' middle o' th' next he was cooin' like a dove, an' prattlin' words i' a voice like hers. His eyes wur big an' brown an' straightforrad like hers, an' his mouth was like hers, an' his curls wur the color o' a brown bee's back. Happen we s
et too much store by him, or happen it wur on'y th' Teacher again teachin' us his way, but how'sever that wur, I came home one sunny mornin' fro' th' factory, an' my dear lass met me at th' door, all white an' cold, but tryin' hard to be brave an' help me to bear what she had to tell.

  "'Tim,' said she, 'th' Lord ha' sent us a trouble; but we can bear it together, canna we, dear lad?'

  "That wor aw, but I knew what it meant, though t' poor little lamb had been well enough when I kissed him last.

  "I went in an' saw him lyin' theer on his pillows strugglin' an' gaspin' in hard convulsions, an' I seed aw' was over. An' in half an hour, just as th' sun crept across th' room an' touched his curls, th' pretty little chap opens his eyes aw at once.

  "'Daddy!" he crows out. 'Sithee Dad -- !' an' he lifts hissen up, catches at th' floatin' sunshine, laughs at it, and fa's back -- dead, Mester.

  "I've allers thowt 'at th' Lord-a'-moighty knew what he wur doin' when he gi' th' woman t' Adam i' th' Garden o' Eden. He knowed he wor nowt but a poor chap as couldna do fur hissen; an' I suppose that's th' reason he gi' th' woman th' strength to bear trouble when it comn. I'd ha' gi'en clean in if it hadna been fur my lass when th' little chap deed. I never tackledt owt i' aw my days 'at hurt me as heavy as losin' him did. I couldna abear th' sight o' his cradle, an' if ever I comn across any o' his bits o' playthings, I'd fall to cryin' an' shakin' like a babby. I kept out o' th' way o' th' neebors' children even. I wasna like Rosanna. I couldna see quoite clear what th' Lord meant, an' I couldna help murmuring sad and heavy. That's just loike us men, Mester; just as if th' dear wench as had give him her life fur food day an' neet, hadna fur th' best reet o' th' two to be weak an' heavy-hearted.

  "But I getten welly over it at last, an' we was beginnin' to come round a bit an' look forrad to th' toime we'd see him agen 'stead o' lookin' back to th' toime we shut th' round bit of a face under th' coffin lid. Day comn when we could bear to talk about him an' moind things he'd said an' tried to say i' his broken babby way. An' so we were creepin' back again to th' old happy quiet, an' we had been for welly six month, when summat fresh come. I'll never forget it, Mester, th' neet it happened. I'd kissed Rosanna at th' door an' left her standin' theer when I went up to th' village to buy summat she wanted. It wur a bright moonlight neet, just such a neet as this, an' th' lass had followed me out to see th' moonshine, it wur so bright an' clear, an' just before I starts she folds both her hands on my shoulder an' says, soft an' thoughtful: --