True to his Colours Part 8

'It may be so, Jane,' said her mistress; 'of course what you say is possible, but, I fear, not very probable.'

"She rung the bell, and Georgina answered it with a smirk on her face.

'Just call Hollands, and come in here with him,' said her ladys.h.i.+p. The butler soon came in; and Jane says, if ever the devil looked through any man's eyes, she believes he did through his, as he glared at her with a look of triumph, his mistress's back being turned towards him. Lady Morville then asked them if Jane's story was true, and if Georgina had shown her the bracelet. John Hollands lifts up his hands and eyes, and cries out, 'Was there ever such hypocrisy and deceit!' As for Georgina, she pretends to get into a pa.s.sion, and declares as it was all a make-up thing to rob her and the butler of their characters. And then she says, 'Why, my lady, I've missed things myself, and I've had my suspicions; but I've not liked to say anything. There's a silver pencil-case, which my dear mother gave me, and it's got my initials on it: it's gone from my room, and I can't hear anything about it.' Jane at once pulls the pencil-case out of her pocket, and lays it on the table. 'I see how it is,' she says; 'you two are determined to ruin me; but the Lord above, he knows I'm innocent.--Your ladys.h.i.+p, Georgina made me a present of that pencil-case a short time ago. I didn't want to take it; but she wouldn't be refused, and said I must keep it as a token of good-will from her.'--'Well, did I ever hear such a.s.surance!' cried Georgina. 'I wonder what she'll say next? But one thing's clear, my lady: I can't stay here, to be suspected of robbing your ladys.h.i.+p. I've not lost my character yet, if Jane's lost hers. But, at any rate, she has got your ladys.h.i.+p's bracelet; you found her with it yourself. Now, as she has got the one, she'll know, of course, where the other is. You may be sure, my lady, that the same person as took the one took the pair. It ain't likely there were two thieves in the case. If I might be so bold, I would, if I were in your ladys.h.i.+p's place, ask her to produce _both_ the bracelets, and restore them to you; and when she's done that, it will be for your ladys.h.i.+p to say whether you do or do not believe her to be innocent, and that she's told the truth about my pencil-case.'

"n.o.body said anything for a minute, for it were plain as Lady Morville were very much grieved and perplexed. At last she turns to Jane, and says, 'You hear what Georgina says, Jane; it is not unreasonable. Two bracelets have been taken, and one of the pair is found on you. I cannot say how you came by it, but it seems most likely that you must know where the other is. Produce it, and the matter shall go no further. I've always had the highest opinion of you up to this moment; and if sudden temptation in this case has led you into a sin, the best and wisest thing for you to do is just to own it, and to give up the other bracelet, and then the matter shall drop there, and we will all agree that by-gones shall be by-gones, for the best among us may be overtaken in a fault.' But by this time poor Jane had recovered herself a bit. She dried her tears, and, looking her mistress steadily in the face, said, 'I have told your ladys.h.i.+p the simple truth, and nothing but the truth; and I appeal to your ladys.h.i.+p, have you ever found me out in any untruthfulness or deceit all these years as you've knowed me? I see plainly enough why Mr Hollands and Georgina have been plotting this cruelty against me; but it would, I know, be of no use if I was to tell your ladys.h.i.+p what their carryings on has been--I should not be believed. But there's One whose eyes are in every place, beholding the evil and the good, and he will set it all right when he sees it to be best, and he'll clear my character.'

"No more were said at that time; but in the afternoon Lady Morville sends for Jane, and has her in her own room by herself, and she tells her as appearances are very much against her; but as she'd never knowed anything to her discredit before, and she had borne a very high character all the time as she'd been at the Hall, this matter should be hushed up, but she felt it wouldn't be right for her to remain. And so my poor sister, as she couldn't say no otherwise than she did before, and as she couldn't bear to face the other servants any more, left the Hall that very night by her own wish, and told me her story as I've told it you; for we've talked it over together scores of times, and I've got it quite by heart. And from that day to this she's never looked up; for, as it says in the psalm, 'the iron has entered into her soul.'

"I couldn't stop long after that in Monksworthy, and so we all came over here; and the Lord has prospered us--all but poor Jane; and yet I know she'll tell you he has never left her nor forsaken her, and he's made his promises 'yea and Amen' to her, spite of her sorrow. But it's a very sore trial, and the burden of it lies heavy on her heart still.

"There, sir, you've had the whole of it now, as well as I could give it you; and I'm sure you'll deal gently with the poor creature, like the good Master who wouldn't break the bruised reed."

For a little while no one spoke. Mr Maltby was deeply touched, and Jane, whose face had been for some time past buried in her hands, could not for a while restrain her sobbing. At last she looked up and said: "Yes, dear Mr Maltby, Thomas has told you exactly how it all was, as he has often heard it from me. They tell me not to fret. Ah! But it's good advice easier given than followed. I don't want to murmur; I know it's the Lord's will; but the trouble's gnawing and gnawing my life away. Disgraced, dismissed as a thief and a liar, without a character, a burden instead of a help to those who love me--oh, it _is_ hard, very hard to bear! But those blessed words of the psalm you read, oh, how they have comforted me! And in that Word of G.o.d I know I shall find peace and strength. Ah, that reminds me Thomas has not mentioned to you another thing that added weight to my burden. I had, when I was living at the Hall, a little Bible of my dear mother's, which I used to read every day. Only a very short time before the day when the bracelet was shown me, that Bible was taken out of my box; and I've never seen it since. I asked all the other servants about it, but every one declared they had neither touched nor seen it. It could not have been taken for its value, for it was very old, and worn-looking, and shabby, and the paper and print were very poor; but I loved it because it was my dear mother's, and had been given to her as a reward when she was a very little girl. It had her maiden name and the year of our Lord in it--'Mary Williams. June 10, 1793.' Oh! It was such a precious book to me, for I had drawn a line in red-ink under all my favourite texts, and I could find anything I wanted in it in a moment! I can't help fearing that John Hollands or Georgina took it away just to spite me."

"Poor Jane!" said the vicar gently and lovingly "your story is a sad one indeed. Truly the chastening must for the present be not joyous, but grievous; and yet it comes from the hand of a Father who loves you, who will, I doubt not, cause it in due time to bring forth the peaceable fruit of righteousness."

"And you do, then, dear sir," cried Jane, with tearful earnestness, "believe, after what you have heard, that I am really innocent of the charge which has been made against me?"

"Believe it, Jane!" exclaimed Mr Maltby; "yes, indeed! I could not doubt your innocence for a moment; and remember, the Lord himself knows it, and will make it before long as clear as the noonday."

"Oh, thank you, dear sir, a thousand times for those cheering words! I am so glad now that all has been told you; I feel my heart lighter already. Yes, I _will_ trust that light will come in _his_ time."

"It will," replied the vicar, "and before long too. I feel firmly persuaded, I can hardly tell you why, that it will not be so very long before this dark cloud shall pa.s.s away."

"May the Lord grant it!" said Thomas Bradly; and added, "You understand now, sir, exactly how matters lie; and we shall both feel the happier that you know all, for we are sure that we shall always have your sympathy and prayers, and if anything should turn up we shall know where to go for advice; and in the meantime, we must wait and be patient. I can't help feeling with you that, somehow or other, poor Jane's getting near the end of the wood, and will come out into the suns.h.i.+ne afore so very long."

CHAPTER EIGHT.

TANTALISING.

A few days after the disclosure of Jane Bradly's trouble to the vicar, he met her brother Thomas in the evening hurrying away from his house.

"Nothing amiss at home, I hope, Thomas?" he inquired.

"Nothing amiss, thank you, sir, in my home, but a great deal amiss in somebody else's. There's nearly been an accident this afternoon to a goods train, and it's been owing to Jim Barnes having had too much drink; so they've just paid him off, and sent him about his business."

"I'm afraid," said the vicar, "there has been too much cause for such a strong measure. Poor James has been a sad drunken fellow, and it is a wonder they have kept him on so long."

"So it is, indeed, sir; for it's risking other people's lives to have such as him about a station. I suppose they have not liked to turn him off before partly because he's got such a lot of little 'uns to feed, and partly because it ain't often as he's plainly the worse for liquor when he's at his work. But when a man's as fond of the drink as Jim Barnes is, it ain't possible for him to keep off it always just when it suits his interests. And then there's another thing which makes chaps like him unfit to be trusted with having to do with the trains--who's to be sure that he ain't so far the worse for drink as to be confused in his head, even when he shows no signs of being regularly tipsy?"

"Who, indeed, Thomas? I am very sorry for poor James and his family; but I am sure he is not the man, while he keeps his present habits, to be trusted with work on the line, which requires a steady hand and a cool head."

"Well, sir, I hope he'll begin to see that himself. Now's the time to get at him, and so I'm just going down to try what I can do with him.

Jim's never been one of my sort, but he's not been one of the worst of the other sort neither. He's a good-natured fellow, and has got a soft heart, and I've never had a spiteful word from him since I've knowed him."

"Yes, Thomas, I believe that's true of him," said Mr Maltby; "he has been always very civil and obliging to me. But, as you know, I have tried more than once to draw him out of the slough of intemperance on to firm ground, but in vain. I trust, however, that G.o.d may bless your loving endeavours to bring him now over to the right side."

"I trust so too, sir."

The house where Barnes lived was in one of the worst and dirtiest parts of Crossbourne; and as some of the inhabitants, whose temperament inclined to the gloomy, declared Crossbourne to be the dirtiest town in England, the situation of Jim's dwelling was certainly not likely to be favourable to either health or comfort. There are streets in most towns of any considerable size which persons who are fortunate enough to live in more agreeable localities are quite content with just looking down, and then pa.s.sing on, marvelling, it may be, to themselves how such processes as was.h.i.+ng and cooking can ever be carried on with the slightest prospect of success in the midst of such grimy and unsavoury surroundings. It was in such a street that James Barnes and his family existed, rather than lived; for life is too vigorous a term to be applied to the time dragged on by those who were unfortunate enough to breathe so polluted an atmosphere. There are some places which, in their very decay, remind you of better times now past and gone. It was not so with the houses in these streets; they looked rather as if originally built of poverty-stricken and dilapidated materials. And yet none of them were really old, but the blight of neglect was heavy upon them. Nearly at the bottom of one of these streets was the house inhabited by the dismissed railway porter, and to this Thomas Bradly now made his way.

Outside the front door stood a knot of women with long pipes in their mouths, bemoaning Jim's dismissal with his wife, and suggesting some of those original grounds of consolation which, to persons in a higher walk of life, would rather aggravate than lessen the trial. Two of the youngest children of the family, divested of all superfluous clothing, were giving full play to their ill-fed limbs in the muddy gutter, dividing their time between personal a.s.saults on each other, and splas.h.i.+ngs on the by-standers from the liquid soil in which they were revelling, being occasionally startled into a momentary silence by a violent cuff from their mother when they became more than ordinarily uproarious.

The outer door stood half-open, and disclosed a miserable scene of domestic desolation. The absence of everything that could make home really home was the conspicuous feature. There was a table, it is true; but then it was comparatively useless in its disabled state--one of the leaves hanging down, and just held on by one unbroken hinge, reminding you of a man with his arm in a sling. There were chairs also, but none of them perfect; rather suggesting by their appearance the need of caution in the use of them than the prospect of rest to those who might confide their weight to them. A shelf of crockery ware was the least unattractive object; but then every article had suffered more or less in the wars. Nothing was clean or bright, few things were whole, and fewer still in their proper places. The two or three dingy prints on the walls, originally misrepresentations in flaring colours of scriptural or other scenes, hung in various degrees of crookedness; while articles of clothing, old and new, dirtier and less dirty, were scattered about in all directions, or suspended, just where necessity or whim had tossed them. There was on the available portion of the table part of a loaf of bread, a lump of b.u.t.ter still half-wrapped in the dirty piece of newspaper which had left some of its letters impressed on its exposed side, a couple of herrings, a mug half-full of beer, and two or three onions. And in the midst of all this chaos, on one side of the grate, which was one-third full of expiring ashes, and two-thirds full of dust, sat James Barnes in his railway porter's dress and cap, looking exceedingly crestfallen and unhappy.

"Good evening, Jim," said Thomas Bradly, making his way to the fire- place, and taking a seat opposite to Barnes; "I was sorry to hear bad news."

"Yes, bad indeed, Thomas--you've heard it, I see. Yes, they've given me the sack; and what's to be done now, I'm sure I don't know. Some people's born to luck; 'tain't my case."

"Nay, Jim," cried the other, "you're out there: there's no such thing as luck, and no one's born to good luck. But there's an old proverb which comes pretty near the truth, and it's this, 'Diligence is the mother of good luck.' I don't believe in luck or chance myself, but I believe in diligence, with G.o.d's blessing. It says in the Bible, 'The hand of the diligent maketh rich.'"

"Well, and I have been diligent," exclaimed Jim: "I've never been away from my work a day scarcely. But see what a lot of children I've got, and most of them little 'uns; and now they've gone and turned me off at a moment's notice. What do you say to that? Isn't that hard lines?"

"It ain't pleasant, certainly, Jim; but come, now, what's the use of fencing about in this way? Jim Barnes, just you listen to me. There's not a pleasanter chap in the town than yourself when you're sober-- everybody says so, from the vicar down to Tommy Tracks. Now it's of no use to lay the blame on the wrong shoulders. You know perfectly well that if you'd have let the drink alone things would never have come to this, and you wouldn't have been living now in such a dirty hole. But I'm not come down here, Jim, to twit you with what's done, and can't be undone now. If you've done wrong, well, there's time to turn over a new leaf and do better; and now's your time. You see what the drink's brought you to; and if you was to get another place to-morrow, you wouldn't keep it long. There's no business as ever I heard of where the masters advertise in the papers, 'So many drunkards wanted for such a work.' No, no, Jim; just you think the matter over, and pray to the Lord to show you the right way. You know my 'Surgery' at the back of my house: you come up there to-night and have a talk with me; it's no use trying to have it here. I think I'll show you a door as'll lead to better ways, and better times; and you shan't want a good friend or two, Jim, to give you a helping hand, if you'll only try, by G.o.d's help, to deserve them."

Poor Jim's head had become bowed down on to his hands during this plain speech, and the tears began to make their way through his fingers. Then he stretched out one hand towards his visitor without lifting up his head, and said, in a half-choked voice, "Thank you, Thomas; I'll come, that I will,--I'll come; and thank you kindly for coming to look after me."

And he kept his word. Just as it was getting dark a tap was heard at Bradly's "Surgery" door, and James Barnes was admitted into a bright and cheery room--such a marvellous contrast, in its neatness, order, and cleanliness, to his own miserable dwelling. When the two men were seated, one on either side of the fire-place--which was as brilliant as Brunswick black and polis.h.i.+ng could make it--Bradly began:--

"James Barnes, this night may be the turning-point for good and for happiness, for you and yours, both for this world and the next. I want you to sign the pledge and keep it. You've tried for a good long time how you can do _with_ the drink--and a poor do it has been; now try how you can do _without_ it. Never mind what old mates may say; never mind what such as Will Foster and his set may say; never mind what your wife may say,--she'll come round and join you if you're only firm,--just you sign, and then we'll ask G.o.d to bless you, and to enable you to keep your pledge."

"Thomas, I will," said James Barnes, much moved; "all as you've said's perfectly true--I know it. The drink's been my curse and my ruin; it's done me and mine nothing but harm; and I can see what doing without it has been to you and yours. Give me the pen; I'll sign."

The signature was made, and then, while both men knelt, Thomas Bradly poured out his heart in prayer to G.o.d for a blessing on his poor friend, and that he might truly give his heart and life to the Lord. "And now, James," said Bradly, "I'll find you a job to go on with, and I'll speak to the vicar, and you and yours shan't starve till we can set you on your feet again."

James Barnes thanked his new friend most warmly, and was turning to the door, but still lingered. Then he came back to the fire and sat down again, and said, "Thomas, I've summat to tell you which I've been wanting to mention to you for more nor a week, and yet I ain't had the courage to come and say it like a man."

"Well, Jim, now's the time."

"Thomas," said the other sorrowfully, "I've done you a wrong, but I didn't mean to do it; it's that drink as was at the bottom of it."

"Well, Jim," replied Bradly, smiling, "it can't have been much of a wrong, I doubt, as I've never found it out."

"I don't know how that may be, Thomas, but you shall hear. You remember the morning when poor Joe was found cut to pieces on the line just below the foot-bridge?"

"Yes, Jim, I remember it well; it was the day before Christmas-day."

"Well, Thomas, it were the day before that. I was on the platform in the evening, waiting for the half-past five o'clock train to come in from the north. It were ten minutes or more late, as most of the trains was that day. When it stopped at our station, a gent wrapped up in a lot of things, with a fur cap on his head, a pair of blue spectacles over his eyes, and a stout red scarf round his neck, jumps out of a third-cla.s.s carriage like a shot, and lays hold of my arm, and takes me on one side, and says, 'I want you to do a job for me,' and he puts a florin into my hand; then he says, 'Do you know Thomas Bradly?' 'Ay,'

says I; 'I know him well.' 'Then take this bag,' says he, 'and this letter to his house as soon as you're off duty. Be sure you don't fail.

You knows the man I mean; he's got a sister Jane as lives with him.'

'All right,' says I. There weren't no more time, so he jumps back into the carriage, and nods to me, and I nods back to him, and the train were gone. It were turned six o'clock when I left the station yard, and the hands was all turning, out from the mills, so I takes the bag--it were a small carpet-bag, very shabby-looking--and the letter in my pocket.

Now, I ought, by rights, to have gone with it at once to your house, and I shouldn't have had any more trouble about it. But as I was pa.s.sing the Railway Inn, I says to myself, 'I'll just step in and have a pint;'

but I wouldn't take the bag in with me, as perhaps some one or other might be axing me questions about it, and it weren't no business of theirs, so I just sets it down on the step outside, and goes in and changes my florin and gets my pint of ale. Well, I got a-gossiping with the landlady, and had another pint, and when I came out the bag were gone. I couldn't believe my eyes at first, for I've often left things on benches and steps outside the publics, and never knowed 'em touched afore this; for they're as honest a people in Crossbourne as you'll find anywhere. Howsomever, the bag were gone; there were no mistake about that. I went round into the yard and axed the hostler, but he hadn't seed n.o.body about. I looked up and down, but never a soul could I see as had a bag in his hand, so what to do I couldn't tell. Then I thought, 'Maybe some one's carried it back to the station by mistake.'

So I went back, but it weren't there. I can tell you Thomas, I were never more mad with myself in all my life; for though I haven't been one of your sort, I've always respected you, and I'd rather have lost almost any one else's things than yours. I only hope it ain't of much consequence, as it were a very shabby bag, and didn't seem to have much in it, for it were scarcely any weight at all."

"Well, James, don't fret about it," said the other; "you meant no harm.

As to the value of the bag, I know nothing more than you've told me, for I haven't been expecting anything of the sort. I only trust it'll be a warning to you, and that you'll stick firm to your pledge, and keep on the outside of the beer-shops and publics for the future."