least looks for ‘em. I can’t say I like their way of taking one by surprise, as it were; but then I’m a parish-clerk’s daughter, and could never demean myself to dissenting fashions, always save and except Master Thurstan’s, bless him. However, I’d been caught once or twice unawares, so this time I thought I’d be up to it, and I moved a dry duster wherever I went, to kneel upon in case he began when I were in a wet place. By-and-by I thought, if the man would pray it would be a blessing, for it would prevent his sending his eyes after me wherever I went; for when they takes to praying they shuts their eyes, and quivers th’ lids in a queer kind o’ way—them Dissenters does. I can speak pretty plain to you, for you’re bred in the Church like mysel’, and must find it as out o’ the way as I do to be among dissenting folk. God forbid I should speak disrespectful of Master Thurstan and Miss Faith, though; I never think on them as Church or Dissenters, but just as Christians. But to come back to Jerry. First, I tried always to be cleaning at his back; but when he wheeled round, so as always to face me, I thought I’d try a different game. So, says I, ‘Master Dixon, I ax your pardon, but I must pipeclay under your chair. Will you please to move?’ Well, he moved; and by-and-by I was at him again with the same words; and at after that, again and again, till he were always moving about wi’ his chair behind him, like a snail as carries its house on its back. And the great gaupus never seed that I were pipeclaying the same places twice over. At last I got desperate cross, he were so in my way; so I made two big crosses on the tails of his brown coat; for you see, wherever he went, up or down, he drew out the tails of his coat from under him, and stuck them through the bars of the chair; and flesh and blood could not resist pipeclaying them for him; and a pretty brushing he’d have, I reckon, to get it off again. Well! at length he clears his throat uncommon loud; so I spreads my duster, and shuts my eyes all ready; but when nought comed of it, I opened my eyes a little bit to see what he were about. My word! if there he wasn’t down on his knees right facing me, staring as hard as he could. Well! I thought it would be hard work to stand that, if he made a long ado; so I shut my eyes again, and tried to think serious, as became what I fancied were coming; but forgive me! but I thought why couldn’t the fellow go in and pray wi’ Master Thurstan, as had always a calm spirit ready for prayer, instead o’ me who had my dresser to scour, let alone an apron to iron. At last he says, says he, ‘Sally! will you oblige me with your hand?’ So I thought it were, maybe, Methodee fashion to pray hand in hand; and I’ll not deny but I wished I’d washed it better after blackleading the kitchen fire. I thought I’d better tell him it were not so clean as I could wish, so says I, ‘Master Dixon, you shall have it, and welcome, if I may just go and wash ‘em first.’ But, says he, ‘My dear Sally, dirty or clean, it’s all the same to me, seeing I’m only speaking in a figuring way. What I’m asking on my bended knees is, that you’d please to be so kind as to be my wedded wife; week after next will suit me, if it’s agreeable to you!’ My word! I were up on my feet in an instant! It were odd now, weren’t it? I never thought of taking the fellow, and getting married; for all, I’ll not deny, I had been thinking it would be agreeable to be axed. But all at once, I couldn’t abide the chap. ‘Sir,’ says I, trying to look shamefaced as became the occasion, but for all that feeling a twittering round my mouth that I were afeard might end in a laugh—‘Master Dixon, I’m obleeged to you for the compliment, and thank ye all the same, but I think I’d prefer a single life.’ He looked mighty taken aback; but in a minute he cleared up, and was as sweet as ever. He still kept on his knees, and I wished he’d take himself up; but, I reckon, he thought it would give force to his words; says he, ‘Think again, my dear Sally. I’ve a four-roomed house, and furniture conformable; and eighty pound a year. You may never have such a chance again.’ There were truth enough in that, but it was not pretty in the man to say it; and it put me up a bit. ‘As for that, neither you nor I can tell, Master Dixon. You’re not the first chap as I’ve had down on his knees afore me, axing me to marry him (you see I were thinking of John Rawson, only I thought there were no need to say he were on all-fours—it were truth he were on his knees, you know), and maybe you’ll not be the last. Anyhow, I’ve no wish to change my condition just now.’ ‘I’ll wait till Christmas,’ says he. ‘I’ve a pig as will be ready for killing then, so I must get married before that.’ Well now! would you believe it? the pig was a temptation. I’d a receipt for curing hams, as Miss Faith would never let me try, saying the old way were good enough. However, I resisted. Says I, very stern, because I felt I’d been wavering, ‘Master Dixon, once for all, pig or no pig, I’ll not marry you. And if you’ll take my advice, you’ll get up off your knees. The flags is but damp yet, and it would be an awkward thing to have rheumatiz just before winter.’ With that he got up, stiff enough. He looked as sulky a chap as ever I clapped eyes on. And as he were so black and cross, I thought I’d done well (whatever came of the pig) to say ‘No’ to him. ‘You may live to repent this,’ says he, very red. ‘But I’ll not be hard upon ye, I’ll give you another chance. I’ll let you have the night to think about it, and I’ll just call in to hear your second thoughts, after chapel, to-morrow.’ Well now! did ever you hear the like! But that is the way with all of them men, thinking so much of theirselves, and that it’s but ask and have. They’ve never had me, though; and I shall be sixty-one next Martinmas, so there’s not much time left for them to try me, I reckon. Well! when Jeremiah said that he put me up more than ever, and I says, ‘My first thoughts, second thoughts, and third thoughts is all one and the same; you’ve but tempted me once, and that was when you spoke of your pig. But of yoursel’ you’re nothing to boast on, and so I’ll bid you good night, and I’ll keep my manners, or else, if I told the truth, I should say it had been a great loss of time listening to you. But I’ll be civil—so good night.’ He never said a word, but went off as black as thunder, slamming the door after him. The master called me in to prayers, but I can’t say I could put my mind to them, for my heart was beating so. However, it was a comfort to have had an offer of holy matrimony; and though it flustered me, it made me think more of myself. In the night, I began to wonder if I’d not been cruel and hard to him. You see, I were feverish-like; and the old song of Barbary Allen would keep running in my head, and I thought I were Barbary, and he were young Jemmy Gray, and that maybe he’d die for love of me; and I pictured him to mysel’, lying on his death-bed, with his face turned to the wall ‘wi’ deadly sorrow sighing,’ and I could ha’ pinched mysel’ for having been so like cruel Barbary Allen. And when I got up next day, I found it hard to think on the real Jerry Dixon I had seen the night before, apart from the sad and sorrowful Jerry I thought on a-dying, when I were between sleeping and waking. And for many a day I turned sick, when I heard the passing bell, for I thought it were the bell loud-knelling which were to break my heart wi’ a sense of what I’d missed in saying ‘No’ to Jerry, and so idling him with cruelty. But in less than a three week, I heard parish bells aringing merrily for a wedding; and in the course of the morning, some one says to me, ‘Hark! how the bells is ringing for Jerry Dixon’s wedding!’ And, all on a sudden, he changed back again from a heart-broken young fellow, like Jemmy Gray, into a stout, middle-aged man, ruddy-complexioned, with a wart on his left cheek like life!”
Sally waited for some exclamation at the conclusion of her tale; but receiving none, she stepped softly to the bedside, and there lay Ruth, peaceful as death, with her baby on her breast.
“I thought I’d lost some of my gifts if I could not talk a body to sleep,” said Sally, in a satisfied and self-complacent tone.
Youth is strong and powerful, and makes a hard battle against sorrow. So Ruth strove and strengthened, and her baby flourished accordingly; and before the little celandines were out on the hedge-banks, or the white violets had sent forth their fragrance from the border under the south wall of Miss Benson’s small garden, Ruth was able to carry her baby into that sheltered place on sunny days.
She often wished to thank Mr. Benson and his sister, but she did not know how to tell the deep gratitude she felt, and therefore she was silent. But they understood her silence well. One day, as she watched her sleeping child, she spoke to Miss Benson, with whom she happened to be alone.
“Do you know of any cottage where the people are clean, and where they would not mind taking me in?” asked she.
“Taking you in! What do you mean?” said Miss Benson, dropping her knitting, in order to observe Ruth more closely.
“I mean,” said Ruth, “where I might lodge with my baby—any very poor place would do, only it must be clean, or he might be ill.”
“And what in the world do you want to go and lodge in a cottage for?” said Miss Benson indignantly.
Ruth did not lift up her eyes, but she spoke with a firmness which showed that she had considered the subject.
“I think I could make dresses. I know I did not learn as much as I might, but perhaps I might do for servants and people who are not particular.”
“Servants are as particular as any one,” said Miss Benson, glad to lay hold of the first objection that she could.
“Well! somebody who would be patient with me,” said Ruth.
“Nobody is patient over an ill-fitting gown,” put in Miss Benson. “There’s the stuff spoilt, and what not!”
“Perhaps I could find plain work to do,” said Ruth, very meekly. “That I can do very well; mamma taught me, and I liked to learn from her. If you would be so good, Miss Benson, you might tell people I could do plain work very neatly, and punctually, and cheaply.”
“You’d get sixpence a
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