"Then thou wilt do more for Joyce Barnes than iver thou did either for thy mother or me."
"It need make no difference between us, Sarah."
"Ay, but it will."
"And thou needn't make any change for my wedding. There is room enough for three, I'se warrant."
Sarah looked quickly into the handsome, wavering countenance. It was evident to her, from Steve's remark, that he considered the furniture of the cottage his own. Yet it had been slowly gathered by Sarah's mother and by Sarah herself. He had never taken a thought about it, or given a shilling towards it But still, he had a comfortable conviction that whatever a parent left belonged of right to the son, in preference to the daughter. And Sarah felt that if Steve chose to take all on this ground, he must do so. She would scorn to claim even the additions made with her own earnings since her mother's death, unless Steve should recognize her right and insist upon her taking them.
When she talked the matter over with him in the morning he made no allusion to these articles. Perhaps his facile mind had forgotten them; at any rate, his one anxiety was to make the cottage as pretty as possible for his bride. "And I'll trust it all to thee, Sarah," he said, with a calm, unconscious selfishness that roused in his sister's heart almost as much pity as anger. For she considered that he had been accustomed all his life to look upon her self-denial as his peculiar right, and, after all, it was like expecting consideration from a child to expect it from Steve.
"I'll hev everything as sweet and clean as hands can make 'em," she answered; "but, Steve, Joyce can do what she likes with t' room that will be empty up-stairs."
"What does ta mean, Sarah? Isn't ta going to keep thy own room? There's no fear but what Joyce will be varry pleasant wi' thee, and we'll get along varry contented together."
"Does ta really think I am going to bide on here?"
"To be sure I do. Why not?"
"My word! but thou is mistaken, then. Joyce and me hev nothing likely between us. She hesn't a pleasure above a new dress or a picnic, and she'll hev no end o' company here. I couldn't live among such carryings-on, not I. Old Martha Crossley will let me hev a room, and thou will get on varry well without me. I can see that, my lad."
For it wounded her terribly that Steve made scarcely a decent opposition to this plan, though in reality he was more thoughtless than heartless in the matter. Only, when thoughtlessness wounds love, it is a cruel sin, and Sarah was in a state of rebellious grief the next two weeks. But she cleaned the cottage with an almost superfluous care, though the whitewashing and scrubbing and polishing had all to be done between mill hours. The bitter tears she shed over the work she permitted no human eye to see, for she was well aware that her grief would be little understood, would even, perhaps, be imputed to selfish and unworthy motives.
Yet the simple fact of Steve's marriage was not what hurt her. She had expected that event, bad looked forward to it, and begun to love the girl she had hoped would have been his choice, a good, industrious girl, with whom she would have gladly shared her brother's love and the comfortable home her labor and economy had made. But Joyce Barnes, a gay, idle, extravagant lass of seventeen years, whose highest ambition was a bonnet with artificial flowers, that was a different thing.
Then, also, she had been excluded from all share or sympathy in the affair. Steve had given her no confidence, had never, indeed, named Joyce to her. Perhaps he had feared that she would oppose his marriage; but she felt quite sure that if Steve had confessed his love, and asked her to bear with Joyce, and help her to do right, she could have loved her for his sake. But she had only been thought of when the wedding had been arranged, and her presence in the cottage was likely to interfere with the lovers, Steve had always brought his troubles to her for help and consolation, but he had deliberately shut her out from the joy of his love and marriage.
The day before it took place she got a room from Martha Crossley, and moved her box of clothing there. She did not touch the smallest thing that had been used in common, but it was not without a pang she resigned the simple chairs and tables, bought with much self-denial, and endeared to her by the memory of the mother who had shared it. In the savings-bank there was the sum of eleven pounds in their joint names. Nearly every shilling of it had been placed there by Sarah, and Steve was well aware of the feet. Yet when she proposed to divide it equally, he accepted the proposal without a demur. For of all human creatures, lovers are the most shamelessly selfish, and at this time Steve was ready to sacrifice any one for the pretty girl he was going to marry. It was Sarah's money, and he knew it, but his one thought in the matter was, that it would enable him to take his bride to Blackpool for a whole week.
The summer which followed this marriage was full of grief to Sarah, grief of that kind which lets the life out in pinpricks, small, mean griefs, that a brave, noble heart folds the raiment over and bears. Steve's ostentatious happiness was almost offensive, and she could not but notice that he was never now absent from his loom. She told herself that she ought to be glad, and that she was glad, but still she could not help a sigh for the mother-love and the sister-love which he had so long tried and wounded by his indifference and his laziness.
They met at the mill every day, and Sarah always asked kindly after Joyce. There was little need, however, to do so. Steve could talk of nothing but Joyce, her likings and dislikings, her ailments, her new dresses, or the friends who had been to take a bit of supper with them. Now, it is far easier for a woman to be self-denying than to be just, and, in spite of all her efforts, Sarah did often feel it very hard to listen to him with a show of interest and good-humor.
About the end of the summer there came a change. Steve had finished a beautiful web, and it brought him to the notice of a firm who offered him a larger wage than he was receiving from Burley. "Don't thee take such an offer, Steve," urged Sarah. "Burley hes been varry good and patient wi' thee. Thou may get five shillings a week more and be the worse off, I can tell thee that."
But Joyce thought differently. "Steve's work wasn't common work," she said, "and he had been underpaid for a long time. Steve had a right to better himsen; and it was fair selfishness in Sarah to want to keep him backward, just so as she could hev him working at her elbow." Besides, Joyce had calculated that the five shillings extra would give them a trip every other week; it would do, in fact, so many fine things that Steve felt as if it would be throwing away a fortune to refuse the offer.
So he left Burley's Mill and went to Chorley's, and held himself quite above his old work-fellows in the change. Burley let him go without a word of remonstrance. He was almost glad when there was another face at his loom; yet he watched Sarah anxiously, to see how the change affected her. She was paler, and she sang less at her work, but this alteration had been a gradual one, so gradual that nobody but Jonathan had noticed it.
He looked in vain, however, for any recognition from her. Every day, when he visited the weaving-room, his glance asked her a question she never answered. He tried to meet her coming from chapel, but if he did so she was always with some of her mates, and he could only pass on with a "Good-night, lasses!" to their greeting.
But though all our plans fail, when the time comes the meeting is sure; and one night, as Jonathan was leaving a friend's house at a very late hour, he saw a figure before him that he knew on sight, under any circumstances. He was astonished that Sarah should be out so late, especially as the rain was pouring down, and the night so black that nothing was distinguishable excepting as it passed the misty street lamps. They were quite alone, the village was asleep, and he was soon at her side.
"I hev found thee by thysen at last, Sarah. Whereiver hes ta been, my lass?"
"Granny Oddy is dying. I was keeping the watch until midnight with her."
"What hes ta to say to me now? Steve has left thee altogether now, hesn't he?"
"Ay, but I can't leave him."
"He doesn't need thee now, Sarah."
"But he's going to need me, and that's worse than iver."
"Why-a! I thought he wer doing extra well."
"I think he was niver doing