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PAGE 4

"Surly Tim" A Lancashire Story
by [?]

“‘Yo’ p’raps wouldn’t think I’ve been a married woman, Mester,’ she says; ‘but I ha’, an’ 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 alius 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’ mak’ me feel kindly to’ards her; ‘twur 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 alius 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.

“Hows’ever, 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 alius minded me o’ my mother, though th’ old woman deed when I were nobbut a little chap, but I never seed ‘Sanna Brent smile th’out 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 th’ next Sunday, an’ a month fro then we wur wed, an’ if ever God’s sun shone on a happy mon, it shone on one that day, when we come out o’ church together–me and Rosanna–an’ went to our bit o’ a home to begin life again. I coujdna tell thee, Mester–theer 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, and every day I prayed to be made worthy of it. An’ here’s just wheer I’d like to ax a question, Mester, about sum m at ‘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 their-sens. 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 agen.’ 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.