CHAPTER XIV.
GEORGE BRANFORD'S HOME.
A low sigh, that was all, but the quick ears of Betsy Branford heard it, and she looked toward the table at which her husband, with bowed head, was sitting, and then a heavier sigh escaped her own lips. She sat in a low rocker near one of the windows of their humble kitchen, paler and thinner than usual, for at her feet was a cradle in which a babe of only a few weeks lay. The babe slept quietly, however, and after that sigh escaped her, she turned and gazed out of the window and off toward the hills, with the same troubled look that had been in her eyes all the morning.
George was in great trouble just then, but the change that brought it was small compared with the change in him, wrought since the winter before. Having once accepted Christ as his Saviour, he had gone manfully about his daily duties amid his old temptations and associations, and in spite of jeers and ridicule he had kept the faith. He had grown wonderfully in grace also, and he and Sailor Jack had become fast friends, and had more than once knelt together and prayed for the Master's blessing upon the Black Forge people.
What a difference it makes in a man when he is "clothed and in his right mind?" Betsy Branford would have told you that she could scarcely believe herself that this strong, manly, sober, industrious George Branford, was the wild, reckless, drinking, ungodly man whom she had called husband so short a time before. He was so strong in his faith, too; so sure that God heard and answered prayer, that she had, even in these few months of his Christian life, come to lean upon him, and to look to him for help in her own religious growth. When, now, he happened to be cast down and discouraged, her own heart grew weak, and her faith failed.
What was the trouble? Why this—and no wonder the strong man grew faint for a moment: the last morsel of food in that house had been eaten that morning. Not a mouthful remained for that frail mother; not a mouthful for the little children; not even a drop of milk for that sleeping babe. Nor was this extreme want due to any fault or neglect of that strong, manly husband. The little that came to him when the Forge Mills shut down had been carefully husbanded. He had used his money only for the barest necessaries of life, and he had earned every cent he could during the weeks the mills had been still. But with hundreds of idle men seeking and clamoring for work, there had been but little for each one, and the pay for that little was meagre indeed, and soon exhausted.
It was a large family, too, for one pair of hands to provide for. Mr. Branford, Sr., ever since the strike, had hung about the saloons, and the little he earned went into the rumseller's till, or was whiffed away in smoke. He came around to the house, however, for his meals, and uttered many a bitter oath if he was obliged to go away without them. Then there were the three sisters, all Christians now, and practicing self-denial in every way, and ready to do any honest work; but they got little, and this was their only home. Even now they had gone out to the hills with Betsy's older children, hunting for chestnuts that bright October morning that they might sell them for bread. Of those older children there were three, and now in the cradle lay a fourth; and then there was the wife and mother, and lastly the strong, hearty husband and father. Ten mouths in all! Is it any wonder that with his scanty work and scantier pay, and with his most rigid economy, too, they had now reached a condition of absolute want?
When the placards had announced the possibility of the mills starting up early the next month, new hope had come to George Branford's breast. This struggle with absolute want would be short, and soon over now, he thought. He had met Mr. Bacon, in fact, only a few days before, and that gentleman, stopping him, had asked:
"George, do you feel competent to take charge of the jack rooms, in case we start up the mills next month?"
"Yes, sir," George had promptly answered, a great hope filling his heart.
"Well, then, we'll book you for that position; but I'll see you again," Mr. Bacon had pleasantly replied, as he drove on.
This had meant more to George than you and I can realize; it would be the best position and the largest pay he had ever received in his life. One of the sisters could stay out of the mill now, and help Betsy with the children and the housework, and it would be so much nicer for them all. So he had built his day dreams for those he loved, and his heart had swelled with gratitude toward God, who was dealing so graciously with him. But this morning all those dreams and hopes had been rudely dashed to the ground. The huge posters instigated by Hyde and his followers had appeared, and it was rumored that now the mills would not start up at all. For the first time, then, in all those weary weeks, George had become despondent, and his despondency fell like a dark cloud over his poor wife's heart. Without a word they had for an hour sat there, she at the window and he at the table. He had not meant that his low sigh should be heard. He had struggled hard to suppress it, but for his life he could not keep it back. Perhaps it was the best thing he could have done, however, for when Betsy looked over at him, and a heavier sigh escaped her lips, he aroused himself. A Bible lay on the table before him. He opened it listlessly. Was it chance that his eye immediately rested upon these words: "Call unto me, and I will answer thee, and shew thee great and mighty things, which thou knowest not?"
He read the words aloud, and to Betsy, who had not even noticed that he had raised his head, they came with a suddenness and power that brought back her faith in God with a quick rush that overflowed her heart.
"Oh, George!" she exclaimed, rising and coming hastily over to his side, "how could we doubt God so, just as though he could not even now give us all we need and more?"
"You are right, darling," he said, resolutely. And with her he knelt there, and together they asked God to forgive their lack of faith, and to give them a trust that would leave all things temporal, as well as spiritual, in his hands. They rose from their knees greatly comforted, and walked over to the window together.
"There is Bill Davis' boat!" exclaimed George, suddenly, as his eye fell on the rude dory hitched in the brook near the house. "I believe I will borrow it, and go down the bay clamming. There will be a good tide a little before noon. Then if the girls get some nuts they can exchange them for crackers, and we shall be provided for to-day."
"Why not go down to Long Point—that is a good place for clams; and then you can see Ray?" asked Betsy.
"I'm afraid he will insist on knowing how we are situated here at home," replied her husband, "and will make me take some money. You know when you were sick he made me take ten dollars, and then when here two weeks ago he left five dollars with you. It seems too bad to take his money when he is working so hard to get an education."
"Your going to Long Point won't make any difference about that," said Betsy; "for if he don't see you before long, he will surely come here. He knows well enough that you have hard work to get along, and he said to me when here that he ought to bear his part of the expenses in this crisis just as much as you."
"I know he feels so, and his willingness to do for us forms one of the very reasons why I want to receive as little help from him as possible," replied George. "But Long Point is a good place for clams, and I will go down there, since you have suggested it. It may, perhaps, be the way in which the Lord is going to answer our prayers." And getting his basket and hoe, and putting on a pair of heavy boots, he prepared to go.
Before he left the house, however, there came a knock at the door. On opening it, Mr. Jacob Woodhull stepped in, with a large pail in his hand.
"How are you, George? How do you do, Mrs. Branford? Fine day! I was going up town, and thought I would bring you along a pail of milk," he said, extending the pail he carried to George. "When you have three or four of those fellows," and he pointed at the cradle, "milk always comes in handy."
"Indeed, it does; and you don't know how thankful we are for it," Betsy answered, while George went into the pantry to empty the pail.
"Perhaps I do now," the old gentleman replied, with a smile.
A moment later the husband and wife were alone. They looked at each other a few moments, and then George slowly repeated the words: "Call upon me, and I will answer thee," "God has begun to answer us already, Betsy," he said, gently and reverently. Then kissing her and the sleeping child, he left the house.
He had no difficulty in securing the boat, and soon was pulling rapidly down the bay. An hour later he landed on Long Point, and, as the tide was already well out, he took his basket and hoe and began his search for the delicious bivalves. The tide proved to be a favorable one, and his basket was nearly full, when a voice suddenly exclaimed:
"You have done well, George; but I'll show you a quicker way yet, and we'll fill your basket. Then you must come up to the house and take dinner with me."
It was Ray who spoke, and with a six-tined fork in his hand he came down the bank to meet his brother. They shook hands cordially, and then Ray, with a few turns of his fork, threw out enough to fill the basket to its utmost capacity.
"There, now, pull your boat up, and secure it against the incoming tide, George, while I cover these clams over with rock weed and set them up there in the shade. Then we'll go up to the house," said Ray.
As they walked along, Ray questioned George as to the family, and soon learned the condition of things at the old home. He also learned for the first time of the threatening placards that had been put out, and the probability that the mills would not start, after all.
"I tell you what it is, George," Ray said, as they drew near the house, "I am coming up to the village to-morrow evening, and will come on down home for a while. We'll then talk these matters over, and see what the outlook for you is. But give yourself no anxiety as to the future. I told you long ago I stood ready to help you. The trouble is, you in your unselfishness have wanted to carry this burden alone, and I selfishly have allowed you to do it. Ten mouths are a good many to satisfy, and for the next month you must let me bear the whole burden."
"But you know you have helped me already, Ray," said George, "and I knew how anxious you were to go to some good school this fall, so I tried to get through with the burden as well as I could, without letting you know about it."
"You great big unselfish brother!" replied Ray, tears coming into his eyes. "I shall help you, nevertheless. God can provide a way for me to go to school, if that is his will."
After dinner, Ray accompanied George back to the boat, wheeling on a barrow two bushels of nice potatoes. Having placed them in the dory, he handed George two dollars, saying: "This is all I have by me now, but it will last you over to-morrow. I will get more of Mr. Woodhull when he comes home this evening, and to-morrow night I will bring you enough to pay your rent and keep you running until the mill starts up. If anything prevents that, we'll see what else we can find for you to do."
George wrung the generous boy's hand until he winced with the pain, and then, entering his boat, pulled with a light heart off toward home.
The next evening a high wind was blowing directly down the bay, and heavy clouds covered the sky; so Ray drove around to the village. Putting his horse under one of the First Church sheds, he did his errands, and then walked on down to the Forge.
George and he were soon so busy talking over the family affairs, and the prospect of the mills starting up, that he took no notice of the lapse of time, and was surprised when the clock struck eleven.
"Well, George," he said, on rising to go, "if the mills start up on the first of November, I should accept the position Mr. Bacon has offered you. It is your right, and I should leave the result to God. Possibly this threatening of Hyde and the others is all bluster, and if they find that they cannot intimidate the corporation, they will back down, as they did in July. I heard up at the village that the managers knew where they could get all the men they wanted, and that they really intended to start in November with a full force."
"I hope it may prove so," answered George, "but father was in this noon, and he declared the mills would never start again. He is thick with Hyde and Willis, and ought to know what they are about."
"Time alone can tell," replied Ray, "but here is the money I promised." And he handed George thirty dollars, and his three sisters and Betsy five dollars each. "I have some more yet which I have saved, and you shall have every dollar of it if necessary." And to avoid their profuse thanks he hurried out of the house.
As he turned the corner and came on the main street, he heard a step behind him, and glancing quickly around he caught sight of a figure hurrying off in the darkness. He needed no second glance to enable him to recognize that stooping figure, and slow, shuffling gait as belonging to his own father, and a desire to know where he could be going at that time of night led him to turn and follow slowly along behind him.
He had not far to go, for his father turned up the first side street leading toward the mills, and soon stopped before a small building. Ray knew it was a low groggery, but the shutters were down, and the place seemed to be deserted. He found a moment later, however, that such was not the real case, for at his father's knock, the door quickly opened, and he entered.
"That means a night of wild carousing, with companions as reckless as himself," said Ray, bitterly, as he turned to retrace his steps. "O Lord," he then cried, "wilt thou not bring him soon to a knowledge of thyself?"
As he turned on to the main street again, he glanced back along the passage way. The door of the saloon was now open, and in the light that streamed forth he recognized the four men who suddenly came out and went on up the alley toward the mills. They were his father, a man named Smith, and Blake and Hyde, the leaders of the strike. He also heard some one in the groggery call out to the men as they hastened away: "Come back here, boys, as quick as possible."
What could the men be going to do? A dark foreboding of some great evil came to Ray's heart, as he noiselessly followed on after the four men. Were they about to commit some crime? He did not dare approach too closely, lest his presence should be discovered. And when he reached the tall fence forming the mill yard he had lost sight of them. He listened, but heard no steps; he could not even tell which way they had now gone. He remembered that a ways down that side of the fence on which he was standing there was a small door leading directly to the mills, but it was seldom used. He would go down as far as that, and see if it was closed. He soon reached it, and found that it was firmly fastened. He breathed easier. Perhaps the men were only out on some drunken frolic, after all; and provoked at himself for his needless apprehension, he hurried back to the main street, and went almost on a run up town. When he reached the hill he went more slowly, and at its top he turned and looked down upon the village below.
Silence and darkness reigned everywhere. The wind blew terribly, and sent the chilly night air to his very bones. He could not tell why he lingered there, but he did with his eyes fastened upon that part of the darkness which he knew hid the great mills from his sight.
Suddenly he gave a great start. He had seen a glimmer of light down near the largest mill. It grew in brilliancy, and then lights flashed forth from three other buildings in the mill yard, and streamed up into the air, fanned by the fierce wind. He could not be mistaken. The Black Forge Mills were on fire, and in that high wind no human power could save them.