trial for murder.
"I'd no thought to be looking out for beaux, I can assure you, Sally.—But don't let us talk any more about it; I can't bear to think on it. How is Miss Simmonds? and everybody?"
"Oh, very well; and by the way she gave me a bit of a message for you. You may come back to work if you'll behave yourself, she says. I told you she'd be glad to have you back, after all this piece of business, by way of tempting people to come to her shop. They'd come from Salford to have a peep at you, for six months at least."
"Don't talk so; I cannot come, I can never face Miss Simmonds again. And even if I could—" she stopped, and blushed.
"Ay! I know what you're thinking on. But that will not be this some time, as he's turned off from the foundry,—you'd better think twice afore refusing Miss Simmonds' offer."
"Turned off from the foundry! Jem?" cried Mary.
"To be sure! didn't you know it? Decent men were not going to work with a—no! I suppose I mustn't say it, seeing you went to such trouble to get up an alibi; not that I should think much the worse of a spirited young fellow for falling foul of a rival,—they always do at the theatre."
But Mary's thoughts were with Jem. How good he had been never to name his dismissal to her. How much he had had to endure for her sake!
"Tell me all about it," she gasped out.
"Why, you see, they've always swords quite handy at them plays," began Sally; but Mary, with an impatient shake of her head, interrupted,
"About Jem,—about Jem, I want to know."
"Oh! I don't pretend to know more than is in every one's mouth: he's turned away from the foundry, because folks don't think you've cleared him outright of the murder; though perhaps the jury were loth to hang him. Old Mr. Carson is savage against judge and jury, and lawyers and all, as I heard."
"I must go to him, I must go to him," repeated Mary, in a hurried manner.
"He'll tell you all I've said is true, and not a word of lie," replied Sally. "So I'll not give your answer to Miss Simmonds, but leave you to think twice about it. Good afternoon!"
Mary shut the door, and turned into the house.
Her father sat in the same attitude; the old unchanging attitude. Only his head was more bowed towards the ground.
She put on her bonnet to go to Ancoats; for see, and question, and comfort, and worship Jem, she must.
As she hung about her father for an instant before leaving him, he spoke—voluntarily spoke for the first time since her return; but his head was drooping so low she could not hear what he said, so she stooped down; and after a moment's pause, he repeated the words,
"Tell Jem Wilson to come here at eight o'clock to-night."
Could he have overheard her conversation with Sally Leadbitter? They had whispered low, she thought. Pondering on this, and many other things, she reached Ancoats.
Chapter XXXV.
"Forgive Us Our Trespasses"
"Oh, had he lived,
Replied Rusilla, never penitence
Had equalled his! full well I know his heart,
Vehement in all things. He would on himself
Have wreaked such penance as had reached the height
Of fleshly suffering,—yea, which being told,
With its portentous rigour should have made
The memory of his fault, o'erpowered and lost
In shuddering pity and astonishment,
Fade like a feeble horror."
Southey's "Roderick."
As Mary was turning into the street where the Wilsons lived, Jem overtook her. He came upon her suddenly, and she started.
"You're going to see mother?" he asked tenderly, placing her arm within his, and slackening his pace.
"Yes, and you too. Oh, Jem, is it true? tell me."
She felt rightly that he would guess the meaning of her only half expressed inquiry. He hesitated a moment before he answered her.
"Darling, it is; it's no use hiding it—if you mean that I'm no longer to work at Duncombe's foundry. It's no time (to my mind) to have secrets from each other, though I did not name it yesterday, thinking you might fret. I shall soon get work again, never fear."
"But why did they turn you off, when the jury had said you were innocent?"
"It was not just to say turned off, though I don't think I could have well stayed on. A good number of the men managed to let out they should not like to work under me again; there were some few who knew me well enough to feel I could not have done it, but more were doubtful; and one spoke to young Mr. Duncombe, hinting at what they thought."
"Oh Jem! what a shame!" said Mary, with mournful indignation.
"Nay, darling! I'm not for blaming them. Poor fellows like them have nought to stand upon and be proud of but their character, and it's fitting they should take care of that, and keep that free from soil and taint."
"But you,—what could they get but good from you? They might have known you by this time."
"So some do; the overlooker, I'm sure, would know I'm innocent. Indeed, he said as much to-day; and he said he had had some talk with old Mr. Duncombe, and they thought it might be better if I left Manchester for a bit; they'd recommend me to some other place."
But Mary could only shake her head in a mournful way, and repeat her words,
"They might have known thee better, Jem."
Jem pressed the little hand he held between his own work-hardened ones. After a minute or two, he asked,
"Mary, art thou much bound to Manchester? Would it grieve thee sore to quit the old smoke-jack?"
"With thee?" she asked, in a quiet, glancing way.
"Ay, lass! Trust me, I'll ne'er ask thee to leave Manchester while I'm in it. Because I've heard fine things of Canada; and our overlooker has a cousin in the foundry line there.—Thou knowest where Canada is, Mary?"
"Not rightly—not now, at any rate;—but with thee, Jem," her voice sunk to a soft, low whisper, "anywhere—"
What was the use of a geographical description?
"But father!" said Mary, suddenly breaking that delicious silence with the one sharp discord in her present life.
She looked up at her lover's grave face; and then the message her father had sent
