Chapter II: "for Better, for Worse."

ADAM LIVESEY was not fated to be long without a companion. His mother's next door neighbour was a widow, like herself. Her only unmarried daughter had just given up her place to come and live with her, the one who had been at home having lately become the wife of a mechanic.

Mrs. Livesey, as we know, had not been much given to neighbouring, but, being "fond of peace and quietness," was certain to quarrel with nobody. She was silent enough, but Mrs. Allison, being a great talker, had liked her all the better on that account. So she told how Annie was going to be married, and Maggie, her youngest, coming to live with her at home, because she could not be left by herself.

"And lucky for me," she said, "my husband had a trifle of money that came to him only just before he died, or I am afraid he would have run through it; and he left it to me for life, and then it will go, share and share alike, amongst the four girls. Only a trifle when it comes to be divided, but enough to keep a little house over my head while I live, and so as I can have one daughter with me. Maggie is the last. Eh, dear! I hope nobody will want her!"

Maggie was a dark-eyed, rosy-checked damsel, full of spirits, rather too fond of finery, yet kindly hearted and of an affectionate disposition. She had only been home a few days when Mrs. Livesey was taken ill. What so natural as that the one neighbour who had persisted in making her acquaintance should minister to her during her sickness? What so certain as that one pair of hands proving insufficient, the bright-eyed daughter should relieve her mother?

Both were very kind. There could be no mistake about that, and Adam was very grateful, and longed to express his feelings; but having become taciturn by habit, he hardly knew how to begin. He thought he should offer payment, but was afraid of giving offence. However, greatly to his relief, Mrs. Allison guessed from the first hesitating words what was coming, and stopped the rest.

"Don't you say one word about what Maggie and I have done. Mrs. Livesey was heartily welcome to our best, whether by night or day. I felt for her, having no daughter or sister to watch by her. Our turns will come, when we shall want looking after, and somebody will have to do for us what we have done for your mother."

Adam found words to express his thanks, and the friendly widow extended her good offices, put his house in order for him, made all the arrangements that would have fallen naturally to a woman's hand, had there been one of his kindred to undertake them, and laid him under no small obligation by so doing. What so natural as for him to consult such kindly neighbours, and to talk over with them his plans for the future?

"I think I shall sell the few sticks of furniture and go into lodgings," he said. "It is so lonely to come home and find no mother. She was very quiet, but she was always there."

"I wouldn't, if I were you," replied the widow briskly. "It would never do for you to be by yourself. You must have somebody to look after you. If you sold your things, you would get next to nothing for them, and yet there is a tidy little lot. They would cost a good bit if you had to buy them. You'll not be a bachelor always, Mr. Livesey, and it says a deal for your good heart that you denied yourself of marrying and stopped with your mother."

The widow's words were strangely confusing to Adam Livesey, and the suggestion was a novel one to him. The idea of marrying had not entered his mind, though, now he was alone in the world, it came home with great force as the most fitting remedy for his solitude. Almost involuntarily he looked towards the widow's daughter, and she, seeing his glance, turned quickly to the window, though not soon enough to hide the flush that rose to her cheek at the words of her mother.

Maggie Allison was young, pretty, bright, and kind. How different it would be if he had such a face as that to meet him at the threshold! How pleasant to hear her singing about his little house, as she did about her mother's! He had heard her voice often, through the thin walls which divided the tenements, and thought that she was just like a bird, with her cheery voice and active movements. How delightful it would be to have her at one side of the hearth, turning that rosy face towards him, and chatting away about all that had happened during his working hours! Thus cogitated Adam Livesey. Before he went back to his own cottage that night, Mrs. Allison had persuaded him to let things be for a while, until he had time to turn round.

"Maggie and me will see to things for you. Just for a bit, till you settle on something, or somebody to keep house," added the widow, with a half-smile hovering round her features.

Adam thankfully agreed, and went home with his mind full of Maggie Allison, and wondering whether, after all her mother had said about her being the last daughter left, and her dread of losing her, she would look favourably upon him as a suitor. Perhaps if she were only coming next door it would not be like parting! There was hope in that fact.

Then Adam looked at his spare form and homely features, and thought, with a sigh, that he was too old, too plain, too poor for one so young and pretty as Maggie. His dimly-conceived plans for self-improvement must be given up if he married, for in this case he would have to work for a wife, instead of a mother. Well! He had never been afraid of work, and he thought, if he only had such a face as that to look on, and such a voice to cheer him on, he could do more and better than he had hitherto done.

It is easy to foresee the end of these musings. Maggie Allison's image drove out every other tenant from Adam's mind. Her mother, having a shrewd suspicion that the girl would not remain single for her sake, and wishing to keep her near at hand, encouraged his advances, and Maggie was won by the almost reverential wooing of this hitherto reserved and silent man.

There was really only six years difference in their ages, and, under the influence of this new affection, Adam grew younger looking, whilst his natural intelligence lighted up his face, and hope gave it a new expression.

"He worships the very ground I tread on, and I am certain he has never thought about anybody else in all his life," said Maggie; and she was right.

So the two married, and whilst there were only two, things were fairly bright. Adam poured his wages into his wife's hands, as he had formerly done into his mother's, and wished he had more to bring.

Children came, and Maggie could no longer manage to afford herself the bits of finery in which her soul delighted. She found that plenty for two, was but a scanty allowance for four, and scantier still for six, and grumbled accordingly.

Mrs. Allison helped a little from time to time, but finding that Maggie's appeals became more and more frequent, she grew tired, and, without having told her daughter until almost the last moment, left the cottage next door, and went to live near another of her children, whose circumstances were comparatively prosperous.

This was a terrible blow to Adam and his wife, especially the latter. Mrs. Allison went, as if only on a visit to her elder daughter, and then, having taken a cottage, sent a person with authority to remove her goods to the new home.

Then Adam Livesey had an opportunity of judging as to the relative merits of a silent, gloomy mother, and one who was too often a fretful, disappointed, scolding wife.

It had been pleasant, for a time, to be worshipped, to be of the first importance, to have Adam's eyes following her every movement with delighted wonder, to receive from his hands all that he had to give. But after all, Maggie found that they had not much in common, and when money ran short, that admiring looks would not make amends for the lack of it. So the wife grumbled at being a domestic slave, and being quick-tempered as well as keen-witted, often made the house too hot for husband and children.

Adam never retorted. On the contrary, he felt terribly guilty, and reminded himself of those old misgivings that had tormented him before his marriage. "I ought never to have asked a bright young lass like Maggie to tie herself to a grim know-naught of a fellow such as I am. But it can't be undone now. I must just work on, and when the children grow up, they'll help, and things will be better for the mother."

Poor, faithful soul! He loved his wife with the one affection of his heart, and blamed himself for the change in her. He would soothe the frightened little ones, when Maggie's angry words drove them in terror from the hearth. In summer, he would carry one in his arms, and with a couple more running beside him, would wander off into the public parks and silently watch, whilst they played in quick and happy forgetfulness.

Or, if it were winter, and the little ones were driven upstairs to creep into bed in the dark, Adam, remembering his own boyish hungering for the clasp of arms round his neck, would follow stealthily, and kiss and comfort them, or hold a tiny hand in his, until the child forgot its trouble in blessed sleep.

He had learned some lessons as a boy, which he was putting into practice as a man.

Adam had become as silent as his mother used to be. Never angry at Maggie, but very pitiful. Never giving way to the temptation to drink, though not restrained from it by any higher motive than the thought, "Poor lass! I have little enough to take her as it is. I mustn't make the little less, by spending it on myself."

So this poor fellow, with his big heart, his willing hands, his unsatisfied yearnings after knowledge, and his ignorance of things spiritual, went silently about his daily task, each day realising more fully the kind of weight of which his mother had spoken when she talked about "giving up."

It was not giving up work. She had never done that, and Adam was not likely to do it either. Work was the habit of his life, the one thing that gave a sort of satisfaction to his inner consciousness. It was all that he had the power to do, and it must be right to go on, apart from the needs-be, which ever cried in his ears, "Wife and children have to be clothed and fed, and your toil must win food and raiment for them."

The "giving up" was the yielding of all his old hopes and longings, the labouring on like a machine with as little power to turn aside, as little expectation of any future good, either in this world or the next, the working passively rather than patiently, the bearing himself humbly, as one whose opinion of himself is of the lowest. And yet the time was coming when a new and blessed light would burst upon Adam's mental and spiritual darkness, and change the whole of his daily life.