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diff --git a/old/25725-h.htm.2021-01-25 b/old/25725-h.htm.2021-01-25 new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2ad46df --- /dev/null +++ b/old/25725-h.htm.2021-01-25 @@ -0,0 +1,11010 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + That Lass O' Lowrie's, by Frances Hodgson Burnett + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +Project Gutenberg's That Lass O' Lowrie's, by Frances Hodgson Burnett + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: That Lass O' Lowrie's + 1877 + +Author: Frances Hodgson Burnett + +Release Date: June 8, 2008 [EBook #25725] +Last Updated: March 2, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THAT LASS O' LOWRIE'S *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + THAT LASS O' LOWRIE'S + </h1> + <h2> + By Frances Hodgson Burnett + </h2> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h4> + Charles Scribners Sons - 1877 + </h4> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>THAT LASS O' LOWRIE'S</b> </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I - A Difficult Case </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. - “Liz” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III - The Reverend Harold Barholm </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV - “Love Me, Love My Dog” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V - Outside the Hedge </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI - Joan and the Child </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII - Anice at the Cottage </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII - The Wager of Battle </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX - The News at the Rectory </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X - On the Knoll Road </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI - Nib and His Master Make a Call + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII - On Guard </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII - Joan and the Picture </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV - The Open “Davy” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV - A Discovery </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI - “Owd Sammy” in Trouble </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII - The Member of Parliament </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII - A Confession of Faith </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX - Ribbons </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX - The New Gate-Keeper </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI - Derrick's Question </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII - Master Landsell's Son </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII - “Cannybles” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV - Dan Lowrie's Return </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV - The Old Danger </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI - The Package Returned </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII - Sammy Craddock's “Manny-ensis.” + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XXVIII - Warned </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XXIX - Lying in Wait </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XXX - The Slip of Paper </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XXXI - The Last Blow </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER XXXII - “Turned Methody!” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER XXXIII - Fate </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER XXXIV - The Decision </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER XXXV - In the Pit </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER XXXVI - Alive Yet </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER XXXVII - Watching and Waiting </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER XXXVIII - Recognition </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER XXXIX - A Testimonial </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER XL - Going South </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0041"> CHAPTER XLI - “A Soart o' Pollygy” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0042"> CHAPTER XLII - Ashley-Wold </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0043"> CHAPTER XLIII - Liz Comes Back </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0044"> CHAPTER XLIV - Not Yet </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + THAT LASS O' LOWRIE'S + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I - A Difficult Case + </h2> + <p> + They did not look like women, or at least a stranger new to the district + might easily have been misled by their appearance, as they stood together + in a group, by the pit's mouth. There were about a dozen of them there—all + “pit-girls,” as they were called; women who wore a dress more than half + masculine, and who talked loudly and laughed discordantly, and some of + whom, God knows, had faces as hard and brutal as the hardest of their + collier brothers and husbands and sweethearts. They had lived among the + coal-pits, and had worked early and late at the “mouth,” ever since they + had been old enough to take part in the heavy labor. It was not to be + wondered at that they had lost all bloom of womanly modesty and + gentleness. Their mothers had been “pit-girls” in their time, their + grandmothers in theirs; they had been born in coarse homes; they had fared + hardly, and worked hard; they had breathed in the dust and grime of coal, + and, somehow or other, it seemed to stick to them and reveal itself in + their natures as it did in their bold unwashed faces. At first one shrank + from them, but one's shrinking could not fail to change to pity. There was + no element of softness to rule or even influence them in their half savage + existence. + </p> + <p> + On the particular evening of which I speak, the group at the pit's mouth + were even more than usually noisy. They were laughing, gossiping and + joking,—coarse enough jokes,—and now and then a listener might + have heard an oath flung out as if all were well used to the sound. Most + of them were young women, though there were a few older ones among them, + and the principal figure in the group—the center figure, about whom + the rest clustered—was a young woman. But she differed from the rest + in two or three respects. The others seemed somewhat stunted in growth; + she was tall enough to be imposing. She was as roughly clad as the poorest + of them, but she wore her uncouth garb differently. The man's jacket of + fustian, open at the neck, bared a handsome sunbrowned throat. The man's + hat shaded a face with dark eyes that had a sort of animal beauty, and a + well-molded chin. It was at this girl that all the rough jokes seemed to + be directed. + </p> + <p> + “I'll tell thee, Joan,” said one woman, “we'st ha' thee sweetheartin' wi' + him afore th' month's out.” + </p> + <p> + “Aye,” laughed her fellows, “so we shall. Tha'st ha' to turn soft after + aw. Tha conna stond out again' th' Lunnon chap. We'st ha' thee + sweetheartin', Joan, i' th' face o' aw tha'st said.” + </p> + <p> + Joan Lowrie faced them defiantly: + </p> + <p> + “Tha'st noan ha' me sweetheartin' wi' siccan a foo',” she said, “I amna + ower fond o' men folk at no time. I've had my fill on 'em; and I'm noan + loike to tak' up wi' such loike as this un. An' he's no an a Lunnoner + neither. He's on'y fro' th' South. An th' South is na Lunnon.” + </p> + <p> + “He's getten' Lunnon ways tho',” put in another. “Choppin' his words up + an' mincin' 'em sma'. He's noan Lancashire, ony gowk could tell.” + </p> + <p> + “I dunnot see as he minces so,” said Joan roughly. “He dunnot speak our + loike, but he's well enow i' his way.” + </p> + <p> + A boisterous peal of laughter interrupted her. + </p> + <p> + “I thowt tha' ca'ed him a foo' a minute sin',” cried two or three voices + at once. “Eh, Joan, lass, tha'st goin' t' change thy moind, I see.” + </p> + <p> + The girl's eyes flashed. + </p> + <p> + “Theer's others I could ca' foo's,” she said; “I need na go far to foind + foo's. Foo' huntin's th' best sport out, an' th' safest. Leave th' + engineer alone an' leave me alone too. It 'll be th' best fur yo'.” + </p> + <p> + She turned round and strode out of the group. + </p> + <p> + Another burst of derisive laughter followed her, but she took no notice of + it She took no notice of anything—not even of the two men who at + that very moment passed and turned to look at her as she went by. + </p> + <p> + “A fine creature!” said one of them. + </p> + <p> + “A fine creature!” echoed the other. “Yes, and you see that is precisely + it, Derrick. 'A fine creature'—and nothing else.” + </p> + <p> + They were the young engineer and his friend the Reverend Paul Grace, + curate of the parish. There were never two men more unlike, physically and + mentally, and yet it would have been a hard task to find two natures more + harmonious and sympathetic. Still most people wondered at and failed to + comprehend their friendship. The mild, nervous little Oxonian barely + reached Derrick's shoulder; his finely cut face was singularly feminine + and innocent; the mild eyes beaming from behind his small spectacles had + an absent, dreamy look. One could not fail to see at the first glance, + that this refined, restless, conscientious little gentleman was hardly the + person to cope successfully with Riggan. Derrick strode by his side like a + young son of Anak—brains and muscle evenly balanced and fully + developed. + </p> + <p> + He turned his head over his shoulder to look at Joan Lowrie once again. + </p> + <p> + “That girl,” said Grace, “has worked at the pit's mouth from her + childhood; her mother was a pit girl until she died—of hard work, + privation and ill treatment. Her father is a collier and lives as most of + them do—drinking, rioting, fighting. Their home is such a home as + you have seen dozens of since you came here; the girl could not better it + if she tried, and would not know how to begin if she felt inclined. She + has borne, they tell me, such treatment as would have killed most women. + She has been beaten, bruised, felled to the earth by this father of hers, + who is said to be a perfect fiend in his cups. And yet she holds to her + place in their wretched hovel, and makes herself a slave to the fellow + with a dogged, stubborn determination. What can I do with such a case as + that, Derrick?” + </p> + <p> + “You have tried to make friends with the girl?” said Derrick. + </p> + <p> + Grace colored sensitively. + </p> + <p> + “There is not a man, woman or child in the parish,” he answered, “with + whom I have not conscientiously tried to make friends, and there is + scarcely one, I think, with whom I have succeeded. Why can I not succeed? + Why do I always fail? The fault must be with myself——” + </p> + <p> + “A mistake that at the outset,” interposed Derrick. “There is no 'fault' + in the matter; there is simply misfortune. Your parishioners are so + unfortunate as not to be able to understand you, and on your part you are + so unfortunate as to fail at first to place yourself on the right footing + with them. I say 'at first' you observe. Give yourself time, Grace, and + give them time too.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said the Reverend Paul. “But speaking of this girl—'That + lass o' Lowrie's,' as she is always called—Joan I believe her name + is. Joan Lowrie is, I can assure you, a weight upon me. I cannot help her + and I cannot rid my mind of her. She stands apart from her fellows. She + has most of the faults of her class, but none of their follies; and she + has the reputation of being half feared, half revered. The man who dared + to approach her with the coarse love-making which is the fashion among + them, would rue it to the last day of his life. She seems to defy all the + world.” + </p> + <p> + “And it is impossible to win upon her?” + </p> + <p> + “More than impossible. The first time I went to her with sympathy, I felt + myself a child in her hands. She never laughed nor jeered at me as the + rest do. She stood before me like a rock, listening until I had finished + speaking. 'Parson,' she said, 'if thal't leave me alone, I'll leave thee + alone,' and then turned about and walked into the house. I am nothing but + 'th' parson' to these people, and 'th' parson' is one for whom they have + little respect and no sympathy.” + </p> + <p> + He was not far wrong. The stolid heavy-natured colliers openly looked down + upon 'th' parson.' A 'bit of a whipper snapper,' even the best-natured + called him in sovereign contempt for his insignificant physical + proportions. Truly the sensitive little gentleman's lines had not fallen + in pleasant places. And this was not all. There was another source of + discouragement with which he had to battle in secret, though of this he + would have felt it almost dishonor to complain. But Derrick's keen eyes + had seen it long ago, and, understanding it well, he sympathized with his + friend accordingly. Yet, despite the many rebuffs the curate had met with, + he was not conquered by any means. His was not an easily subdued nature, + after all. He was very warm on the subject of Joan Lowrie this evening—so + warm, indeed, that the interest the mere sight of the girl had awakened in + Derrick's mind was considerably heightened. They were still speaking of + her when they stopped before the door of Grace's modest lodgings. + </p> + <p> + “You will come in, of course?” said Paul. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” Derrick answered, “for a short time. I am tired and shall feel all + the better for a cup of Mrs. Burnie's tea,” pushing the hair back from his + forehead, as he had a habit of doing when a little excited. + </p> + <p> + He made the small parlor appear smaller than ever, when he entered it. He + was obliged to bend his head when he passed through the door, and it was + not until he had thrown himself into the largest easy chair, that the trim + apartment seemed to regain its countenance. + </p> + <p> + Grace paused at the table, and with a sudden flush, took up a letter that + lay there among two or three uninteresting-looking epistles. + </p> + <p> + “It is a note from Miss Anice,” he said, coming to the hearth and applying + his pen-knife in a gentle way to the small square envelope. + </p> + <p> + “Not a letter, Grace?” said Derrick with a smile. + </p> + <p> + “A letter! Oh dear, no! She has never written me a letter. They are always + notes with some sort of business object. She has very decided views on the + subject of miscellaneous letter-writing.” + </p> + <p> + He read the note himself and then handed it to Derrick. + </p> + <p> + It was a compact, decided hand, free from the suspicion of an unnecessary + curve. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Dear Mr. Grace,— + + “Many thanks for the book. You are very kind indeed. Pray + let us hear something more about your people. I am afraid + papa must find them very discouraging, but I cannot help + feeling interested. Grandmamma wishes to be remembered to + you, + + “With more thanks, + + “Believe me your friend, + + “Anice Barholm.” + </pre> + <p> + Derrick refolded the note and handed it back to his friend. To tell the + truth, it did not impress him very favorably. A girl not yet twenty years + old, who could write such a note as this to a man who loved her, must be + rather <i>too</i> self-contained and well balanced. + </p> + <p> + “You have never told me much of this story, Grace,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “There is not much to tell,” answered the curate, flushing again. “She is + the Rector's daughter. I have known her three years. You remember I wrote + to you about meeting her while you were in India. As for the rest, I do + not exactly understand myself how it is that I have gone so far, having so—so + little encouragement—in fact having had no encouragement at all; + but, however that is, it has grown upon me, Derrick,—my feeling for + her has grown into my life. She has never cared for me. I am quite sure of + that, you see. Indeed, I could hardly expect it. It is not her way to care + for men as they are likely to care for her, though it will come some day, + I suppose—with the coming man,” half smiling. “She is simply what + she signs herself here, my friend Anice Barholm, and I am thankful for + that much. She would not write even that if she did not mean it.” + </p> + <p> + “Bless my soul,” broke in Derrick, tossing back his head impatiently; “and + she is only nineteen yet, you say?” + </p> + <p> + “Only nineteen,” said the curate, with simple trustfulness in his friend's + sympathy, “but different, you know, from any other woman I have ever + seen.” + </p> + <p> + The tea and toast came in then, and they sat down together to partake of + it Derrick knew Anice quite well before the meal was ended, and yet he had + not asked many questions. He knew how Grace had met her at her father's + house—an odd, self-reliant, very pretty and youthful-looking little + creature, with the force and decision of half a dozen ordinary women + hidden in her small frame; how she had seemed to like him; how their + intimacy had grown; how his gentle, deep-rooted passion had grown with it; + how he had learned to understand that he had nothing to hope for. + </p> + <p> + “I am a little fearful for the result of her first visit here,” said + Grace, pushing his cup aside and looking troubled. “I cannot bear to think + of her being disappointed and disturbed by the half-savage state in which + these people live. She knows nothing of the mining districts. She has + never been in Lancashire, and they have always lived in the South. She is + in Kent now, with Mrs. Barholm's mother. And though I have tried, in my + short letters to her, to prepare her for the rough side of life she will + be obliged to see, I am afraid it is impossible for her to realize it, and + it may be a shock to her when she comes.” + </p> + <p> + “She is coming to Riggan then?” said Derrick. + </p> + <p> + “In a few weeks. She has been visiting Mrs. Galloway since the Rector gave + up his living at Ashley wolde, and Mrs. Barholm told me to-day that she + spoke in her last letter of coming to them.” + </p> + <p> + The moon was shining brightly when Derrick stepped out into the street + later in the evening, and though the air was somewhat chill it was by no + means unpleasant. He had rather a long walk before him. He disliked the + smoke and dust of the murky little town, and chose to live on its + outskirts; but he was fond of sharp exercise, and regarded the distance + between his lodging and the field of his daily labor as an advantage. + </p> + <p> + “I work off a great deal of superfluous steam between the two places,” he + said to Grace at the door. “The wind coming across Boggart Brow has a way + of scattering and cooling restless plans and feverish fancies, that is + good for a man. Half a mile of the Knoll Road is often enough to blow all + the morbidness out of a fellow.” + </p> + <p> + To-night by the time he reached the corner that turned him upon the Knoll + Road, his mind had wandered upon an old track, but it had been drawn there + by a new object,—nothing other than Joan Lowrie, indeed. The + impression made upon him by the story of Joan and her outcast life was one + not easy to be effaced. The hardest miseries in the lot of a class in whom + he could not fail to be interested, were grouped about that dramatic + figure. He was struck, too, by a painful sense of incongruity. + </p> + <p> + “If she had been in this other girl's niche,” he said, “if she had lived + the life of this Anice——” + </p> + <p> + But he did not finish his sentence. Something, not many yards beyond him, + caught his eye—a figure seated upon the road-side near a collier's + cottage—evidently a pit girl in some trouble, for her head was bowed + upon her hands, and there was a dogged sort of misery expressed in her + very posture. + </p> + <p> + “A woman,” he said aloud. “What woman, I wonder. This is not the time for + any woman to be sitting here alone.” + </p> + <p> + He crossed the road at once, and going to the girl, touched her lightly on + the shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “My lass,” he said good-naturedly, “what ails you?” + </p> + <p> + She raised her head slowly as if she were dizzy and bewildered. Her face + was disfigured by a bruise, and on one temple was a cut from which the + blood trickled down her cheek; but the moonlight showed him that it was + Joan. He removed his hand from her shoulder and drew back a pace. + </p> + <p> + “You have been hurt!” he exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “Aye,” she answered deliberately, “I've had a hurt—a bad un.” + </p> + <p> + He did not ask her how she had been hurt. He knew as well as if she had + told him, that it had been done in one of her father's fits of drunken + passion. He had seen this sort of thing before during his sojourn in the + mining districts. But, shamefully repulsive as it had been to him, he had + never felt the degradation of it as fiercely as he did now. + </p> + <p> + “You are Joan Lowrie?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Aye, I'm Joan Lowrie, if it 'll do yo' ony good to know.” + </p> + <p> + “You must have something done to that cut upon your temple.” + </p> + <p> + She put up her hand and wiped the blood away, as if impatient at his + persistence. + </p> + <p> + “It 'll do well enow as it is,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “That is a mistake,” he answered. “You are losing more blood than you + imagine. Will you let me help you?” + </p> + <p> + She stirred uneasily. + </p> + <p> + Derrick took no notice of the objection. He drew his handkerchief from his + pocket, and, after some little effort, managed to stanch the bleeding, and + having done so, bound the wound up. Perhaps something in his sympathetic + silence and the quiet consideration of his manner touched Joan. Her face, + upturned almost submissively, for the moment seemed tremulous, and she set + her lips together. She did not speak until he had finished, and then she + rose and stood before him immovable as ever. + </p> + <p> + “Thank yo',” she said in a suppressed voice, “I canna say no more.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind that,” he answered, “I could have done no less. If you could + go home now——” + </p> + <p> + “I shall na go whoam to neet,” she interrupted him. + </p> + <p> + “You cannot remain out of doors!” he exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “If I do, it wunnot be th' first toime,” meeting his startled glance with + a pride which defied him to pity or question her. But his sympathy and + interest must have stirred her, for the next minute her manner softened. + “I've done it often,” she added, “an' nowts nivver feared me. Yo' need na + care, Mester, I'm used to it.” + </p> + <p> + “But I cannot go away and leave you here,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “You canna do no other,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + “Have you no friends?” he ventured hesitatingly. + </p> + <p> + “No, I ha' not,” she said, hardening again, and she turned away as if she + meant to end the discussion. But he would not leave her. The spirit of + determination was as strong in his character as in her own. He tore a leaf + from his pocket-book, and, writing a few lines upon it, handed it to her. + “If you will take that to Thwates' wife,” he said, “there will be no + necessity for your remaining out of doors all night.” + </p> + <p> + She took it from him mechanically; but when he finished speaking, her + calmness left her. Her hand began to tremble, and then her whole frame, + and the next instant the note fell to the ground, and she dropped into her + old place again, sobbing passionately and hiding her face on her arms. + </p> + <p> + “I wunnot tak' it!” she cried. “I wunnot go no wheer an' tell as I'm + turned loike a dog into th' street.” + </p> + <p> + Her misery and shame shook her like a tempest. But she subdued herself at + last. + </p> + <p> + “I dunnot see as yo' need care,” she protested half resentfully. “Other + folk dunnot. I'm left to mysen most o' toimes.” Her head fell again and + she trembled from head to foot. + </p> + <p> + “But I do care!” he returned. “I cannot leave you here and will not. If + you will trust me and do as I tell you, the people you go to need know + nothing you do not choose to tell them.” + </p> + <p> + It was evident that his determination made her falter, and seeing this he + followed up his advantage and so far improved it that at last, after a few + more arguments, she rose slowly and picked up the fallen paper. + </p> + <p> + “If I mun go, I mun,” she said, twisting it nervously in her fingers, and + then there was a pause, in which she plainly lingered to say something, + for she stood before him with a restrained air and downcast face. She + broke the silence herself, however, suddenly looking up and fixing her + large eyes full upon him. + </p> + <p> + “If I was a lady,” she said, “happen I should know what to say to yo'; but + bein' what I am, I dunnot. Happen as yo're a gentleman yo' know what I'd + loike to say an' canna—happen yo' do.” + </p> + <p> + Even as she spoke, the instinct of defiance in her nature struggled + against that of gratitude; but the finer instinct conquered. + </p> + <p> + “We will not speak of thanks,” he said. “I may need help some day, and + come to you for it.” + </p> + <p> + “If yo' ivver need help at th' pit will yo' come to me?” she demanded. + “I've seen th' toime as I could ha' gi'en help to th' Mesters ef I'd had + th' moind. If yo'll promise <i>that</i>——” + </p> + <p> + “I will promise it,” he answered her. + </p> + <p> + “An' I'll promise to gi' it yo',” eagerly. “So that's settled. Now I'll go + my ways. Good neet to yo'.” + </p> + <p> + “Good night,” he returned, and uncovering with as grave a courtesy as he + might have shown to the finest lady in the land, or to his own mother or + sister, he stood at the road-side and watched her until she was out of + sight. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. - “Liz” + </h2> + <p> + “Th' owd lad's been at his tricks again,” was the rough comment made on + Joan Lowrie's appearance when she came down to her work the next morning; + but Joan looked neither right nor left, and went to her place without a + word. Not one among them had ever heard her speak of her miseries and + wrongs, or had known her to do otherwise than ignore the fact that their + existence was well known among her fellow-workers. + </p> + <p> + When Derrick passed her on his way to his duties, she looked up from her + task with a faint, quick color, and replied to his courteous gesture with + a curt yet not ungracious nod. It was evident that not even her gratitude + would lead her to encourage any advances. But, notwithstanding this, he + did not feel repelled or disappointed. He had learned enough of Joan, in + their brief interview, to prepare him to expect no other manner from her. + He was none the less interested in the girl because he found himself + forced to regard her curiously and critically, and at a distance. + </p> + <p> + He watched her as she went about her work, silent, self-contained and + solitary. + </p> + <p> + “That lass o' Lowrie's!” said a superannuated old collier once, in answer + to a remark of Derrick's. “Eh! hoo's a rare un, hoo is! Th' fellys is haaf + feart on her. Tha' sees hoo's getten a bit o' skoolin'. Hoo con read a + bit, if tha'll believe it, Mester,” with a touch of pride. + </p> + <p> + “Not as th' owd chap ivver did owt fur her i' that road,” the speaker went + on, nothing loath to gossip with 'one o' th' Mesters.' “He nivver did nowt + fur her but spend her wage i' drink. But theer wur a neet skoo' here a few + years sen', an' th' lass went her ways wi' a few o' th' steady uns, an' + they say as she getten ahead on 'em aw, so as it wur a wonder. Just let + her set her mind to do owt an' she'll do it.” + </p> + <p> + “Here,” said Derrick to Paul that night, as the engineer leaned back in + his easy chair, glowering at the grate and knitting his brows, “Here,” he + said, “is a creature with the majesty of a Juno—though really + nothing but a girl in years—who rules a set of savages by the mere + power of a superior will and mind, and yet a woman who works at the mouth + of a coal-pit,—who cannot write her own name, and who is beaten by + her fiend of a father as if she were a dog. Good Heaven! what is she doing + here? What does it all mean?” + </p> + <p> + The Reverend Paul put up his delicate hand deprecatingly. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Fergus,” he said, “if I dare—if my own life and the lives + of others would let me—I think I should be tempted to give it up, as + one gives up other puzzles, when one is beaten by them.” + </p> + <p> + Derrick looked at him, forgetting himself in a sudden sympathetic + comprehension. + </p> + <p> + “You have been more than ordinarily discouraged to-day,” he said. “What is + it, Grace?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know Sammy Craddock?” was the reply. + </p> + <p> + “'Owd Sammy Craddock'?” said Derrick with a laugh. “Wasn't it 'Owd Sammy,' + who was talking to me to-day about Joan Lowrie?” + </p> + <p> + “I dare say it was,” sighing. “And if you know Sammy Craddock, you know + one of the principal causes of my discouragement. I went to see him this + afternoon, and I have not quite—quite got over it, in fact.” + </p> + <p> + Derrick's interest in his friend's trials was stirred as usual at the + first signal of distress. It was the part of his stronger and more evenly + balanced nature to be constantly ready with generous sympathy and comfort. + </p> + <p> + “It has struck me,” he said, “that Craddock is one of the institutions of + Riggan. I should like to hear something definite concerning him. Why is he + your principal cause of discouragement, in the first place?” + </p> + <p> + “Because he is the man of all others whom it is hard for me to deal with,—because + he is the shrewdest, the most irreverent and the most disputatious old + fellow in Riggan. And yet, in the face of all this, because he is so often + right, I am forced into a sort of respect for him.” + </p> + <p> + “Right!” repeated Derrick, raising his eyebrows. “That's bad.” + </p> + <p> + Grace rose from the chair, flushing up to the roots of his hair,— + </p> + <p> + “Right!” he reiterated. “Yes, <i>right</i> I say. And how, I ask you, can + a man battle against the faintest element of right and truth, even when it + will and <i>must</i> arraign itself on the side of wrong? If I could shut + my eyes to the right, and see only the wrong, I might leave myself at + least a blind content, but I cannot—I cannot. If I could look upon + these things as Barholm does——” But here he stopped, suddenly + checking himself. + </p> + <p> + “Thank God you cannot,” put in Derrick quietly. + </p> + <p> + For a few minutes the Reverend Paul paced the room in silence. + </p> + <p> + “Among the men who were once his fellow-workers, Craddock is an oracle,” + he went on. “His influence is not unlike Joan Lowrie's. It is the + influence of a strong mind over weaker ones. His sharp sarcastic speeches + are proverbs among the Rigganites; he amuses them and can make them listen + to him. When he holds up 'Th' owd parson' to their ridicule, he sweeps all + before him. He can undo in an hour what I have struggled a year to + accomplish. He was a collier himself until he became superannuated, and he + knows their natures, you see.” + </p> + <p> + “What has he to say about Barholm?” asked Derrick—without looking at + his friend, however. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” he protested, “that is the worst side of it—that is miserable—that + is wretched! I may as well speak openly. Barholm is his strong card, and + that is what baffles me. He scans Barholm with the eye of an eagle. He + does not spare a single weakness. He studies him—he knows his + favorite phrases and gestures by heart, and has used them until there is + not a Riggan collier who does not recognize them when they are presented + to him, and applaud them as an audience might applaud the staple jokes of + a popular actor.” + </p> + <p> + Explained even thus far, the case looked difficult enough; but Derrick + felt no wonder at his friend's discouragement when he had heard his story + to the end, and understood it fully. + </p> + <p> + The living at Riggan had never been happily managed. It had been presented + to men who did not understand the people under their charge, and to men + whom the people failed to understand; but possibly it had never before + fallen into the hands of a man who was so little qualified to govern + Rigganites, as was the present rector, the Reverend Harold Barholm. A man + who has mistaken his vocation, and who has become ever so faintly + conscious of his blunder, may be a stumbling-block in another's path; but + restrained as he will be by his secret pangs of conscience, he can + scarcely be an active obstructionist. But a man who, having mistaken the + field of his life's labor, yet remains amiably self-satisfied, and + unconscious of his unfitness, may do more harm in his serene ignorance + than he might have done good if he had chosen his proper sphere. Such a + man as the last was the Reverend Harold. A good-natured, broad-shouldered, + tactless, self-sufficient person, he had taken up his work with a + complacent feeling that no field of labor could fail to be benefited by + his patronage; he was content now as always. He had been content with + himself and his intellectual progress at Oxford; he had been content with + his first parish at Ashley-wold; he had been content then with the + gentle-natured, soft-spoken Kentish men and women; he had never feared + finding himself unequal to the guidance of their souls, and he was not at + all troubled by the prospect Riggan presented to him. + </p> + <p> + “It is a different sort of thing,” he said to his curate, in the best of + spirits, “and new to us—new of course; but we shall get over that—we + shall get over that easily enough, Grace.” + </p> + <p> + So with not a shadow of a doubt as to his speedy success, and with a + comfortable confidence in ecclesiastical power, in whomsoever vested, he + called upon his parishioners one after the other. He appeared at their + cottages at all hours, and gave the same greeting to each of them. He was + their new rector, and having come to Riggan with the intention of doing + them good, and improving their moral condition, he intended to do them + good, and improve them, in spite of themselves. They must come to church: + it was their business to come to church, as it was his business to preach + the gospel. All this implied, in half an hour's half-friendly, + half-ecclesiastical conversation, garnished with a few favorite texts and + religious platitudes, and the man felt that he had done his duty, and done + it well. + </p> + <p> + Only one man nonplussed him, and even this man's effect upon him was + temporary, only lasting as long as his call. He had been met with a dogged + resentment in the majority of his visits, but when he encountered 'Owd + Sammy Craddock' he encountered a different sort of opposition. + </p> + <p> + “Aye,” said Owd Sammy, “an' so tha'rt th' new rector, art ta? I thowt as + mich as another ud spring up as soon as th' owd un wur cut down. Tha + parsens is a nettle as dunnot soon dee oot. Well, I'll leave thee to th' + owd lass here. Hoo's a rare un fur gab when hoo' taks th' notion, an' I'm + noan so mich i' th' humor t' argufy mysen today.” And he took his pipe + from the mantelpiece and strolled out with an imperturbable air. But this + was not the last of the matter. The Rector went again and again, + cheerfully persisting in bringing the old sinner to a proper sense of his + iniquities. There would be some triumph in converting such a veteran as + Sammy Craddock, and he was confident of winning this laurel for himself. + But the result was scarcely what he expected. 'Owd Sammy' stood his ground + like an old soldier. The fear of man was not before his eyes, and + 'parsens' were his favorite game. He was as contumacious and profane as + such men are apt to be, and he delighted in scattering his clerical + antagonists as a task worthy of his mettle. He encountered the Reverend + Harold with positive glee. He jeered at him in public, and sneered at him + in private, and held him up to the mockery of the collier men and lads, + with the dramatic mimicry which made him so popular a character. As + Derrick had said, Sammy Craddock was a Riggan institution. In his youth, + his fellows had feared his strength; in his old age they feared his wit. + “Let Owd Sammy tackle him,” they said, when a new-comer was disputatious, + and hard to manage; “Owd Sammy's th' one to gi' him one fur his nob. Owd + Sammy'll fettle him—graidely.” And the fact was that Craddock's + cantankerous sharpness of brain and tongue were usually efficacious. So he + “tackled” Barholm, and so he “tackled” the curate. But, for some reason, + he was never actually bitter against Grace. He spoke of him lightly, and + rather sneered at his physical insignificance; but he did not hold him up + to public ridicule. + </p> + <p> + “I hav' not quite settled i' my moind about th' little chap,” he would say + sententiously to his admirers. “He's noan siccan a foo' as th' owd un, for + he's a graidely foo', <i>he</i> is, and no mistake. At any rate a little + foo' is better nor a big un.” + </p> + <p> + And there the matter stood. Against these tremendous odds Grace fought—against + coarse and perverted natures,—worse than all, against the power that + should have been ranged upon his side. And added to these discouragements, + were the obstacles of physical delicacy, and an almost morbid + conscientiousness. A man of coarser fibre might have borne the burden + better—or at least with less pain to himself. + </p> + <p> + “A drop or so of Barholm's blood in Grace's veins,” said Derrick, + communing with himself on the Knoll Road after their interview—“a + few drops of Barholm's rich, comfortable, stupid blood in Grace's veins + would not harm him. And yet it would have to be but a few drops indeed,” + hastily. “On the whole I think it would be better if he had more blood of + his own.” + </p> + <p> + The following day Miss Barholm came. Business had taken Derrick to the + station in the morning, and being delayed, he was standing upon the + platform when one of the London trains came in. There were generally so + few passengers on such trains who were likely to stop at Riggan, that the + few who did so were of some interest to the bystanders. Accordingly he + stood gazing, in rather a preoccupied fashion, at the carriages, when the + door of a first-class compartment opened, and a girl stepped out upon the + platform near him. Before seeing her face one might have imagined her to + be a child of scarcely more than fourteen or fifteen. This was Derrick's + first impression; but when she turned toward him he saw at once that it + was not a child. And yet it was a small face, with delicate oval features, + smooth, clear skin, and stray locks of hazel brown hair that fell over the + low forehead. She had evidently made a journey of some length, for she was + encumbered with travelling wraps, and in her hands she held a little + flower-pot containing a cluster of early blue violets,—such violets + as would not bloom so far north as Riggan for weeks to come. She stood + upon the platform for a moment or so, glancing up and down as if in search + of some one, and then, plainly deciding that the object of her quest had + not arrived, she looked at Derrick in a business-like, questioning way. + She was going to speak to him. The next minute she stepped forward without + a shadow of girlish hesitation. + </p> + <p> + “May I trouble you to tell me where I can find a conveyance of some sort?” + she said. “I want to go to the Rectory.” + </p> + <p> + Derrick uncovered, recognizing his friend's picture at once. + </p> + <p> + “I think,” he said with far more hesitancy than she had herself shown, + “that this must be Miss Barholm.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she answered, “Anice Barholm. I think,” she said, “from what Mr. + Grace has said to me, that you must be his friend.” + </p> + <p> + “I am <i>one</i> of Grace's friends,” he answered, “Fergus Derrick.” + </p> + <p> + She managed to free one of her small hands, and held it out to him. + </p> + <p> + She had arrived earlier than had been expected, it turned out, and through + some mysterious chance or other, her letters to her friends had not + preceded her, so there was no carriage in waiting, and but for Derrick she + would have been thrown entirely upon her own resources. But after their + mutual introduction the two were friends at once, and before he had put + her into the cab, Derrick had begun to understand what it was that led the + Reverend Paul to think her an exceptional girl. She knew where her trunks + were, and was quite definite upon the subject of what must be done with + them. Though pretty and frail looking enough, there was no suggestion of + helplessness about her. When she was safely seated in the cab, she spoke + to Derrick through the open window. + </p> + <p> + “If you will come to the Rectory to-night, and let papa thank you,” she + said, “we shall all be very glad. Mr. Grace will be there, you know, and I + have a great many questions to ask which I think you must be able to + answer.” + </p> + <p> + Derrick went back to his work, thinking about Miss Barholm, of course. She + was different from other girls, he felt, not only in her fragile frame and + delicate face, but with another more subtle and less easily defined + difference. There was a suggestion of the development in a child of the + soul of a woman. + </p> + <p> + Going down to the mine, Derrick found on approaching that there was some + commotion among the workers at the pit's mouth, and before he turned in to + his office, he paused upon the threshold for a few minutes to see what it + meant. But it was not a disturbance with which it was easy for an outsider + to interfere. A knot of women drawn away from their work by some + prevailing excitement, were gathered together around a girl—a pretty + but pale and haggard creature, with a helpless, despairing face—who + stood at bay in the midst of them, clasping a child to her bosom—a + target for all eyes. It was a wretched sight, and told its own story. + </p> + <p> + “Wheer ha' yo' been, Liz?” Derrick heard two or three voices exclaim at + once. “What did you coom back for? This is what thy handsome face has + browt thee to, is it?” + </p> + <p> + And then the girl, white, wild-eyed and breathless with excitement, turned + on them, panting, bursting into passionate tears. + </p> + <p> + “Let me a-be:” she cried, sobbing. “There's none of yo' need to talk. Let + me a-be! I didna coom back to ax nowt fro' none on you! Eh Joan! Joan + Lowrie?” + </p> + <p> + Derrick turned to ascertain the meaning of this cry of appeal, but almost + before he had time to do so, Joan herself had borne down upon the group; + she had pushed her way through it, and was standing in the centre, + confronting the girl's tormentors in a flame of wrath, and Liz was + clinging to her. + </p> + <p> + “What ha' they been sayin' to yo', lass?” she demanded. “Eh! but yo're a + brave lot, yo' are—women yo' ca' yo'rsens!—badgerin' a slip o' + a wench loike this.” + </p> + <p> + “I did na coom back to ax nowt fro' noan o' them,” sobbed the girl. “I'd + rayther dee ony day nor do it! I'd rayther starve i' th' ditch—an' + it's comin' to that.” + </p> + <p> + “Here,” said Joan, “gi' me th' choild.” + </p> + <p> + She bent down and took it from her, and then stood up before them all, + holding it high in her strong arms—so superb, so statuesque, and yet + so womanly a figure, that a thrill shot through the heart of the man + watching her. + </p> + <p> + “Lasses,” she cried, her voice fairly ringing, “do yo' see this? A bit o' + a helpless thing as canna answer back yo're jeers! Aye! look at it well, + aw' on yo'. Some on yo's getten th' loike at whoam. An' when yo've looked + at th' choild, look at th' mother! Seventeen year owd, Liz is, an' th' + world's gone wrong wi' her. I wunnot say as th' world's gone ower reet wi' + ony on us; but them on us as has had th' strength to howd up agen it, need + na set our foot on them as has gone down. Happen theer's na so much to + choose betwixt us after aw. But I've gotten this to tell yo'—them as + has owt to say o' Liz, mun say it to Joan Lowrie!” + </p> + <p> + Rough, and coarsely pitiless as the majority of them were, she had touched + the right chord. Perhaps the bit of the dramatic in her championship of + the girl had as much to do with the success of her half-commanding appeal + as anything else. But at least, the most hardened of them faltered before + her daring, scornful words, and the fire in her face. Liz would be safe + enough from them henceforth, it was plain. + </p> + <p> + That evening while arranging his papers before going home, Derrick was + called from his work by a summons at the office door, and going to open + it, he found Joan Lowrie standing there, looking half abashed, half + determined. + </p> + <p> + “I ha' summat to ax yo',” she said briefly, declining his invitation to + enter and be seated. + </p> + <p> + “If there is anything I can do for—” began Derrick. + </p> + <p> + “It is na mysen,” she interrupted him. “There is a poor lass as I'm fain + to help, if I could do it, but I ha' not th' power. I dunnot know of any + one as has, except yo'rsen and th' parson, an' I know more o' yo' than I + do o' th' parson, so I thowt I'd ax yo' to speak to him about th' poor + wench, an ax him if he could get her a bit o' work as ud help to keep her + honest.” + </p> + <p> + Derrick looked at her handsome face gravely, curiously. + </p> + <p> + “I saw you defend this girl against some of her old companions, a few + hours ago, I believe,” he said. + </p> + <p> + She colored, but did not return his glance. + </p> + <p> + “I dunnot believe in harryin' women down th' hill,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Then, suddenly, she raised her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Th' little un is a little lass,” she said, “an' I canna bide th' thowt o' + what moight fa' on her if her mother's life is na an honest un—I + canna bide the thowt on it.” + </p> + <p> + “I will see my friend to-night,” said Derrick, “and I will speak to him. + Where can he find the girl?” + </p> + <p> + “Wi' me,” she answered. “I'm taken both on 'em whoam wi' me.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III - The Reverend Harold Barholm + </h2> + <p> + When the Reverend Paul entered the parlor at the Rectory, he found that + his friend had arrived before him. Mr. Barholm, his wife and Anice, with + their guest, formed a group around the fire, and Grace saw at a glance + that Derrick had unconsciously fallen into the place of the centre figure. + He was talking and the others were listening—Mr. Barholm in his + usual restless fashion, Mrs. Barholm with evident interest, Anice leaning + forward on her ottoman, listening eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Barholm, when the servant announced the visitor, “this + is fortunate. Here is Grace. Glad to see you, Grace. Take a seat We are + talking about an uncommonly interesting case. I dare say you know the + young woman.” + </p> + <p> + Anice looked up. + </p> + <p> + “We are talking about Joan Lowrie,” she said. “Mr. Derrick is telling us + about her.” + </p> + <p> + “Most interesting affair—from beginning to end,” continued the + Rector, briskly. “Something must be done for the young woman. We must go + and see her,—I will go and see her myself.” + </p> + <p> + He had caught fire at once, in his usual inconsequent, self-secure style. + Ecclesiastical patronage would certainly set this young woman right at + once. There was no doubt of that. And who was so well qualified to bestow + it as himself? + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes! I will go myself,” he said. “That kind of people is easily + managed, when once one understands them. There really is some good in + them, after all. You see, Grace, it is as I have told you—only + understand them, and make them understand you, and the rest is easy.” + </p> + <p> + Derrick glanced from father to daughter. The clear eyes of the girl rested + on the man with a curious expression. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think,” she said quickly, “that they like us to go and see them in + that sort of way, papa? Do you think it is wise to remind them that we + know more than they do, and that if they want to learn they must learn + from us, just because we have been more fortunate? It really seems to me + that the rebellious ones would ask themselves what right we had to be more + fortunate.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” returned the Rector, somewhat testily—he was not partial + to the interposition of obstacles even in suggestion—“My dear, if + you had been brought into contact with these people as closely as I have, + or even as Grace has, you would learn that they are not prone to regard + things from a metaphysical stand-point. Metaphysics are not in their line. + They are more apt to look upon life as a matter of bread and bacon than as + a problem.” + </p> + <p> + A shadow fell upon Anice's face, and before the visit ended, Derrick had + observed its presence more than once. It was always her father who + summoned it, he noticed. And yet it was evident enough that she was fond + of the man, and in no ordinary degree, and that the affection was mutual. + As he was contented with himself, so Barholm was contented with his + domestic relations. He was fond of his wife, and fond of his daughter, as + much, perhaps, through his appreciation of his own good taste in wedding + such a wife, and becoming the father of such a daughter, as through his + appreciation of their peculiar charms. He was proud of them and indulgent + to them. They reflected a credit on him of which he felt himself wholly + deserving. + </p> + <p> + “They are very fond of him,” remarked Grace afterward to his friend; + “which shows that there must be a great deal of virtue in the man. Indeed + there <i>is</i> a great deal of virtue in him. You yourself, Derrick, must + have observed a certain kindliness and—and open generosity,” with a + wistful sound in his voice. + </p> + <p> + There was always this wistful appeal in the young man's tone when he spoke + of his clerical master—a certain anxiety to make the best of him, + and refrain from any suspicion of condemnation. Derrick was always + reminded by it of the shadow on Anice's face. + </p> + <p> + “I want to tell you something,” Miss Barholm said this evening to Grace at + parting. “I do not think I am afraid of Riggan at all. I think I shall + like it all the better because it is so new. Everything is so earnest and + energetic, that it is a little bracing—like the atmosphere. Perhaps—when + the time comes—I could do something to help you with that girl. I + shall try at any rate.” She held out her hand to him with a smile, and the + Reverend Paul went home feeling not a little comforted and encouraged. + </p> + <p> + The Rector stood with his back to the fire, his portly person expressing + intense satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + “You will remind me about that young woman in the morning, Anice,” he + said. “I should like to attend to the matter myself. Singular that Grace + should not have mentioned her before. It really seems to me, you know, + that now and then Grace is a little deficient in interest, or energy.” + </p> + <p> + “Surely not interest, my dear,” suggested Mrs. Barholm, gently. + </p> + <p> + “Well, well,” conceded the Rector, “perhaps not interest, but energy or—or + appreciation. I should have seen such a fine creature's superiority, and + mentioned it at once. She must be a fine creature. A young woman of that + kind should be encouraged. I will go and see her in the morning—if + it were not so late I would go now. Really, she ought to be told that she + has exhibited a very excellent spirit, and that people approve of it. I + wonder what sort of a household servant she would make if she were + properly trained?” + </p> + <p> + “That would not do at all,” put in Anice, decisively. “From the pit's + mouth to the kitchen would not be a natural transition.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, well, as usual, perhaps you are right. There is plenty of time to + think of it, however. We can judge better when we have seen her.” + </p> + <p> + He did not need reminding in the morning. He was as full of vague plans + for Joan Lowrie when he arose as he had been when he went to bed. He came + down to the charming breakfast-room in the most sanguine of moods. But + then his moods usually were sanguine. It was scarcely to be wondered at. + Fortune had treated him with great suavity from his earliest years. + Wellborn, comfortably trained, healthy and easy-natured, the world had + always turned its pleasant side to him. As a young man, he had been a + strong, handsome fellow, whose convenient patrimony had placed him beyond + the possibility of entire dependence upon his profession. When a curate he + had been well enough paid and without private responsibilities; when he + married he was lucky enough to win a woman who added to his comfort; in + fact, life had gone smoothly with him for so long that he had no reason to + suspect Fate of any intention to treat him ill-naturedly. It was far more + likely that she would reserve her scurvy tricks for some one else. + </p> + <p> + Even Riggan had not perplexed him at all. Its difficulties were not such + as would be likely to disturb him greatly. One found ignorance, and vice, + and discomfort among the lower classes always; there was the same thing to + contend against in the agricultural as in the mining districts. And the + Rectory was substantial and comfortable, even picturesque. The house was + roomy, the garden large and capable of improvement; there were trees in + abundance, ivy on the walls, and Anice would do the rest. The + breakfast-room looked specially encouraging this morning. Anice, in a + pretty pale blue gown, and with a few crocuses at her throat, awaited his + coming behind the handsomest of silver and porcelain, reading his favorite + newspaper the while. Her little pot of emigrant violets exhaled a faint, + spring-like odor from their sunny place at the window; there was a vase of + crocuses, snow-drops and ivy leaves in the centre of the table; there was + sunshine outside and comfort in. The Rector had a good appetite and an + unimpaired digestion. Anice rose when he entered, and touched the bell. + </p> + <p> + “Mamma's headache will keep her upstairs for a while,” she said. “She told + me we were not to wait for her.” And then she brought him his newspaper + and kissed him dutifully. + </p> + <p> + “Very glad to see you home again, I am sure, my dear,” remarked the + Rector. “I have really missed you very much. What excellent coffee this + is!—another cup, if you please.” And, after a pause, + </p> + <p> + “I think really, you know,” he proceeded, “that you will not find the + place unpleasant, after all. For my part, I think it is well enough—for + such a place; one cannot expect Belgravian polish in Lancashire miners, + and certainly one does not meet with it; but it is well to make the best + of things. I get along myself reasonably well with the people. I do not + encounter the difficulties Grace complains of.” + </p> + <p> + “Does he complain?” asked Anice; “I did not think he exactly complained.” + </p> + <p> + “Grace is too easily discouraged,” answered the Rector in off-handed + explanation. “And he is apt to make blunders. He speaks of, and to, these + people as if they were of the same fibre as himself. He does not take hold + of things. He is deficient in courage. He means well, but he is not good + at reading character. That other young fellow now—Derrick, the + engineer—would do twice as well in his place. What do you think of + that young fellow, by the way, my dear?” + </p> + <p> + “I like him,” said Anice. “He will help Mr. Grace often.” + </p> + <p> + “Grace needs a support of some kind,” returned Mr. Barholm, frowning + slightly, “and he does not seem to rely very much upon me—not so + much as I would wish. I don't quite understand him at times; the fact is, + it has struck me once or twice, that he preferred to take his own path, + instead of following mine.” + </p> + <p> + “Papa,” commented Anice, “I scarcely think he is to blame for that. I am + sure it is always best, that conscientious, thinking people—and Mr. + Grace is a thinking man—should have paths of their own.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Barholm pushed his hair from his forehead. His own obstinacy + confronted him sometimes through Anice in a finer, more baffling form. + </p> + <p> + “Grace is a young man, my dear,” he said, “and—and not a very + strong-minded one.” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot believe that is true,” said Anice. “I do not think we can blame + his mind. It is his body that is not strong. Mr. Grace himself has more + power than you and mamma and myself all put together.” + </p> + <p> + One of Alice's peculiarities was a certain pretty sententiousness, which, + but for its innate refinement, and its sincerity, might have impressed + people as being a fault. When she pushed her opposition in that steady, + innocent way, Mr. Barholm always took refuge behind an inner consciousness + which “knew better,” and was fully satisfied on the point of its own + knowledge. + </p> + <p> + When breakfast was over, he rose from the table with the air of a man who + had business on hand. Anice rose too, and followed him to the hearth. + </p> + <p> + “You are going out, I suppose,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I am going to see Joan Lowrie,” he said complacently. “And I have several + calls to make besides. Shall I tell the young woman that you will call on + her?” + </p> + <p> + Anice looked down at the foot she had placed on the shining rim of the + steel fender. + </p> + <p> + “Joan Lowrie?” she said reflectively. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, my dear. I should think it would please the girl to feel that + we are interested in her.” + </p> + <p> + “I should scarcely think—from what Mr. Grace and his friend say—that + she is the kind of a girl to be reached in that way,” said Anice. + </p> + <p> + The Rector shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” he answered, “if we are always to depend upon what Grace says, + we shall often find ourselves in a dilemma. If you are going to wait until + these collier young women call on you after the manner of polite society, + I am afraid you will have time to lose interest in them and their + affairs.” + </p> + <p> + He had no scruples of his own on the subject of his errand. He felt very + comfortable as usual, as he wended his way through the village toward + Lowrie's cottage, on the Knoll Road. He did not ask himself what he should + say to the collier young woman, and her unhappy charge. Orthodox phrases + with various distinct flavors—the flavor of encouragement, the + flavor of reproof, the flavor of consolation,—were always ready with + the man; he never found it necessary to prepare them beforehand. The + flavor of approval was to be Joan's portion this morning; the flavor of + rebuke her companion's. He passed down the street with ecclesiastical + dignity, bestowing a curt, but not unamiable word of recognition here and + there. Unkempt, dirty-faced children, playing hop-scotch or marbles on the + flag pavement, looked up at him with a species of awe, not un-mingled with + secret resentment; women lounging on door-steps, holding babies on their + hips, stared in critical sullenness as he went by. + </p> + <p> + “Theer's th' owd parson,” commented one sharp-tongued matron. “Hoo's goin' + to teach some one summat, I warrant What th' owd lad dunnot know is na + worth knowin'. Eh! hoo's a graidely foo', that hoo is. Our Tommy, if tha + dost na let Jane Ann be, tha'lt be gettin' a hidin'.” + </p> + <p> + Unprepossessing as most of the colliers' homes were, Lowrie's cottage was + a trifle less inviting than the majority. It stood upon the roadside, an + ugly little bare place, with a look of stubborn desolation, its only + redeeming feature a certain rough cleanliness. The same cleanliness + reigned inside, Barholm observed when he entered; and yet on the whole + there was a stamp upon it which made it a place scarcely to be approved + of. Before the low fire sat a girl with a child on her knee, and this + girl, hearing the visitor's footsteps, got up hurriedly, and met him with + a half abashed, half frightened look on her pale face. + </p> + <p> + “Lowrie is na here, an' neyther is Joan,” she said, without waiting for + him to speak. “Both on 'em's at th' pit. Theer's no one here but me,” and + she held the baby over her shoulder, as if she would like to have hidden + it. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Barholm walked in serenely, sure that he ought to be welcome, if he + were not. + </p> + <p> + “At the pit, are they?” he answered. “Dear me! I might have remembered + that they would be at this time. Well, well; I will take a seat, my girl, + and talk to you a little. I suppose you know me, the minister at the + church—Mr. Barholm?” + </p> + <p> + Liz, a slender slip of a creature, large-eyed, and woe-begone, stood up + before him, staring at him irresolutely as he seated himself. + </p> + <p> + “I—I dunnot know nobody much now,” she stammered. “I—I've been + away fro' Riggan sin' afore yo' comn—if yo're th' new parson,” and + then she colored nervously and became fearfully conscious of her miserable + little burden, “I've heerd Joan speak o' th' young parson,” she faltered. + </p> + <p> + Her visitor looked at her gravely. What a helpless, childish creature she + was, with her pretty face, and her baby, and her characterless, frightened + way. She was only one of many—poor Liz, ignorant, emotional, weak, + easily led, ready to err, unable to bear the consequences of error, not + strong enough to be resolutely wicked, not strong enough to be anything in + particular, but that which her surroundings made her. If she had been + well-born and well brought up, she would have been a pretty, insipid girl, + who needed to be taken care of; as it was, she had “gone wrong.” The + excellent Rector of St. Michael's felt that she must be awakened. + </p> + <p> + “You are the girl Elizabeth?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I'm 'Lizabeth Barnes,” she answered, pulling at the hem of her child's + small gown, “but folks nivver calls me nowt but Liz.” + </p> + <p> + Her visitor pointed to a chair considerately. “Sit down,” he said, “I want + to talk to you.” + </p> + <p> + Liz obeyed him; but her pretty, weak face told its own story of distaste + and hysterical shrinking. She let the baby lie upon her lap; her fingers + were busy plaiting up folds of the little gown. + </p> + <p> + “I dunnot want to be talked to,” she whimpered. “I dunnot know as talk can + do folk as is i' trouble any good—an' th' trouble's bad enow wi'out + talk.” + </p> + <p> + “We must remember whence the trouble comes,” answered the minister, “and + if the root lies in ourselves, and springs from our own sin, we must bear + our cross meekly, and carry our sorrows and iniquities to the fountain + head. We must ask for grace, and—and sanctification of spirit.” + </p> + <p> + “I dunnot know nowt about th' fountain head,” sobbed Liz aggrieved. “I + amna religious an' I canna see as such loike helps foak. No Methody nivver + did nowt for me when I war i' trouble an' want Joan Lowrie is na a + Methody.” + </p> + <p> + “If you mean that the young woman is in an unawakened condition, I am + sorry to hear it,” with increased gravity of demeanor. “Without the + redeeming blood how are we to find peace? If you had clung to the Cross + you would have been spared all this sin and shame. You must know, my girl, + that this,” with a motion toward the frail creature on her knee, “is a + very terrible thing.” + </p> + <p> + Liz burst into piteous sobs—crying like an abused child: + </p> + <p> + “I know it's hard enow,” she cried; “I canna get work neyther at th' pit + nor at th' factories, as long as I mun drag it about, an' I ha' not got a + place to lay my head, on'y this. If it wur na for Joan, I might starve, + and the choild too. But I'm noan so bad as yo'd mak' out. I—I wur + very fond o' <i>him</i>—I wur, an' I thowt he wur fond o' me, an' he + wur a gentleman too. He were no laboring-man, an' he wur kind to me, until + he got tired. Them sort allus gets tired o' yo' i' time, Joan says. I wish + I'd ha' towd Joan at first, an' axed her what to do.” + </p> + <p> + Barholm passed his hand through his hair uneasily. This shallow, + inconsequent creature baffled him. Her shame, her grief, her misery, were + all mere straws eddying on the pool of her discomfort. It was not her sin + that crushed her, it was the consequence of it; hers was not a sorrow, it + was a petulant unhappiness. If her lot had been prosperous outwardly, she + would have felt no inward pang. + </p> + <p> + It became more evident to him than ever that something must be done, and + he applied himself to his task of reform to the best of his ability. But + he exhausted his repertory of sonorous phrases in vain. His grave + exhortations only called forth fresh tears, and a new element of + resentment; and, to crown all, his visit terminated with a discouragement + of which his philosophy had never dreamed. + </p> + <p> + In the midst of his most eloquent reproof, a shadow darkened the + threshold, and as Liz looked up with the explanation—“Joan!” a young + woman, in pit girl guise, came in, her hat pushed off her forehead, her + throat bare, her fustian jacket hanging over her arm. She glanced from + one to the other questioningly, knitting her brows slightly at the sight + of Liz's tears. In answer to her glance Liz spoke querulously. + </p> + <p> + “It's th' parson, Joan,” she said. “He comn to talk like th' rest on 'em + an' he maks me out too ill to burn.” + </p> + <p> + Just at that moment the child set up a fretful cry and Joan crossed the + room and took it up in her arms. + </p> + <p> + “Yo've feart th' choild betwixt yo',” she said, “if yo've managed to do + nowt else.” + </p> + <p> + “I felt it my duty as Rector of the parish,” explained Barholm somewhat + curtly, “I felt it my duty as Rector of the parish, to endeavor to bring + your friend to a proper sense of her position.” + </p> + <p> + Joan turned toward him. + </p> + <p> + “Has tha done it?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + The Reverend Harold felt his enthusiasm concerning the young woman dying + out. + </p> + <p> + “I—I—” he stammered. + </p> + <p> + Joan interrupted him. + </p> + <p> + “Dost tha see as tha has done her any good?” she demanded. “I dunnot + mysen.” + </p> + <p> + “I have endeavored to the best of my ability to improve her mental + condition,” the minister replied. + </p> + <p> + “I thowt as much,” said Joan; “I mak' no doubt tha'st done thy best, + neyther. Happen tha'st gi'en her what comfort tha had to spare, but if + yo'd been wiser than yo' are, yo'd ha' let her alone. I'll warrant theer + is na a parson 'twixt here an' Lunnon, that could na ha' towd her that + she's a sinner an' has shame to bear; but happen theer is na a parson + 'twixt here an' Lunnon as she could na ha' towd that much to, hersen. + Howivver, as tha has said thy say, happen it 'll do yo' fur this toime, + an' yo' can let her be for a while.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Barholm was unusually silent during dinner that evening, and as he sat + over his wine, his dissatisfaction rose to the surface, as it invariably + did. + </p> + <p> + “I am rather disturbed this evening, Anice,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Anice looked up questioningly. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “I went to see Joan Lowrie this morning,” he answered hesitatingly, “and I + am very much disappointed in her. I scarcely think, after all, that I + would advise you to take her in hand. She is not an amiable young woman. + In fact there is a positive touch of the vixen about her.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV - “Love Me, Love My Dog” + </h2> + <p> + Mr. Barholm had fallen into the habit of turning to Anice for it, when he + required information concerning people and things. In her desultory + pilgrimages, Anice saw all that he missed, and heard much that he was deaf + to. The rough, hard-faced men and boisterous girls who passed to and from + their work at the mine, drew her to the window whenever they made their + appearance. She longed to know something definite of them—to get a + little nearer to their unprepossessing life. Sometimes the men and women, + passing, caught glimpses of her, and, asking each other who she was, + decided upon her relationship to the family. + </p> + <p> + “Hoo's th' owd parson's lass,” somebody said. “Hoo's noan so bad lookin' + neyther, if hoo was na sich a bit o' a thing.” + </p> + <p> + The people who had regarded Mr. Barholm with a spice of disfavor, still + could not look with ill-nature upon this pretty girl. The slatternly women + nudged each other as she passed, and the playing children stared after + their usual fashion; but even the hardest-natured matron could find + nothing more condemnatory to say than, “Hoo's noan Lancashire, that's + plain as th' nose on a body's face;” or, “Theer is na much on her, at ony + rate. Hoo's a bit of a weakly-like lass wi'out much blood i' her.” + </p> + <p> + Now and then Anice caught the sound of their words, but she was used to + being commented upon. She had learned that people whose lives have a great + deal of hard, common discomfort and struggle, acquire a tendency to + depreciation almost as a second nature. It is easier to bear one's own + misfortunes, than to bear the good-fortune of better-used people. That is + the insult added by Fate to injury. + </p> + <p> + Riggan was a crooked, rambling, cross-grained little place. From the one + wide street with its jumble of old, tumble-down shops, and glaring new + ones, branched out narrow, up-hill or down-hill thoroughfares, edged by + colliers' houses, with an occasional tiny provision shop, where bread and + bacon were ranged alongside potatoes and flabby cabbages; ornithological + specimens made of pale sweet cake, and adorned with startling black + currant eyes, rested unsteadily against the window-pane, a sore temptation + to the juvenile populace. + </p> + <p> + It was in one of these side streets that Anice met with her first + adventure. + </p> + <p> + Turning the corner, she heard the sharp yelp of a dog among a group of + children, followed almost immediately by a ringing of loud, angry, boyish + voices, a sound of blows and cries, and a violent scuffle. Anice paused + for a few seconds, looking over the heads of the excited little crowd, and + then made her way to it, and in a minute was in the heart of it. The two + boys who were the principal figures, were fighting frantically, scuffling, + kicking, biting, and laying on vigorous blows, with not unscientific + fists. Now and then a fierce, red, boyish face was to be seen, and then + the rough head ducked and the fight waxed fiercer and hotter, while the + dog—a small, shrewd sharp-nosed terrier—barked at the + combatants' heels, snapping at one pair, but not at the other, and plainly + enjoying the excitement. + </p> + <p> + “Boys!” cried Anice. “What's the matter?” + </p> + <p> + “They're feighten,” remarked a philosophical young by-stander, with placid + interest,—“an' Jud Bates'll win.” + </p> + <p> + It was so astonishing a thing that any outsider should think of + interfering, and there was something so decided in the girlish voice + addressing them, that almost at the moment the combatants fell back, + panting heavily, breathing vengeance in true boy fashion, and evidently + resenting the unexpected intrusion. + </p> + <p> + “What is it all about?” demanded the girl. “Tell me.” + </p> + <p> + The crowd gathered close around her to stare, the terrier sat down + breathless, his red tongue hanging out, his tail beating the ground. One + of the boys was his master, it was plain at a glance, and, as a natural + consequence, the dog had felt it his duty to assist to the full extent of + his powers. But the other boy was the first to speak. + </p> + <p> + “Why could na he let me a-be then?” he asked irately. “I was na doin' owt + t' him.” + </p> + <p> + “Yea, tha was,” retorted his opponent, a sturdy, ragged, ten-year-old. + </p> + <p> + “Nay, I was na.” + </p> + <p> + “Yea, tha was.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Anice, “what <i>was</i> he doing?” + </p> + <p> + “Aye,” cried the first youngster, “tha tell her if tha con. Who hit th' + first punse?” excitedly doubling his fist again. “I didna.” + </p> + <p> + “Nay, tha didna, but tha did summat else. Tha punsed at Nib wi' thy clog, + an' hit him aside o' th' yed, an' then I punsed thee, an' I'd do it agen + fur—” + </p> + <p> + “Wait a minute,” said Anice, holding up her little gloved hand. “Who is + Nib?” + </p> + <p> + “Nib's my dog,” surlily. “An' them as punses him, has getten to punse me.” + </p> + <p> + Anice bent down and patted the small animal. + </p> + <p> + “He seems a very nice dog,” she said. “What did you kick him for?” + </p> + <p> + Nib's master was somewhat mollified. A person who could appreciate the + virtues of “th' best tarrier i' Riggan,” could not be regarded wholly with + contempt, or even indifference. + </p> + <p> + “He kicked him fur nowt,” he answered. “He's allus at uther him or me. He + bust my kite, an' he cribbed my marvels, didn't he?” appealing to the + by-standers. + </p> + <p> + “Aye, he did. I seed him crib th' marvels mysen. He wur mad 'cos Jud wur + winnen, and then he kicked Nib.” + </p> + <p> + Jud bent down to pat Nib himself, not without a touch of pride in his + manifold injuries, and the readiness with which they were attested. + </p> + <p> + “Aye,” he said, “an' I did na set on him at first neyther. I nivver set on + him till he punsed Nib. He may bust my kite, an' steal my marvels, an' he + may ca' me ill names, but he shanna kick Nib. So theer!” + </p> + <p> + It was evident that Nib's enemy was the transgressor. He was grievously in + the minority. Nobody seemed to side with him, and everybody seemed ready—when + once the tongues were loosed—to say a word for Jud and “th' best + tarrier i'Riggan.” For a few minutes Anice could scarcely make herself + heard. + </p> + <p> + “You are a good boy to take care of your dog,” she said to Jud—“and + though fighting is not a good thing, perhaps if I had been a boy,” gravely + deciding against moral suasion in one rapid glance at the enemy—“perhaps + if I had been a boy, I would have fought myself. <i>You</i> are a coward,” + she added, with incisive scorn to the other lad, who slinked sulkily out + of sight. + </p> + <p> + “Owd Sammy Craddock,” lounging at his window, clay pipe in hand, watched + Anice as she walked away, and gave vent to his feelings in a shrewd + chuckle. + </p> + <p> + “Eh! eh!” he commented; “so that's th' owd parson's lass, is it? Wall, hoo + may be o' th' same mate, but hoo is na o' th' same grain, I'll warrant. + Hoo's a rare un, hoo is, fur a wench.” + </p> + <p> + “Owd Sammy's” amused chuckles, and exclamations of “Eh! hoo's a rare un—that + hoo is—fur a wench,” at last drew his wife's attention. The good + woman pounced upon him sharply. + </p> + <p> + “Tha'rt an owd yommer-head,” she said. “What art tha ramblin' about now? + Who is it as is siccan a rare un?” + </p> + <p> + Owd Sammy burst into a fresh chuckle, rubbing his knees with both hands. + </p> + <p> + “Why,” said he, “I'll warrant tha could na guess i' tha tried, but I'll + gi'e thee a try. Who dost tha think wur out i' th' street just now i' th' + thick of a foight among th' lads? I know thou'st nivver guess.” + </p> + <p> + “Nay, happen I canna, an' I dunnot know as I care so much, neyther,” + testily. + </p> + <p> + “Why,” slapping his knee, “th' owd parson's lass. A little wench not much + higher nor thy waist, an' wi' a bit o' a face loike skim-milk, but steady + and full o' pluck as an owd un.” + </p> + <p> + “Nay now, tha dost na say so? What wor she doin' an' how did she come + theer? Tha mun ha' been dreamin'!” + </p> + <p> + “Nowt o' th' soart. I seed her as plain as I see thee an' heerd ivvery + word she said. Tha shouldst ha' seen her! Hoo med as if hoo'd lived wi' + lads aw her days. Jud Bates and that young marplot o' Thorme's wur + feightin about Nib—at it tooth and nail—an' th' lass sees 'em, + an' marches into th' thick, an' sets 'em to reets. Yo' should ha' seen + her! An' hoo tells Jud as he's a good lad to tak' care o' his dog, an' hoo + does na know but what hoo'd fowt hersen i' his place, an' hoo ca's Jack + Thorme a coward, an' turns her back on him, an' ends up wi' tellin' Jud to + bring th' tarrier to th' Rectory to see her.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” exclaimed Mrs. Craddock, “did yo' iwer hear th' loike!” + </p> + <p> + “I wish th' owd parson had seed her,” chuckled her spouse irreverently. + “That soart is na i' his loine. He'd a waved his stick as if he'd been + king and council i' one, an' rated 'em fro' th' top round o' th' ladder. + He canna get down fro' his perch. Th' owd lad'll stick theer till he gets + a bit too heavy, an' then he'll coom down wi' a crash, ladder an' aw'—but + th' lass is a different mak'.” + </p> + <p> + Sammy being an oracle among his associates, new-comers usually passed + through his hands, and were condemned, or approved, by him. His pipe, and + his criticisms upon society in general, provided him with occupation. Too + old to fight and work, he was too shrewd to be ignored. Where he could not + make himself felt, he could make himself heard. Accordingly, when he + condescended to inform a select and confidential audience that the “owd + parson's lass was a rare un, lass as she was”—(the masculine opinion + of Riggan on the subject of the weaker sex was a rather disparaging one)—the + chances of the Rector's daughter began, so to speak, to “look up.” If + Sammy Craddock found virtue in the new-comer, it was possible such virtue + might exist, at least in a negative form,—and open enmity was + rendered unnecessary, and even impolitic. A faint interest began to be + awakened. When Anice passed through the streets, the slatternly, + baby-laden women looked at her curiously, and in a manner not absolutely + unfriendly. She might not be so bad after all, if she did have “Lunnon + ways,” and was smiled upon by Fortune. At any rate, she differed from the + parson himself, which was in her favor. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V - Outside the Hedge + </h2> + <p> + Deeply as Anice was interested in Joan, she left her to herself. She did + not go to see her, and still more wisely, she managed to hush in her + father any awakening tendency toward parochial visits. But from Grace and + Fergus Derrick she heard much of her, and through Grace she contrived to + convey work and help to Liz, and encouragement to her protectress. From + what source the assistance came, Joan did not know, and she was not prone + to ask questions. + </p> + <p> + “If she asks, tell her it is from a girl like herself,” Anice had said, + and Joan had accepted the explanation. + </p> + <p> + In a very short time from the date of their first acquaintance, Fergus + Derrick's position in the Barholm household had become established. He was + the man to make friends and keep them. Mrs. Barholm grew fond of him; the + Rector regarded him as an acquisition to their circle, and Anice was his + firm friend. So, being free to come and go, he came and went, and found + his unceremonious visits pleasant enough. On his arrival at Riggan, he had + not anticipated meeting with any such opportunities of enjoyment. He had + come to do hard work, and had expected a hard life, softened by few social + graces. The work of opening the new mines was a heavy one, and was + rendered additionally heavy and dangerous by unforeseen circumstances. A + load of responsibility rested upon his shoulders, to which at times he + felt himself barely equal, and which men of less tough fibre would have + been glad to shift upon others. Naturally, his daily cares made his hours + of relaxation all the more pleasant. Mrs. Barholm's influence upon him was + a gentle and soothing one, and in Anice he found a subtle inspiration. She + seemed to understand his trials by instinct, and even the minutiae of his + work made themselves curiously clear to her. As to the people who were + under his control, she was never tired of hearing of them, and of studying + their quaint, rough ways. To please her he stored up many a characteristic + incident, and it was through him that she heard most frequently of Joan. + She did not even see Joan for fully two months after her arrival in + Riggan, and then it was Joan who came to her. + </p> + <p> + As the weather became more spring-like she was oftener out in the garden. + She found a great deal to do among the flower-beds and shrubbery, and as + this had always been considered her department, she took the management of + affairs wholly into her own hands. The old place, which had been rather + neglected in the time of the previous inhabitant, began to bloom out into + fragrant luxuriance, and passing Rigganites regarded it with admiring + eyes. The colliers who had noticed her at the window in the colder + weather, seeing her so frequently from a nearer point of view, felt + themselves on more familiar terms. Some of them even took a sort of liking + to her, and gave her an uncouth greeting as they went by; and, more than + once, one or another of them had paused to ask for a flower or two, and + had received them with a curious bashful awe, when they had been passed + over the holly hedge. + </p> + <p> + Having gone out one evening after dinner to gather flowers for the house, + Anice, standing before a high lilac bush, and pulling its pale purple + tassels, became suddenly conscious that some one was watching her—some + one standing upon the roadside behind the holly hedge. She did not know + that as she stopped here and there to fill her basket, she had been + singing to herself in a low tone. Her voice had attracted the passer-by. + </p> + <p> + This passer-by—a tall pit girl with a handsome, resolute face—stood + behind the dark green hedge, and watched her. Perhaps to this girl, weary + with her day's labor, grimed with coal-dust, it was not unlike standing + outside paradise. Early in the year as it was, there were flowers enough + in the beds, and among the shrubs, to make the spring air fresh with a + faint, sweet odor. But here too was Anice in her soft white merino dress, + with her basket of flowers, with the blue bells at her belt, and her half + audible song. She struck Joan Lowrie with a new sense of beauty and + purity. As she watched her she grew discontented—restless—sore + at heart. She could not have told why, but she felt a certain anger + against herself. She had had a hard day. Things had gone wrong at the + pit's mouth; things had gone wrong at home. It was hard for her strong + nature to bear with Liz's weakness. Her path was never smooth, but to-day + it had been at its roughest. The little song fell upon her ear with strong + pathos. + </p> + <p> + “She's inside o' th' hedge,” she said to herself in a dull voice. “I'm + outside, theer's th' difference. It a'most looks loike the hedge went aw' + around an' she'd been born among th' flowers, and theer's no way out for + her—no more than theer's a way in fur me.” + </p> + <p> + Then it was that Anice turned round and saw her. Their eyes met, and, + singularly enough, Anice's first thought was that this was Joan. Derrick's + description made her sure. There were not two such women in Riggan. She + made her decision in a moment. She stepped across the grass to the hedge + with a ready smile. + </p> + <p> + “You were looking at my flowers,” she said. “Will you have some?” + </p> + <p> + Joan hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “I often give them to people,” said Anice, taking a handful from the + basket and offering them to her across the holly. “When the men come home + from the mines they often ask me for two or three, and I think they like + them even better than I do—though that is saying a great deal.” + </p> + <p> + Joan held out her hand, and took the flowers, holding them awkwardly, but + with tenderness. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, thank yo',” she said. “It's kind o' yo' to gi' 'em away.” + </p> + <p> + “It's a pleasure to me,” said Anice, picking out a delicate pink hyacinth. + “Here's a hyacinth.” Then as Joan took it their eyes met. “Are you Joan + Lowrie?” asked the girl. + </p> + <p> + Joan lifted her head. + </p> + <p> + “Aye,” she answered, “I'm Joan Lowrie.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Anice, “then I am very glad.” + </p> + <p> + They stood on the same level from that moment. Something as indescribable + as all else in her manner, had done for Anice just what she had simply and + seriously desired to do. Proud and stubborn as her nature was, Joan was + subdued. The girl's air and speech were like her song. She stood inside + the hedge still, in her white dress, among the flowers, looking just as + much as if she had been born there as ever, but some fine part of her had + crossed the boundary. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! then I am glad of that,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Yo' are very good to say as much,” she answered, “but I dunnot know as I + quite understand—” + </p> + <p> + Anice drew a little nearer. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Grace has told me about you,” she said. “And Mr. Derrick.” + </p> + <p> + Joan's brown throat raised itself a trifle, and Anice thought color showed + itself on her cheek. + </p> + <p> + “Both on 'em's been good to me,” she said, “but I did na think as—” + </p> + <p> + Anice stopped her with a little gesture, “It was you who were so kind to + Liz when she had no friend,” she began. + </p> + <p> + Joan interrupted her with sudden eagerness. + </p> + <p> + “It wur yo' as sent th' work an' th' things fur th' choild,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it was I,” answered Anice. “But I hardly knew what to send. I hope I + sent the right things, did I?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, miss; thank yo'.” And then in a lower voice, “They wur a power o' + help to Liz an' me. Liz wur hard beset then, an' she's only a young thing + as canna bear sore trouble. Seemed loike that th' thowt as some un had + helped her wur a comfort to her.” + </p> + <p> + Anice took courage. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps if I might come and see her,” she said. “May I come? I should + like to see the baby. I am very fond of little children.” + </p> + <p> + There was a moment's pause, and then Joan spoke awkwardly. + </p> + <p> + “Do yo' know—happen yo' dunnot—what Liz's trouble is? Bein' as + yo're so young yorsen, happen they did na tell yo' all. Most o' toimes + folk is na apt to be fond o' such loike as this little un o' hers.” + </p> + <p> + “I heard all the story.” + </p> + <p> + “Then come if yo' loike,—an' if they'll let yo', some ud think there + wur harm i' th' choild's touch. I'm glad yo' dunna.” + </p> + <p> + She did not linger much longer. Anice watched her till she was out of + sight. An imposing figure she was—moving down the road in her rough + masculine garb—the massive perfection of her form clearly outlined + against the light. It seemed impossible that such a flower as this could + blossom, and decay, and die out in such a life, without any higher + fruition. + </p> + <p> + “I have seen Joan Lowrie,” said Anice to Derrick, when next they met. + </p> + <p> + “Did she come to you, or did you go to her?” Fergus asked. + </p> + <p> + “She came to me, but without knowing that she was coming.” + </p> + <p> + “That was best,” was his comment. + </p> + <p> + Joan Lowrie was as much a puzzle to him as she was to other people. + Despite the fact that he saw her every day of his life, he had never found + it possible to advance a step with her. She held herself aloof from him, + just as she held herself aloof from the rest. A common greeting, and + oftener than not, a silent one, was all that passed between them. Try as + he would, he could get no farther;—and he certainly did make some + effort. Now and then he found the chance to do her a good turn, and such + opportunities he never let slip, though his way of doing such things was + always so quiet as to be unlikely to attract any observation. Usually he + made his way with people easily, but this girl held him at a distance, + almost ungraciously. And he did not like to be beaten. Who does? So he + persevered with a shade of stubbornness, hidden under a net-work of other + motives. Once, when he had exerted himself to lighten her labor somewhat, + she set aside his assistance openly. + </p> + <p> + “Theer's others as needs help more nor me,” she said. “Help them, an' I'll + thank yo'.” + </p> + <p> + In course of time, however, he accidentally discovered that there had been + occasions when, notwithstanding her apparent ungraciousness, she had + exerted her influence in his behalf. + </p> + <p> + The older colliers resented his youth, the younger ones his authority. The + fact that he was “noan Lancashire” worked against him too, though even if + he had been a Lancashire man, he would not have been likely to find + over-much favor. It was enough that he was “one o' th' mesters.” To have + been weak of will, or vacillating of purpose, would have been death to + every vestige of the authority vested in him; but he was as strong + mentally as physically—strong-willed to the verge of stubbornness. + But if they could not frighten or subdue him, they could still oppose and + irritate him, and the contention was obstinate. This feeling even + influenced the girls and women at the “mouth.” They, too, organized in + petty rebellion, annoying if not powerful. + </p> + <p> + “I think yo' will find as yo' may as well leave th' engineer be,” Joan + would say dryly. “Yo' will na fear him much, an' yo'll tire yo'rsens wi' + yo're clatter. I donna see the good o' barkin' so much when yo' canna + bite.” + </p> + <p> + “Aye,” jeered one of the boldest, once, “leave th' engineer be. Joan sets + a power o' store by th' engineer.” + </p> + <p> + There was a shout of laughter, but it died out when Joan confronted the + speaker with dangerous steadiness of gaze. + </p> + <p> + “Save thy breath to cool thy porridge,” she said. “It will be better for + thee.” + </p> + <p> + But it was neither the first nor the last time that her companions flung + out a jeer at her “sweetheartin'.” The shrewdest among them had observed + Derrick's interest in her. They concluded, of course, that Joan's handsome + face had won her a sweetheart. They could not accuse her of encouraging + him; but they could profess to believe that she was softening, and they + could use the insinuation as a sharp weapon against her, when such a + course was not too hazardous. + </p> + <p> + Of this, Derrick knew nothing. He could only see that Joan set her face + persistently against his attempts to make friends with her, and the + recognition of this fact almost exasperated him at times. It was quite + natural that, seeing so much of this handsome creature, and hearing so + much of her, his admiration should not die out, and that opposition should + rather invite him to stronger efforts to reach her. + </p> + <p> + So it was that hearing Miss Barholm's story he fell into unconscious + reverie. Of course this did not last long. He was roused from it by the + fact that Anice was looking at him. When he looked up, it seemed as if she + awakened also, though she did not start. + </p> + <p> + “How are you getting on at the mines?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Badly. Or, at least, by no means well. The men are growing harder to deal + with every day.” “And your plans about the fans?” The substitution of the + mechanical fan for the old furnace at the base of the shaft, was one of + the projects to which Derrick clung most tenaciously. During a two years' + sojourn among the Belgian mines, he had studied the system earnestly. He + had worked hard to introduce it at Riggan, and meant to work still harder. + But the miners were bitterly opposed to anything “newfangled,” and the + owners were careless. So that the mines were worked, and their profits + made, it did not matter for the rest. They were used to casualties, so + well used to them in fact, that unless a fearful loss of life occurred, + they were not alarmed or even roused. As to the injuries done to a man's + health, and so on—they had not time to inquire into such things. + There was danger in all trades, for the matter of that. Fergus Derrick was + a young man, and young men were fond of novelties. + </p> + <p> + Opposition was bad enough, but indifference was far more baffling. The + colliers opposed Derrick to the utmost, the Company was rather inclined to + ignore him—some members good-naturedly, others with an air of + superiority, not unmixed with contempt. The colliers talked with rough + ill-nature; the Company did not want to talk at all. + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” answered Derrick, “I do not see that I have made one step forward; + but it will go hard with me before I am beaten. Some of the men I have to + deal with are as bat-blind as they are cantankerous. One would think that + experience might have taught them wisdom. Would you believe that some of + those working in the most dangerous parts of the mine have false keys to + their Davys, and use the flame to light their pipes? I have heard of the + thing being done before, but I only discovered the other day that we had + such madmen in the pits here. If I could only be sure of them I would + settle the matter at once, but they are crafty enough to keep their + secret, and it only drifts to the master as a rumor.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you no suspicion as to who they are?” asked Anice. + </p> + <p> + “I suspect one man,” he answered, “but only suspect him because he is a + bad fellow, reckless in all things, and always ready to break the rules. I + suspect Dan Lowrie.” + </p> + <p> + “Joan's father?” exclaimed Anice in distress. + </p> + <p> + Derrick made a gesture of assent. + </p> + <p> + “He is the worst man in the mines,” he said, “The man with the worst + influence, the man who can work best if he will, the man whose feeling + against any authority is the strongest, and whose feeling against me + amounts to bitter enmity.” + </p> + <p> + “Against you? But why?” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose because I have no liking for him myself, and because I will + have orders obeyed, whether they are my orders or the orders of the + owners. I will have work done as it should be done, and I will not be + frightened by bullies.” + </p> + <p> + “But if he is a dangerous man—” + </p> + <p> + “He would knock me down from behind, or spoil my beauty with vitriol as + coolly as he would toss off a pint of beer, if he had the opportunity, and + chanced to feel vicious enough at the time,” said Derrick, “But his mood + has not quite come to that yet. Just now he feels that he would like to + have a row,—and really, if we could have a row, it would be the best + thing for us both. If one of us could thrash the other at the outset, it + might never come to the vitriol.” + </p> + <p> + He was cool enough himself, and spoke in quite a matter-of-fact way, but + Anice suddenly lost her color. When, later, she bade him goodnight— + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid of that man,” she said, as he held her hand for the moment. + “Don't let him harm you.” + </p> + <p> + “What man?” asked Derrick. “Is it possible you are thinking about what I + said of Lowrie?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. It is so horrible. I cannot bear the thought of it. I am not used to + hear of such things. I am afraid for you.” + </p> + <p> + “You are very good,” he said, his strong hand returning her grasp with + warm gratitude. “But I am sorry I said so much, if I have frightened you. + I ought to have remembered how new such things were to you. It is nothing, + I assure you.” And bidding her good-night again, he went away quite warmed + at heart by her innocent interest in him, but blaming himself not a little + for his indiscretion. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI - Joan and the Child + </h2> + <p> + To the young curate's great wonder, on his first visit to her after the + advent of Liz and her child, Joan changed her manner towards him. She did + not attempt to repel him, she even bade him welcome in a way of her own. + Deep in Joan's heart was hidden a fancy that perhaps the work of this + young fellow who was “good enow fur a parson,” lay with such as Liz, and + those who like Liz bore a heavy burden. + </p> + <p> + “If yo' can do her any good,” she said, “come and welcome. Come every day. + I dunnot know much about such like mysen, but happen yo' ha' a way o' + helpin' folk as canna help theirsens i' trouble—an' Liz is one on + 'em.” + </p> + <p> + Truly Liz was one of these. She clung to Joan in a hopeless, childish way, + as her only comfort. She could do nothing for herself, she could only obey + Joan's dictates, and this she did in listless misery. When she had work to + do, she made weak efforts at doing it, and when she had none she sat and + held the child upon her knee, her eyes following her friend with a vague + appeal. The discomfort of her lot, the wretchedness of coming back to + shame and tears, after a brief season of pleasure and luxury, was what + crushed her. So long as her lover had cared for her, and she had felt no + fear of hunger or cold, or desertion, she had been happy—happy + because she could be idle and take no thought for the morrow, and was + almost a lady. But now all that was over. She had come to the bitter dregs + of the cup. She was thrown on her own resources, nobody cared for her, + nobody helped her but Joan, nobody called her pretty and praised her ways. + She was not to be a lady after all, she must work for her living and it + must be a poor one too. There would be no fine clothes, no nice rooms, no + flattery and sugar-plums. Everything would be even far harder, and more + unpleasant than it had been before. And then, the baby? What could she do + with it?—a creature more helpless than herself, always to be clothed + and taken care of, when she could not take care of herself, always in the + way, always crying and wailing and troubling day and night. She almost + blamed the baby for everything. Perhaps she would not have lost her lover + if it had not been for the baby. Perhaps he knew what a trouble it would + be, and wanted to be rid of her before it came, and that was why he had + gone away. The night Joan had brought her home she had taken care of the + child, and told Liz to sit down and rest, and had sat down herself with + the small creature in her arms, and after watching her for a while, Liz + had broken out into sobs, and slipped down upon the floor at her feet, + hiding her wretched, pretty face upon her friend's knee. + </p> + <p> + “I canna abide the sight o' it,” she cried. “I canna see what it wur born + fur, mysen. I wish I'd deed when I wur i' Lunnon—when <i>he</i> + cared fur me. He wor fond enow o' me at th' first. He could na abide me to + be out o' his sight. I nivver wur so happy i' my life as I wur then. Aye! + I did na think then, as th' toime ud come when he'd cast me out i' th' + road. He had no reet to do it,” her voice rising hysterically. “He had no + reet to do it, if he wur a gentleman; but it seems gentlefolk can do owt + they please. If he did na mean to stick to me, why could na he ha' let me + a-be.” + </p> + <p> + “That is na gentlefolks' way,” said Joan bitterly, “but if I wur i' yo're + place, Liz, I would na hate th' choild. It has na done yo' as much harm as + yo' ha' done it.” + </p> + <p> + After a while, when the girl was quieter, Joan asked her a question. + </p> + <p> + “You nivver told me who yo' went away wi', Liz,” she said. “I ha' a reason + fur wantin' to know, or I would na ax, but fur a' that if yo' dunnot want + to tell me, yo' need na do it against yo're will.” + </p> + <p> + Liz was silent a moment. + </p> + <p> + “I would na tell ivverybody,” she said. “I would na tell nobody but yo'. + It would na do no good, an' I dunnot care to do harm. You'll keep it to + yo'rsen, if I tell yo', Joan?” + </p> + <p> + “Aye,” Joan answered, “as long as it needs be kept to mysen. I am na one + to clatter.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Liz with a sob, “it wur Mester Landsell I went wi'—young + Mester Landsell—Mester Ralph.” + </p> + <p> + “I thout as much,” said Joan, her face darkening. + </p> + <p> + She had had her suspicions from the first, when Mr. Ralph Landsell had + come to Riggan with his father, who was one of the mining company. He was + a graceful, fair-faced young fellow, with an open hand and the air of a + potentate, and his grandeur had pleased Liz. She was not used to flattery + and “fine London ways,” and her vanity made her an easy victim. + </p> + <p> + “He wur allus after me,” she said, with fresh tears. “He nivver let me be + till I promised to go. He said he would make a lady o' me an' he wur allus + givin' me things. He wur fond o' me at first,—that he wur,—an' + I wur fond o' him. I nivver seed no one loike him afore. Oh! it's hard, it + is.—Oh! it's bitter hard an' cruel, as it should come to this.” + </p> + <p> + And she wailed and sobbed until she wore herself out, and wearied Joan to + the very soul. + </p> + <p> + But Joan bore with her and never showed impatience by word or deed. + Childish petulances and plaints fell upon her like water upon a rock—but + now and then the strong nature was rasped beyond endurance by the weak + one. She had taken no small task upon herself when she gave Liz her word + that she would shield her. Only after a while, in a few weeks, a new + influence began to work upon Liz's protectress. The child for whom there + seemed no place in the world, or in any pitying heart—the child for + whom Liz felt nothing but vague dislike and resentment—the child + laid its light but powerful hand upon Joan. Once or twice she noticed as + she moved about the room that the little creature's eyes would follow her + in a way something like its mother's, as if with appeal to her superior + strength. She fell gradually into the habit of giving it more attention. + It was so little and light, so easily taken from Liz's careless hold when + it was restless, so easily carried to and fro, as she went about her + household tasks. She had never known much about babies until chance had + thrown this one in her path; it was a great novelty. It liked her strong + arms, and Liz was always ready to give it up to her, feeling only a weak + bewilderment at her fancy for it. When she was at home it was rarely out + of her arms. It was no source of weariness to her perfect strength. She + carried it here and there, she cradled it upon her knees, when she sat + down by the fire to rest; she learned in time a hundred gentle woman's + ways through its presence. Her step became lighter, her voice softer—a + heavy tread, or a harsh tone might waken the child. For the child's sake + she doffed her uncouth working-dress when she entered the house; for the + child's sake she made an effort to brighten the dulness, and soften the + roughness of their surroundings. + </p> + <p> + The Reverend Paul, in his visits to the house, observed with tremor, the + subtle changes wrought in her. Catching at the straw of her negative + welcome, he went to see Liz whenever he could find a tangible excuse. He + had a sensitive dread of intruding even upon the poor privacy of the + “lower orders,” and he could rarely bring himself to the point of taking + them by storm as a mere matter of ecclesiastical routine. But the oftener + he saw Joan Lowrie, the more heavily she lay upon his mind. Every day his + conscience smote him more sorely for his want of success with her. And yet + how could he make way against her indifference. He even felt himself a + trifle spell-bound in her presence. He often found himself watching her as + she moved to and fro,—watching her as Liz and the child did. + </p> + <p> + But “th' parson” was “th' parson” to her still. A good-natured, simple + little fellow, who might be a trifle better than other folks, but who + certainly seemed weaker; a frail little gentleman in spectacles, who was + afraid of her, or was at least easily confounded; who might be of use to + Liz, but who was not in her line,—better in his way than his master + in his; but still a person to be regarded with just a touch of contempt. + </p> + <p> + The confidence established between Grace and his friend Fergus Derrick, + leading to the discussion of all matters connected with the parish and + parishioners, led naturally to the frequent discussion of Joan Lowrie + among the rest. Over tea and toast in the small parlor the two men often + drew comfort from each other. When Derrick strode into the little place + and threw himself into his favorite chair, with knit brows and weary + irritation in his air, Grace was always ready to detect his mood, and wait + for him to reveal himself; or when Grace looked up at his friend's + entrance with a heavy, pained look on his face, Derrick was equally quick + to comprehend. There was one trouble in which Derrick specially + sympathized with his friend. This was in his feeling for Anice. + </p> + <p> + Duty called Paul frequently to the house, and his position with regard to + its inhabitants was necessarily familiar. Mr. Barholm did not spare his + curate; he was ready to delegate to him all labor in which he was not + specially interested himself, or which he regarded as scarcely worthy of + his mettle. + </p> + <p> + “Grace makes himself very useful in some cases,” he would say; “a certain + kind of work suits him, and he is able to do himself justice in it. He is + a worthy enough young fellow in a certain groove, but it is always best to + confine him to that groove.” + </p> + <p> + So, when there was an ordinary sermon to be preached, or a commonplace + piece of work to be done, it was handed over to Grace, with a few tolerant + words of advice or comment, and as commonplace work was rather the rule + than the exception, the Reverend Paul's life was not idle. Anice's manner + toward her father's curate was so gentle and earnest, so frank and full of + trust in him, that it was not to be wondered at that each day only fixed + her more firmly in his heart. Nothing of his conscientious labor was lost + upon her; nothing of his self-sacrifice and trial was passed by + indifferently in her thoughts of him; his pain and his effort went to her + very heart. Her belief in him was so strong that she never hesitated to + carry any little bewilderment to him or to speak to him openly upon any + subject. Small marvel, that he found it delicious pain to go to the house + day after day, feeling himself so near to her, yet knowing himself so far + from any hope of reaching the sealed chamber of her heart. + </p> + <p> + Notwithstanding her knowledge of her inability to alter his position, + Anice still managed to exert some slight influence over her friend's fate. + </p> + <p> + “Do you not think, papa, that Mr. Grace has a great deal to do?” she + suggested once, when he was specially overburdened. + </p> + <p> + “A great deal to do?” he said. “Well, he has enough to do, of course, my + dear, but then it is work of a kind that suits him. I never leave anything + very important to Grace. You do not mean, my dear, that you fancy he has + too much to do?” + </p> + <p> + “Rather too much of a dull kind,” answered Anice. “Dull work is tiring, + and he has a great deal of it on his hands. All that school work, you + know, papa—if you could share it with him, I should think it would + make it easier for him.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Anice,” the rector protested; “if Grace had my responsibilities + to carry on his shoulders,—but I do not leave my responsibilities to + him. In my opinion he is hardly fitted to bear them—they are not in + his line;” but seeing a dubious look on the delicate face opposite him—“but + if you think the young fellow has really too much to do, I will try to + take some of these minor matters upon myself. I am equal to a good deal of + hard work,”—evidently feeling himself somewhat aggrieved. + </p> + <p> + But Anice made no further comment; having dropped a seed of suggestion, + she left it to fructify, experience teaching her that this was her best + plan. It was one of the good rector's weaknesses, to dislike to find his + course disapproved even by a wholly uninfluential critic, and his daughter + was by no means an uninfluential critic. He was never exactly comfortable + when her views did not strictly accord with his own. To find that Anice + was regarding a favorite whim with questioning, was for him to begin to + falter a trifle inwardly, however testily rebellious he might feel. He was + a man who thrived under encouragement, and sank at once before failure; + failure was unpleasant, and he rarely contended long against + unpleasantness; it was not a “fair wind and no favor” with him, he wanted + both the fair wind and the favor, and if either failed him he felt himself + rather badly used. So it was, through this discreetly exerted influence of + Anice's, that Grace, to his surprise, found some irksome tasks taken from + his shoulders at this time. He did not know that it was Anice he had to + thank for the temporary relief. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII - Anice at the Cottage + </h2> + <p> + ANICE went to see Liz. Perhaps if the truth were told, she went to see + Joan more than to visit Joan's <i>protégée</i> though her interest + extended from the one to the other. But she did not see Joan, she only + heard of her. Liz met her visitor without any manifestations of + enthusiasm. She was grateful, but gratitude was not often a powerful + emotion with her. But Anice began to attract her somewhat before she had + been in the house ten minutes. Liz found, first, that she was not one of + the enemy, and did not come to read a homily to her concerning her sins + and transgressions; having her mind set at ease thus far, she found time + to be interested in her. Her visitor's beauty, her prettiness of toilet, a + certain delicate grace of presence, were all virtues in Liz's eyes. She + was so fond of pretty things herself, she had been wont to feel such + pleasure and pride in her own beauty, that such outward charms were the + strongest of charms to her. She forgot to be abashed and miserable, when, + after talking a few minutes, Anice came to her and bent over the child as + it lay on her knee. She even had the courage to regard the material of her + dress with some degree of interest. + </p> + <p> + “Yo'n getten that theer i' Lunnon,” she ventured, wistfully touching the + pretty silk with her finger. “Theer's noan sich i' Riggan.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” answered Anice, letting the baby's hand cling to her fingers. “I + bought it in London.” + </p> + <p> + Liz touched it again, and this time the wistfulness in her touch crept up + to her eyes, mingled with a little fretfulness. + </p> + <p> + “Ivverything's fine as comes fro' Lunnon,” she said. “It's the grandest + place i' th' world. I dunnot wonder as th' queen lives theer. I wur happy + aw th' toime I wur theer. I nivver were so happy i' my life. I—I + canna hardly bear to think on it—it gi'es me such a wearyin' an' + long-in'; I wish I could go back, I do”—ending with a sob. + </p> + <p> + “Don't think about it any more than you can help,” said Anice gently. “It + is very hard I know; don't cry, Liz.” + </p> + <p> + “I canna help it,” sobbed Liz; “an' I can no more help thinkin' on it, + than th' choild theer can help thinkin' on its milk. I'm hungerin' aw th' + toime—an' I dunnot care to live; I wakken up i' th' noight hungerin' + an' cryin' fur—fur what I ha' not got, an' nivver shall ha' agen.” + </p> + <p> + The tears ran down her cheeks and she whimpered like a child. The sight of + the silk dress had brought back to her mind her lost bit of paradise as + nothing else would have done—her own small store of finery, the + gayety and novelty of London sounds and sights. + </p> + <p> + Anice knelt down upon the flagged floor, still holding the child's hand. + </p> + <p> + “Don't cry,” she said again. “Look at the baby, Liz. It is a pretty baby. + Perhaps if it lives, it may be a comfort to you some day.” + </p> + <p> + “Nay! it wunnot;” said Liz, regarding it resentfully. “I nivver could tak' + no comfort in it. It's nowt but a trouble. I dunnot loike it. I canna. It + would be better if it would na live. I canna tell wheer Joan Lowrie gets + her patience fro'. I ha' no patience with the little marred thing mysen—allus + whimperin' an' cryin'; I dunnot know what to do wi' it half th' toime.” + </p> + <p> + Anice took it from her lap, and sitting down upon a low wooden stool, held + it gently, looking at its small round face. It was a pretty little + creature, pretty with Liz's own beauty, or at least, with the baby promise + of it. Anice stooped and kissed it, her heart stirred by the feebly-strong + clasp of the tiny fingers. + </p> + <p> + During the remainder of her visit, she sat holding the child on her knee, + and talking to it as well as to its mother. But she made no attempt to + bring Liz to what Mr. Barholm had called, “a fitting sense of her + condition.” She was not fully settled in her opinion as to what Liz's + “fitting sense” would be. So she simply made an effort to please her, and + awaken her to interest, and she succeeded very well. When she went away, + the girl was evidently sorry to see her go. + </p> + <p> + “I dunnot often want to see folk twice,” she said, looking at her shyly, + “but I'd loike to see yo'. Yo're not loike th' rest. Yo' dunnot harry me + wi' talk. Joan said yo' would na.” + </p> + <p> + “I will come again,” said Anice. + </p> + <p> + During her visit, Liz had told her much of Joan. She seemed to like to + talk of her, and certainly Anice had been quite ready to listen. + </p> + <p> + “She is na easy to mak' out,” said Liz, “an' p'r'aps that's th' reason why + folks puts theirsens to so much trouble to mak' her out.” + </p> + <p> + When he passed the cottage on the Knoll Road in going home at night, + Fergus could not help looking out for Joan. Sometimes he saw her, and + sometimes he did not. During the warm weather, he saw her often at the + door, or near the gate; almost always with the child in her arms. There + was no awkward shrinking in her manner at such times, no vestige of the + clumsy consciousness usually exhibited by girls of her class. She met his + glance with a grave quietude, scarcely touched with interest, he thought; + he never observed that she smiled, though he was uncomfortably conscious + now and then that she stood and calmly watched him out of sight. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII - The Wager of Battle + </h2> + <p> + “Owd Sammy Craddock” rose from his chair, and going to the mantel-piece, + took down a tobacco jar of red and yellow delft, and proceeded to fill his + pipe with solemn ceremony. It was a large, deep clay pipe, and held a + great deal of tobacco—particularly when filled from the store of an + acquaintance. “It's a good enow pipe to borrow wi',” Sammy was wont to + remark. In the second place, Mr. Craddock drew forth a goodly portion of + the weed, and pressed it down with ease and precision into the top of the + foreign gentleman's turban which constituted the bowl. Then he lighted it + with a piece of paper, remarking to his wife between long indrawn puffs, + “I'm goin'—to th' Public.” + </p> + <p> + The good woman did not receive the intelligence as amicably as it had been + given. + </p> + <p> + “Aye,” she said, “I'll warrant tha art. When tha art no fillin' thy belly + tha art generally either goin' to th' Public, or comin' whoam. Aw Riggan + ud go to ruin if tha wert na at th' Public fro' morn till neet looking + after other folkses business. It's well for th' toun as tha'st getten nowt + else to do.” + </p> + <p> + Sammy puffed away at his pipe, without any appearance of disturbance. + </p> + <p> + “Aye,” he consented dryly, “it is, that. It ud be a bad thing to ha' th' + pits stop workin' aw because I had na attended to 'em, an' gi'en th' + mesters a bit o' encouragement. Tha sees mine's what th' gentlefolk ca' a + responsible position i' society. Th' biggest trouble I ha', is settlin' i' + my moind what th' world 'ill do when I turn up my toes to th' daisies, an' + how the government'll mak' up their moinds who shall ha' th' honor o' + payin' for th' moniment.” + </p> + <p> + In Mr. Craddock's opinion, his skill in the solution of political and + social problems was only equalled by his aptitude in managing the weaker + sex. He never lost his temper with a woman. He might be sarcastic, he was + sometimes even severe in his retorts, but he was never violent. In any one + else but Mr. Craddock, such conduct might have been considered weak by the + male population of Riggan, who not unfrequently settled their trifling + domestic difficulties with the poker and tongs, chairs, or flat-irons, + or indeed with any portable piece of household furniture. But Mr. + Craddock's way of disposing of feminine antagonists was tolerated. It was + pretty well known that Mrs. Craddock had a temper, and since he could + manage her, it was not worth while to criticise the method. + </p> + <p> + “Tha'rt an owd yommer-head,” said Mrs. Craddock, as oracularly as if she + had never made the observation before. “Tha deserves what tha has na + getten.” + </p> + <p> + “Aye, that I do,” with an air of amiable regret “Tha'rt reet theer fur + once i' thy loife. Th' country has na done its duty by me. If I'd had aw I + deserved I'd been th' Lord Mayor o' Lunnon by this toime, an' tha'd a been + th' Lady Mayoress, settin' up i' thy parlor wi' a goold crown atop o' thy + owd head, sortin' out thy cloathes fur th' wesh woman i'stead o' dollyin' + out thy bits o' duds fur thysen. Tha'rt reet, owd lass—tha'rt reet + enow.” + </p> + <p> + “Go thy ways to th' Public,” retorted the old dame driven to desperation. + “I'm tired o' hearkenin' to thee. Get thee gone to th' Public, or we'st + ha' th' world standin' still; an' moind tha do'st na set th' horse-ponds + afire as tha goes by em. + </p> + <p> + “I'll be keerful, owd lass,” chuckled Sammy, taking his stick. “I'll be + keerful for th' sake o' th' town.” + </p> + <p> + He made his way toward the village ale-house in the best of humors. + Arriving at The Crown, he found a discussion in progress. Discussions were + always being carried on there in fact, but this time it was not Craddock's + particular friends who were busy. There were grades even among the + visitors at The Crown, and there were several grades below Sammy's. The + lowest was composed of the most disreputable of the colliers—men who + with Lowrie at their head were generally in some mischief. It was these + men who were talking together loudly this evening, and as usual, Lowrie + was the loudest in the party. They did not seem to be quarrelling. Three + or four sat round a table listening to Lowrie with black looks, and toward + them Sammy glanced as he came in. + </p> + <p> + “What's up in them fellys?” he asked of a friend. + </p> + <p> + “Summat's wrong at th' pit,” was the answer. “I canna mak' out what mysen. + Summat about one o' th' mesters as they're out wi'. What'll tha tak', + owd lad?” + </p> + <p> + “A pint o' sixpenny.” And then with another sidelong glance at the + debaters: + </p> + <p> + “They're an ill set, that lot, an' up to summat ill too, I'll warrant. + He's not the reet soart, that Lowrie.” + </p> + <p> + Lowrie was a burly fellow with a surly, sometimes ferocious, expression. + Drink made a madman of him, and among his companions he ruled supreme + through sheer physical superiority. The man who quarrelled with him might + be sure of broken bones, if not of something worse. He leaned over the + table now, scowling as he spoke. + </p> + <p> + “I'll ha' no lads meddlin' an' settin' th' mesters agen <i>me</i>,” + Craddock heard him say. “Them on yo' as loikes to tak' cheek mun tak' it, + I'm too owd a bird fur that soart o' feed. It sticks i' my crop. Look thee + out o' that theer window, Jock, and watch who passes. I'll punse that lad + into th' middle o' next week, as sure as he goes by.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” commented one of his companions, “aw I've gotten to say is, as + tha'll be loike to ha' a punse on it, fur he's a strappin' youngster, an' + noan so easy feart.” + </p> + <p> + “Da'st ta mean to say as I conna do it?” demanded Lowrie fiercely. + </p> + <p> + “Nay—nay, mon,” was the pacific and rather hasty reply. “Nowt o' th' + soart. I on'y meant as it was na ivvery mon as could.” + </p> + <p> + “Aye, to be sure!” said Sammy testily to his friend. “That's th' game is + it? Theer's a feight on hond. That's reet, my lads, lay in thy beer, an' + mak' dom'd fools o' thysens, an' tha'lt get a chance to sleep on th' soft + side o' a paving-stone i' th' lock-ups.” + </p> + <p> + He had been a fighting man himself in his young days, and had prided + himself particularly upon “showing his muscle,” in Riggan parlance, but he + had never been such a man as Lowrie. His comparatively gentlemanly + encounters with personal friends had always been fair and square, and in + many cases had laid the foundation for future toleration, even amiability. + He had never hesitated to “tak' a punse” at an offending individual, but + he had always been equally ready to shake hands when all was over, and in + some cases, when having temporarily closed a companion's eyes in the heat + of an argument, he had been known to lead him to the counter of “th' + Public,” and bestow nectar upon him in the form of “sixpenny.” But of + Lowrie, even the fighting community, which was the community predominating + in Riggan, could not speak so well. He was “ill-farrant,” and revengeful,—ready + to fight, but not ready to forgive. He had been known to bear a grudge, + and remember it, when it had been forgotten by other people. His record + was not a clean one, and accordingly he was not a favorite of Sammy + Craddock's. + </p> + <p> + A short time afterward somebody passed the window facing the street, and + Lowrie started up with an oath. + </p> + <p> + “Theer he is!” he exclaimed. “Now fur it. I thowt he'd go this road. I'll + see what tha's getten to say fur thysen, my lad.” + </p> + <p> + He was out in the street almost before Craddock and his companion had + time to reach the open window, and he had stopped the passer-by, who + paused to confront him haughtily. + </p> + <p> + “Why!” cried Sammy, slapping his knee, “I'm dom'd if it is na th' Lunnon + engineer chap.” + </p> + <p> + Fergus Derrick stood before his enemy with anything but a propitiatory + air. That this brutal fellow who had caused him trouble enough already, + should interfere with his very progress in the street, was too much for + his high spirit to bear. + </p> + <p> + “I comn out here,” said Lowrie, “to see if tha had owt to say to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Then,” replied Fergus, “you may go in again, for I have nothing.” + </p> + <p> + Lowrie drew a step nearer to him. + </p> + <p> + “Art tha sure o' that?” he demanded. “Tha wert so ready wi' thy gab about + th' Davys this mornin' I thowt happen tha'd loike to say summat more if a + mon ud gi' yo' a chance. But happen agen yo're one o' th' soart as sticks + to gab an' goes no further.” + </p> + <p> + Derrick's eyes blazed, he flung out his open hand in a contemptuous + gesture. + </p> + <p> + “Out of the way,” he said, in a suppressed voice, “and let me pass.” + </p> + <p> + But Lowrie only came nearer. + </p> + <p> + “Nay, but I wunnot,” he said, “until I've said my say. Tha wert goin' to + mak' me obey th' rules or let th' mesters hear on it, wert tha? Tha wert + goin' to keep thy eye on me, an' report when th' toime come, wert tha? + Well, th' toime has na come yet, and now I'm goin' to gi' thee a + thrashin'.” + </p> + <p> + He sprang upon him with a ferocity which would have flung to the earth any + man who had not possessed the thews and sinews of a lion. Derrick managed + to preserve his equilibrium. After the first blow, he could not control + himself. Naturally, he had longed to thrash this fellow soundly often + enough, and now that he had been attacked by him, he felt forbearance to + be no virtue. Brute force could best conquer brute nature. He felt that he + would rather die a thousand deaths than be conquered himself. He put forth + all his strength in an effort that awakened the crowd—which had + speedily surrounded them, Owd Sammy among the number—to wild + admiration. + </p> + <p> + “Get thee unto it, lad,” cried the old sinner in an ecstasy of + approbation, “Get thee unto it! Tha'rt shapin' reet I see. Why, I'm + dom'd,” slapping his knee as usual—“I'm dom'd if he is na goin' to + mill Dan Lowrie!” + </p> + <p> + To the amazement of the by-standers, it became evident in a very short + time, that Lowrie had met his match. Finding it necessary to defend + himself, Derrick was going to do something more. The result was that the + breathless struggle for the mastery ended in a crash, and Lowrie lay upon + the pavement, Fergus Derrick standing above him pale, fierce and panting. + </p> + <p> + “Look to him,” he said to the men about him, in a white heat, “and + remember that the fellow provoked me to it. If he tries it again, I will + try again too.” And he turned on his heel and walked away. + </p> + <p> + He had been far more tolerant, even in his wrath, than most men would have + been, but he had disposed of his enemy effectually. The fellow lay stunned + upon the ground. In his fall, he had cut his head upon the curbstone, and + the blood streamed from the wound when his companions crowded near, and + raised him. Owd Sammy Craddock offered no assistance; he leaned upon his + stick, and looked on with grim satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + “Tha's getten what tha deserved, owd lad,” he said in an undertone. “An' + tha'st getten no more. I'st owe th' Lunnon chap one fro' this on. He's + done a bit o' work as I'd ha' takken i' hond mysen long ago, if I'd ha' + been thirty years younger, an' a bit less stiff i' th' hinges.” + </p> + <p> + Fergus had not escaped without hurt himself, and the first angry + excitement over, he began to feel so sharp an ache in his wrist, that he + made up his mind to rest for a few minutes at Grace's lodgings before + going home. It would be wise to know the extent of his injury. + </p> + <p> + Accordingly, he made his appearance in the parlor, somewhat startling his + friend, who was at supper. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Fergus!” exclaimed Paul. “How excited you look!” + </p> + <p> + Derrick flung himself into a chair, feeling rather dubious about his + strength, all at once. + </p> + <p> + “Do I?” he said, with a faint smile. “Don't be alarmed, Grace, I have no + doubt I look as I feel. I have been having a brush with that scoundrel + Lowrie, and I believe something has happened to my wrist.” + </p> + <p> + He made an effort to raise his left hand and failed, succumbing to a pain + so intense that it forced an exclamation from him. + </p> + <p> + “I thought it was a sprain,” he said, when he recovered himself, “but it + is a job for a surgeon. It is broken.” + </p> + <p> + And so it proved under the examination of the nearest practitioner, and + then Derrick remembered a wrench and shock which he had felt in Lowrie's + last desperate effort to recover himself. Some of the small bones had + broken. + </p> + <p> + Grace called in the surgeon himself, and stood by during the strapping and + bandaging with an anxious face, really suffering as much as Derrick, + perhaps a trifle more. He would not hear of his going home that night, but + insisted that he should remain where he was. + </p> + <p> + “I can sleep on the lounge myself,” he protested. “And though I shall be + obliged to leave you for half an hour, I assure you I shall not be away a + longer time.” + </p> + <p> + “Where are you going?” asked Derrick. + </p> + <p> + “To the Rectory. Mr. Barholm sent a message an hour ago, that he wished + to see me upon business.” + </p> + <p> + Fergus agreed to remain. When Grace was on the point of leaving the room, + he turned his head. + </p> + <p> + “You are going to the Rectory, you say?” he remarked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think you shall see Anice?” + </p> + <p> + “It is very probable,” confusedly. + </p> + <p> + “I merely thought I would ask you not to mention this affair to her,” said + Derrick. The Curate's face assumed an expression at that moment, which it + was well that his friend did not see. A shadow of bewilderment and anxiety + fell upon it and the color faded away. + </p> + <p> + “You think—” faltered he. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I thought that perhaps it would shock or alarm her,” answered + Derrick. “She might fancy it to have been a more serious matter than it + was.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. I think you are right, perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX - The News at the Rectory + </h2> + <p> + If she did not hear of the incident from Grace, Anice heard of it from + another quarter. + </p> + <p> + The day following, the village was ringing with the particulars of “th' + feight betwix' th' Lunnon chap an' Dan Lowrie.” + </p> + <p> + Having occasion to go out in the morning, Mr. Barholm returned to luncheon + in a state of great excitement. + </p> + <p> + “Dear me!” he began, almost as soon as he entered the room. “Bless my + life! what ill-conditioned animals these colliers are!” + </p> + <p> + Anice and her mother regarded him questionably. + </p> + <p> + “What do you suppose I have just heard?” he went on. “Mr. Derrick has had + a very unpleasant affair with one of the men who work under him—no + other than that Lowrie—the young woman's father. They are a bad lot + it seems, and Lowrie had a spite against Derrick, and attacked him openly, + and in the most brutal manner, as he was going through the village + yesterday evening.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure?” cried Anice. “Oh! papa,” and she put her hand upon the + table as if she needed support. + </p> + <p> + “There is not the slightest doubt,” was the answer, “everybody is talking + about it. It appears that it is one of the strictest rules of the mine + that the men shall keep their Davy lamps locked while they are in the pit—indeed + they are directed to deliver up their keys before going down, and Derrick + having strong suspicions that Lowrie had procured a false key, gave him a + rather severe rating about it, and threatened to report him, and the end + of the matter was the trouble of yesterday. The wonder is, that Derrick + came off conqueror. They say he gave the fellow a sound thrashing. There + is a good deal of force in that young man,” he said, rubbing his hands. + “There is a good deal of—of pluck in him—as we used to say at + Oxford.” + </p> + <p> + Anice shrank from her father's evident enjoyment, feeling a mixture of + discomfort and dread. Suppose the tables had turned the other way. Suppose + it had been Lowrie who had conquered. She had heard of horrible things + done by such men in their blind rage. Lowrie would not have paused where + Derrick did. The newspapers told direful tales of such struggles ending in + the conquered being stamped upon, maimed, beaten out of life. + </p> + <p> + “It is very strange,” she said, almost impatiently. “Mr. Grace must have + known, and yet he said nothing. I wish he would come.” + </p> + <p> + As chance had it, the door opened just at that moment, and the Curate was + announced. He was obliged to drop in at all sorts of unceremonious hours, + and to-day some school business had brought him. The Rector turned to + greet him with unwonted warmth. “The very man we want,” he exclaimed. + “Anice was just wishing for you. We have been talking of this difficulty + between Derrick and Lowrie, and we are anxious to hear what you know about + it.” + </p> + <p> + Grace glanced at Anice uneasily. + </p> + <p> + “We wanted to know if Mr. Derrick was quite uninjured,” she said. “Papa + did not hear that he was hurt at all, but you will be able to tell us.” + </p> + <p> + There was an expression in her upraised eyes the Curate had never seen + there. + </p> + <p> + “He met with an injury,” he answered, “but it was not a severe one. He + came to my rooms last night and remained with me. His wrist is fractured.” + </p> + <p> + He was not desirous of discussing the subject very freely, it was evident, + even to Mr. Barholm, who was making an effort to draw him out. He seemed + rather to avoid it, after he had made a brief statement of what he knew. + In his secret heart, he shrank from it with a dread far more nervous than + Anice's. He had doubts of his own concerning Lowrie's action in the + future. Thus the Rector's excellent spirits grated on him, and he said but + little. + </p> + <p> + Anice was silent too. After luncheon, however, she went into a small + conservatory adjoining the room, and before Grace took his departure, she + called him to her. + </p> + <p> + “It is very strange that you did not tell us last night,” she said; “why + did you not?” + </p> + <p> + “It was Derrick's forethought for you,” he answered. “He was afraid that + the story would alarm you, and as I agreed with him that it might, I + remained silent. I might as well have spoken, it appears.” + </p> + <p> + “He thought it would frighten me?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Has this accident made him ill?” + </p> + <p> + “No, not ill, though the fracture is a very painful and inconvenient one.” + </p> + <p> + “I am very sorry; please tell him so. And, Mr. Grace, when he feels able + to come here, I have something to say to him.” + </p> + <p> + Derrick marched into the Barholm parlor that very night with his arm in + splints and bandages. + </p> + <p> + It was a specially pleasant and homelike evening to him; Mrs. Barholm's + gentle heart went out to the handsome invalid. She had never had a son of + her own, though it must be confessed she had yearned for one, strong and + deep as was her affection for her girl. + </p> + <p> + But it was not till Derrick bade Anice good-night, that he heard what she + intended to say to him. When he was going, just as he stepped across the + threshold of the entrance door, she stopped him. + </p> + <p> + “Wait a minute, if you will be so good,” she said, “I have something to + ask of you.” + </p> + <p> + He paused, half smiling. + </p> + <p> + “I thought you had forgotten,” he returned. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! no, I had not forgotten,” she answered. “But it will only seem a very + slight thing to you perhaps.” Then she began again, after a pause. “If you + please, do not think I am a coward,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “A coward!” he repeated. + </p> + <p> + “You were afraid to let Mr. Grace tell me about your accident last night + and though it was very kind of you, I did not like it. You must not think + that because these things are new and shock me, I am not strong enough to + trust in. I am stronger than I look.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Miss Barholm,” he protested, “I am sure of that. I ought to have + known better. Forgive me if—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” she interposed, “you must not blame yourself. But I wanted to ask + you to be so kind as to think better of me than that. I want to be sure + that if ever I can be of use to anybody, you will not stop to think of the + danger or annoyance. Such a time may never come, but if it does—” + </p> + <p> + “I shall certainly remember what you have said,” Fergus ended for her. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X - On the Knoll Road + </h2> + <p> + The moon was shining brightly when he stepped into the open road—so + brightly that he could see every object far before him unless where the + trees cast their black shadows, which seemed all the blacker for the + light. “What a grave little creature she is!” he was saying to himself. + But he stopped suddenly; under one of the trees by the roadside some one + was standing motionless; as he approached, the figure stepped boldly out + into the moonlight before him. It was a woman. + </p> + <p> + “Dunnot be afeard,” she said, in a low, hurried voice. “It's me, mester—it's + Joan Lowrie.” + </p> + <p> + “Joan Lowrie!” he said with surprise. “What has brought you out at this + hour, and whom are you waiting for?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm waiting for yo'rsen,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + “For me?” + </p> + <p> + “Aye; I ha' summat to say to you.” + </p> + <p> + She looked about her hurriedly. + </p> + <p> + “Yo'd better come into th' shade o' them trees,” she said, “I dunnot want + to gi' any one a chance to see me nor yo' either.” + </p> + <p> + It was impossible that he should not hesitate a moment. If she had been + forced into entrapping him! + </p> + <p> + She made a sharp gesture. + </p> + <p> + “I am na goin' to do no harm,” she said. “Yo' may trust me. It's th' other + way about.” + </p> + <p> + “I ask pardon,” he said, feeling heartily ashamed of himself the next + instant, “but you know—” + </p> + <p> + “Aye,” impatiently, as they passed into the shadow, “I know, or I should + na be here now.” + </p> + <p> + A moonbeam, finding its way through a rift in the boughs and falling on + her face, showed him that she was very pale. + </p> + <p> + “Yo' wonder as I'm here at aw,” she said, not meeting his eyes as she + spoke, “but yo' did me a good turn onct, an' I ha' na had so many done me + i' my loife as I can forget one on 'em. I'm come here—fur I may as + well mak' as few words on't as I con—I come here to tell yo' to tak' + heed o' Dan Lowrie.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” said Fergus. “He bears me a grudge, does he?” + </p> + <p> + “Aye, he bears thee grudge enow,” she said. “He bears thee that much + grudge that if he could lay his hond on thee, while th' heat's on him, + he'd kill thee or dee. He will na be so bitter after a while, happen, but + he'd do it now, and that's why I warn thee. Tha has no reet to be goin' + out loike this,” glancing at his bandaged arm. “How could tha help thysen + if he were to set on thee? Tha had better tak' heed, I tell thee.” + </p> + <p> + “I am very much indebted to you,” began Fergus. + </p> + <p> + She stopped him. + </p> + <p> + “Tha did me a good turn,” she said. And then her voice changed. “Dan + Lowrie's my feyther, an' I've stuck to him, I dunnot know why—happen + cause I never had nowt else to hold to and do for; but feyther or no + feyther I know he's a bad un when th' fit's on an' he has a spite agen a + mon. So tak' care, I tell thee agen. Theer now, I've done. Will tha walk + on first an' let me follow thee?” + </p> + <p> + Something in her mode of making this suggestion impressed him singularly. + </p> + <p> + “I do not quite understand—” he said. + </p> + <p> + She turned and looked at him, her face white and resolute. + </p> + <p> + “I dunnot want harm done,” she answered. “I will na ha' harm done if I con + help it, an' if I mun speak th' truth I know theer's harm afoot toneet. + If I'm behind thee, theer is na a mon i' Riggan as dare lay hond on thee + to my face, if I <i>am</i> nowt but a lass. That's why I ax thee to let me + keep i' soight.” + </p> + <p> + “You are a brave woman,” he said, “and I will do as you tell me, but I + feel like a coward.” + </p> + <p> + “Theer is no need as you should,” she answered in a softened voice, “Yo' + dunnot seem loike one to me.” + </p> + <p> + Derrick bent suddenly, and taking her hand, raised it to his lips. At this + involuntary act of homage—for it was nothing less—Joan Lowrie + looked up at him with startled eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I am na a lady,” she said, and drew her hand away. + </p> + <p> + They went out into the road together, he first, she following at a short + distance, so that nobody seeing the one could avoid seeing the other. It + was an awkward and trying position for a man of Derrick's temperament, and + under some circumstances he would have rebelled against it; as it was, he + could not feel humiliated. + </p> + <p> + At a certain dark bend in the road not far from Lowrie's cottage, Joan + halted suddenly and spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Feyther,” she said, in a clear steady voice, “is na that yo' standin' + theer? I thowt yo'd happen to be comin' whoam this way. Wheer has tha + been?” And as he passed on, Derrick caught the sound of a muttered oath, + and gained a side glimpse of a heavy, slouching figure coming stealthily + out of the shadow. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI - Nib and His Master Make a Call + </h2> + <p> + “Hoo's a queer little wench,” said one of the roughest Rigganite matrons, + after Anice's first visit, “I wur i' th' middle o' my weshin when she + coom,—up to th' neck i' th' suds,—and I wur vexed enow when I + seed her standin' i' th' door, lookin' at me wi' them big eyes o' hers—most + loike a babby's wonderin' at summat. 'We dunnot want none,' I says, soart + o' sharp loike, th' minute I clapped my eyes on her. 'Theer's no one here + as can read, an' none on us has no toime to spare if we could, so we + dunnot want none.' 'Dunnot want no what?' she says. 'No tracks,' says I. + And what do yo' think she does, lasses? Why, she begins to soart o' dimple + up about th' corners o' her mouth as if I'd said summat reight down queer, + an' she gi'es a bit o' a laff. 'Well,' she says, 'I'm glad o' that. It's a + good thing, fur I hav'n't got none.' An' then it turns out that she just + stopped fur nowt but to leave some owd linen an' salve for to dress that + sore hond Jack crushed i' th' pit. He'd towd her about it as he went to + his work, and she promised to bring him some. An' what's more, she wouldna + coom in, but just gi' it me, an' went her ways, as if she had na been th' + Parson's lass at aw, but just one o' th' common koind, as knowd how to + moind her own business an' leave other folkses a-be.” + </p> + <p> + The Rigganites became quite accustomed to the sight of Anice's small low + phaeton, with its comfortable fat gray pony. She was a pleasant sight + herself as she sat in it, her little whip in her small gloved hand, and no + one was ever sorry to see her check the gray pony before the door. + </p> + <p> + “Anice!” said Mr. Barholm to his curate, “well! you see Anice understands + these people, and they understand her. She has the faculty of + understanding them. There is nothing, you may be assured, Grace, like + understanding the lower orders, and entering into their feelings.” + </p> + <p> + There was one member of Riggan society who had ranged himself among Miss + Barholm's disciples from the date of his first acquaintance with her, who + was her staunch friend and adviser from that time forward—the young + master of “th' best tarrier i' Riggan.” Neither Jud Bates nor Nib faltered + in their joint devotions from the hour of their first introduction to “th' + Parson's daughter.” When they presented themselves at the Rectory + together, the cordiality of Nib's reception had lessened his master's + awkwardness. Nib was neither awkward nor one whit abashed upon his entrée + into a sphere so entirely new to him as a well-ordered, handsomely + furnished house. Once inside the parlor, Jud had lost courage and stood + fumbling his ragged cap, but Nib had bounced forward, in the best of good + spirits, barking in friendly recognition of Miss Barholm's greeting + caress, and licking her hand. Through Nib, Anice contrived to inveigle Jud + into conversation and make him forget his overwhelming confusion. Catching + her first glimpse of the lad as he stood upon the threshold with his + dubious garments and his abashed air, she was not quite decided what she + was to do with him. But Nib came to her assistance. He forced himself upon + her attention and gave her something to say, and her manner of receiving + him was such, that in a few minutes she found Jud sidling toward her, as + she half knelt on the hearth patting his favorite's rough back. Jud looked + down at her, and she looked up at Jud. + </p> + <p> + “Have you taught him to do anything?” she asked. “Does he know any + tricks?” + </p> + <p> + “He'll kill more rats i' ten minutes than ony dog i' Riggan. He's th' best + tarrier fur rats as tha ivver seed. He's th' best tarrier for <i>owt</i> + as tha ivver seed. Theer is nowt as he canna do. He con feight ony dog as + theer is fro' heer to Marfort.” And he glowed in all the pride of + possession, and stooped down to pat Nib himself. + </p> + <p> + He was quite communicative after this. He was a shrewd little fellow and + had not spent his ten years in the mining districts for nothing. He was + thoroughly conversant with the ways of the people his young hostess wished + to hear about. He had worked in the pits a little, and he had tramped + about the country with Nib at his heels a great deal. He was supposed to + live with his father and grandmother, but he was left entirely to himself, + unless when he was put to a chance job. He knew Joan Lowrie and pronounced + her a “brave un;” he knew and reverenced “Owd Sammy Craddock;” he knew + Joan's father and evidently regarded him with distrust; in fact there was + not a man, woman or child in the place of whom he did not know something. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Barholm happening to enter the room during the interview, found his + daughter seated on a low seat with Nib's head on her knee, and Jud a few + feet from her. She was so intent on the task of entertaining her guest + that she did not hear her father's entrance, and the Reverend Harold left + the three together, himself in rather a bewildered frame of mind. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know?” he asked of his wife when he found her, “do you know who it + is Anice is amusing in the parlor? What singular fancies the girl has, + with all her good sense!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII - On Guard + </h2> + <p> + Though they saw comparatively little of each other, the friendly feeling + established between Anice and Joan, in their first interview, gained + strength gradually as time went on. Coming home from her work at noon or + at night, Joan would see traces of Anice's presence, and listen to Liz's + praises of her. Liz was fond of her and found comfort in her. The days + when the gray pony came to a stop in his jog-trot on the roadside before + the gate had a kind of pleasurable excitement in them. They were the sole + spice of her life. She understood Anice as little as she understood Joan, + but she liked her. She had a vague fancy that in some way Anice was like + Joan; that there was the same strength in her,—a strength upon which + she herself might depend. And then she found even a stronger attraction in + her visitor's personal adornments, in her graceful dress, in any elegant + trifle she wore. She liked to look at her clothes and ask questions about + them, and wonder how <i>she</i> would look if she were the possessor of + such beautiful things. + </p> + <p> + “She wur loike a pictur,” she would say mournfully to Joan. “She had a + blue gown on, an' a hat wi' blue-bells in it, an' summat white an' soft + frilled up round her neck. Eh! it wur pretty. I wish I wur a lady. I + dunnot see why ivverybody canna be a lady an' have such loike.” + </p> + <p> + Later Joan got up and went to the child, who lay upon the bed in a corner + of the room. + </p> + <p> + There were thoughts at work within her of which Liz knew nothing. Liz only + looked at her wondering as she took the sleeping baby in her arms, and + began to pace the floor, walking to and fro with a slow step. + </p> + <p> + “Have I said owt to vex yo'?” said Liz. + </p> + <p> + “No, lass,” was the answer, “it is na thee as worrits me. I con scarce + tell what it is mysen, but it is na thee, nivver fear.” + </p> + <p> + But there was a shadow upon her all the rest of the night. She did not lay + the child down again, but carried it in her arms until they went to bed, + and even there it lay upon her breast. + </p> + <p> + “It's queer to me as yo' should be so fond o' that choild, Joan,” said + Liz, standing by the side of the bed. + </p> + <p> + Joan raised her head from the pillow and looked down at the small face + resting upon her bosom, and she touched the baby's cheek lightly with her + finger, flushing curiously. + </p> + <p> + “It's queer to me too,” she answered, “Get thee into bed, Liz.” + </p> + <p> + Many a battle was fought upon that homely couch when Liz was slumbering + quietly, and the child's soft regular breathing was the only sound to be + heard in the darkened room. Amid the sordid cares and humiliations of + Joan's rough life, there had arisen new ones. She had secret struggles—secret + yearnings,—and added to these, a secret terror. When she lay awake + thinking, she was listening for her father's step. There was not a night + in which she did not long for, and dread to hear it. If he stayed out all + night, she went down to her work under a load of foreboding. She feared to + look into the faces of her work-fellows, lest they should have some evil + story to tell, she feared the road over which she had to pass, lest at + some point, its very dust should cry out to her in a dark stain. She knew + her father better than the oldest of his companions, and she watched him + closely. + </p> + <p> + “He's what yo' wenches ud ca' a handsum chap, that theer,” said Lowrie to + her, the night of his encounter with Derrick. “He's a tall chap an' a + strappin' chap an' he's getten a good-lookin' mug o' his own, but,” + clenching his fist slowly and speaking, “I've not done wi' him yet—I + has not quite done wi' him. Wait till I ha', an' then see what yo'll say + about his beauty. Look yo' here, lass,”—more slowly and heavily + still,—“he'll noan be so tall then nor yet so straight an' + strappin'. I'll smash his good-lookin' mug if I'm dom'd to hell fur it. + Heed tha that?” + </p> + <p> + Instead of taking lodgings nearer the town or avoiding the Knoll Road, as + Grace advised him to do when he heard of Joan's warning, Derrick provided + himself with a heavy stick, stuck a pistol into his belt every night when + he left his office, and walked home as usual, keeping a sharp lookout, + however. + </p> + <p> + “If I avoid the fellow,” he said to Grace, “he will suspect at once that I + feel I have cause to fear him; and if I give him grounds for such a belief + as that I might as well have given way at first.” + </p> + <p> + Strange to say he was not molested. The excitement seemed to die a natural + death in the course of a few days. Lowrie came back to his work looking + sullen and hard, but he made no open threats, and he even seemed easier to + manage. Certainly Derrick found his companions more respectful and + submissive. There was less grumbling among them and more passive + obedience. The rules were not broken, openly, at least, and he himself was + not defied. It was not pleasant to feel that what reason and civility + could not do, a tussle had accomplished, but this really seemed to be the + truth of the matter, and the result was one which made his + responsibilities easier to bear. + </p> + <p> + But during his lonely walks homeward on these summer nights, Derrick made + a curious discovery. On one or two occasions he became conscious that he + had a companion who seemed to act as his escort. It was usually upon dark + or unpleasant nights that he observed this, and the first time he caught + sight of the figure which always walked on the opposite side of the road, + either some distance before or behind him, he put his hand to his belt, + not perceiving for some moments that it was not a man but a woman. It <i>was</i> + a woman's figure, and the knowledge sent the blood to his heart with a + rush that quickened its beatings. It might have been chance, he argued, + that took her home that night at this particular time; but when time after + time, the same thing occurred, he saw that his argument had lost its + plausibility. It was no accident, there was purpose in it; and though they + never spoke to each other or in any manner acknowledged each other's + presence, and though often he fancied that she convinced herself that he + was not aware of her motive, he knew that Joan's desire to protect him had + brought her there. + </p> + <p> + He did not speak of this even to Grace. + </p> + <p> + One afternoon in making her visit at the cottage, Anice left a message for + Joan. She had brought a little plant-pot holding a tiny rose-bush in full + bloom, and when she went away she left her message with Liz. + </p> + <p> + “I never see your friend when I am here,” she said, “will you ask her to + come and see <i>me</i> some night when she is not too tired?” + </p> + <p> + When Joan came home from her work, the first thing that caught her eye was + a lovely bit of color,—the little rose-bush blooming on the + window-sill where Anice herself had placed it. + </p> + <p> + She went and stood before it, and when Liz, who had been temporarily + absent, came into the room, she was standing before it still. + </p> + <p> + “<i>She</i> browt it,” explained Liz, “she wur here this afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + “Aye,” she answered, “wur she?” + </p> + <p> + “Aye,” said Liz. “An', Joan, what do yo' think she towd me to tell yo'?” + </p> + <p> + Joan shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “Why, she said I were to tell yo' to go and see her some neet when yo' wur + na tired,—just th' same as if yo' wur a lady. Shanna yo' go?” + </p> + <p> + “I dunnot know,” said Joan awakening, “I canna tell. What does she want o' + me?” + </p> + <p> + “She wants to see thee an' talk to thee, that's what,”—answered Liz,—“just + th' same as if tha was a lady, I tell thee. That's her way o' doin' + things. She is na a bit loike the rest o' gentlefolk. Why, she'll sit + theer on that three-legged stool wi' the choild on her knee an' laff an' + talk to me an' it, as if she wur nowt but a common lass an' noan a lady at + aw. She's ta'en a great fancy to thee, Joan. She's allus axin me about + thee. If I wur thee I'd go. Happen she'd gi' thee some o' her owd cloas as + she's ta'en to thee so.” + </p> + <p> + “I dunnot want no owd cloas,” said Joan brusquely, “an' she's noan so daft + as to offer 'em to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I nivver did!” exclaimed Liz. “Would na tha tak' 'em? Tha nivver + means to say, tha would na tak' 'em, Joan? Eh! tha art a queer wench! Why, + I'd be set up for th' rest o' my days, if she'd offer 'em to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Thy ways an' mine is na loike,” said Joan. “I want no gentlefolks' + finery. An' I tell you she would na offer 'em to me.” + </p> + <p> + “I nivver con mak' thee out,” Liz said, in a fret. “Tha'rt as grand as if + tha wur a lady thy-sen. Tha'lt tak' nowt fro' nobody.” + </p> + <p> + “Wheer's th' choild?” asked Joan. + </p> + <p> + “She's laid on th' bed,” said Liz. “She wur so heavy she tired me an' I + gave her a rose-bud to play wi' an' left her. She has na cried sin'. Eh! + but these is a noice color,” bending her pretty, large-eyed face over the + flowers, and inhaling their perfume; “I wish I had a bit o' ribbon loike + 'em.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII - Joan and the Picture + </h2> + <p> + Notwithstanding Anice's interference in his behalf, Paul did not find his + labors become very much lighter. And then after all his labor, the + prospect before him was not promising. Instead of appearing easier to cope + with as he learned more of it and its inhabitants, Riggan seemed still + more baffling. His “district” lay in the lower end of the town among ugly + back streets, and alleys; among dirt and ignorance and obstinacy. He spent + his days in laboring among people upon whom he sometimes fancied he had + obtained no hold. It really seemed that they did not want him—these + people; and occasionally a more distressing view of the case presented + itself to his troubled mind,—namely, that to those who might chance + to want him he had little to offer. + </p> + <p> + He had his temporal thorn too. He found it difficult to read, hard to fix + his mind on his modest sermons; occasionally he even accused himself of + forgetting his duty. This had come since the night when he stood at the + door and listened to his friend's warning concerning the Rector's + daughter. Derrick's words were simple enough in themselves, but they had + fallen upon the young Curate's ears with startling significance. He had + given this significance to them himself,—in spite of himself,—and + then all at once he had fallen to wondering why it was that he had never + thought of such a possible denouement before. It was so very possible, so + very probable; nay, when he came to think of it seriously, it was only + impossible that it should not be. He had often told himself, that some + day a lover would come who would be worthy of the woman he had not even + hoped to win. And who was more worthy than Fergus Derrick—who was + more like the hero to whom such women surrender their hearts and lives. If + he himself had been such a man, he thought with the simplicity of + affection, he would not have felt that there was need for fear. And the + two had been thrown so much together and would be thrown together so + frequently in the future. He remembered how Fergus had been taken into the + family circle, and calling to mind a hundred trifling incidents, smiled at + his own blindness. When the next day he received Anice's message, he + received it as an almost positive confirmation. It was not like her to + bestow favors from an idle impulse. + </p> + <p> + It was not so easy now to meet the girl in his visits to the Rectory: it + was not easy to listen to Mr. Barholm while Anice and Fergus Derrick sat + apart and talked. Sometimes he wondered if the time could ever come, when + his friend would be less his friend because he had rivalled him. The idea + of such a possibility only brought him fresh pain. His gentle chivalric + nature shrank within itself at the thought of the bereavement that double + loss would be. There was little room in his mind for the envies of + stronger men. Certainly Fergus had no suspicion of the existence of his + secret pain. He found no alteration in his gentle friend. + </p> + <p> + Among the Reverend Paul's private ventures was a small night school which + he had managed to establish by slow degrees. He had picked up a reluctant + scholar here, and one there,—two or three pit lads, two or three + girls, and two or three men for whose attendance he had worked so hard and + waited so long that he was quite surprised at his success in the end. He + scarcely knew how he had managed it, but the pupils were there in the + dingy room of the National School, waiting for him on two nights in the + week, upon which nights he gave them instruction on a plan of his own. He + had thought the matter so little likely to succeed at first, that he had + engaged in it as a private work, and did not even mention it until his + friends discovered it by chance. + </p> + <p> + Said Jud Bates to Miss Barholm, during one of their confidential + interviews: + </p> + <p> + “Did tha ivver go to a neet skoo?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Anice. + </p> + <p> + Jud fondled Nib's ears patronizingly. + </p> + <p> + “I ha', an' I'm goin' again. So is Nib. <i>He's</i> getten one.” + </p> + <p> + “Who?” for Jud had signified by a gesture that <i>he</i> was not the dog, + but some indefinite person in the village. + </p> + <p> + “Th' little Parson.” + </p> + <p> + “Say, Mr. Grace,” suggested Anice. “It sounds better.” + </p> + <p> + “Aye—Mester Grace—but ivverybody ca's him th' little Parson. + He's getten a neet skoo i' th' town, an' he axed me to go, an' I went I + took Nib an' we larned our letters; leastways I larned mine, an' Nib he + listened wi' his ears up, an' th' Par—Mester Grace laffed. He wur na + vext at Nib comin'. He said 'let him coom, as he wur so owdfashioned.'” + </p> + <p> + So Mr. Grace found himself informed upon, and was rather abashed at being + confronted with his enterprise a few days after by Miss Barholm. + </p> + <p> + “I like it,” said Anice. “Joan Lowrie learned to read and write in a night + school. Mr. Derrick told me so.” + </p> + <p> + A new idea seemed to have been suggested to her. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Grace,” she said, “why could not <i>I</i> help you? Might I?” + </p> + <p> + His delight revealed itself in his face. His first thought was a selfish, + unclerical one, and sudden consciousness sent the color to his forehead as + he answered her, though he spoke quite calmly. + </p> + <p> + “There is no reason why you should not—if you choose,” he said, + “unless Mr. Barholm should object. I need not tell you how grateful I + should be.” + </p> + <p> + “Papa will not object,” she said, quietly. + </p> + <p> + The next time the pupils met, she presented herself in the school-room. + </p> + <p> + Ten minutes after Grace had given her work to her she was as much at home + with it as if she had been there from the first. + </p> + <p> + “Hoo's a little un,” said one of the boys, “but hoo does na seem to be + easy feart. Hoo does not look a bit tuk back.” + </p> + <p> + She had never been so near to Paul Grace during their friendship as when + she walked home with him. A stronger respect for him was growing in her,—a + new reverence for his faithfulness. She had always liked and trusted him, + but of late she had learned to do more. She recognized more fully the + purity and singleness of his life. She accused herself of having + underrated him. + </p> + <p> + “Please let me help you when I can, Mr. Grace,” she said; “I am not + blaming anybody—there is no real blame, even if I had the right to + attach it to any one; but there are mistakes now and then, and you must + promise me that I may use my influence to prevent them.” + </p> + <p> + She had stopped at the gate to say this, and she held out her hand. It was + a strange thing that she could be so utterly oblivious of the pain she + inflicted. But even Derrick would have taken her hand with less + self-control. He was so fearful of wounding or disturbing her, that he was + continually on his guard in her presence, and especially when she was thus + warm and unguarded herself. + </p> + <p> + He had fancied before, sometimes, that she had seen his difficulties, and + sympathized with him, but he had never hoped that she would be thus + unreserved. His thanks came from the depths of his heart; he felt that she + had lightened his burden. + </p> + <p> + After this, Miss Barholm was rarely absent from her place at the school. + The two evenings always found her at work among her young women, and she + made very steady progress among them. + </p> + <p> + By degrees the enterprise was patronized more freely. New pupils dropped + in, and were usually so well satisfied that they did not drop out again. + Grace gave all the credit to Anice, but Anice knew better than to accept + it. She had been his “novelty” she said; time only would prove whether her + usefulness was equal to her power of attraction. + </p> + <p> + She had been teaching in the school about three weeks, when a servant came + to her one night as she sat reading, with the information that a young + woman wished to see her. + </p> + <p> + “A fine-looking young woman, Miss,” added the girl. “I put her into your + own room, as you give orders.” + </p> + <p> + The room was a quiet place, away from the sounds of the house, which had + gradually come to be regarded as Miss Barholm's. It was not a large room + but it was a pretty one, with wide windows and a good view, and as Anice + liked it, her possessions drifted into it until they filled it,—her + books, her pictures,—and as she spent a good deal of her time there, + it was invariably spoken of as her room, and she had given orders to the + servants that her village visitors should be taken to it when they came. + </p> + <p> + Carrying her book in her hand, she went upstairs. She had been very much + interested in what she was reading, and had hardly time to change the + channel of her thought. But when she opened the door, she was brought back + to earth at once. + </p> + <p> + Against the end wall was suspended a picture of Christ in the last agony, + and beneath it was written, “It is finished.” Before it, as Anice opened + the door, stood Joan Lowrie, with Liz's sleeping child on her bosom. She + had come upon the picture suddenly, and it had seized on some deep, + reluctant emotion. She had heard some vague history of the Man; but it was + different to find herself in this silent room, confronting the upturned + face, the crown, the cross, the anguish and the mystery. She turned toward + Anice, forgetting all else but her emotion. She even looked at her for a + few seconds in questioning silence, as if waiting for an answer to words + she had not spoken. + </p> + <p> + When she found her voice, it was of the picture she spoke, not of the real + object of her visit. + </p> + <p> + “Tha knows,” she said, “I dunnot, though I've heerd on it afore. What is + it as is finished? I dunnot quite see. What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “It means,” said Anice, “that God's Son has finished his work.” + </p> + <p> + Joan did not speak. + </p> + <p> + “I have no words of my own, to explain,” continued Anice. “I can tell you + better in the words of the men who loved him and saw him die.” + </p> + <p> + Joan turned to her. + </p> + <p> + “Saw him dee!” she repeated. + </p> + <p> + “There were men who saw him when he died you know,” said Anice. “The New + Testament tells us how. It is as real as the picture, I think. Did you + never read it?” + </p> + <p> + The girl's face took an expression of distrust and sullenness. + </p> + <p> + “Th' Bible has na been i' my line,” she answered; + </p> + <p> + “I've left that to th' parsons an' th' loike; but th' pictur' tuk my eye. + It seemt different.” + </p> + <p> + “Let us sit down,” said Anice, “you will be tired of standing.” + </p> + <p> + When they sat down, Anice began to talk about the child, who was sleeping, + lowering her voice for fear of disturbing it. Joan regarded the little + thing with a look of half-subdued pride. + </p> + <p> + “I browt it because I knowed it ud be easier wi' me than wi' Liz,” she + said. “It worrits Liz an' it neer worrits me. I'm so strong, yo' see, I + con carry it, an' scarce feel its weight, but it wears Liz out, an' it + seems to me as it knows it too, fur th' minute she begins to fret it frets + too.” + </p> + <p> + There was a certain shamefacedness in her manner, when at last she began + to explain the object of her errand. Anice could not help fancying that + she was impelled on her course by some motive whose influence she + reluctantly submitted to. She had come to speak about the night school. + </p> + <p> + “Theer wur a neet skoo here once afore as I went to,” she said; “I larnt + to reed theer an' write a bit, but—but theer's other things I'd + loike to know. Tha canst understand,” she added a little abruptly, “I need + na tell yo'. Little Jud Bates said as yo' had a class o' yore own, an' it + come into my moind as I would ax yo' about it. If I go to th' skoo I—I'd + loike to be wi' ye.” + </p> + <p> + “You can come to me,” said Anice. “And do you know, I think you can help + me.” This thought had occurred to her suddenly. “I am sure you can help + me,” she repeated. + </p> + <p> + When Joan at last started to go away, she paused before the picture, + hesitating for a moment, and then she turned to Anice again. + </p> + <p> + “Yo' say as th' book maks it seem real as th' pictur,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “It seems so to me,” Anice answered. + </p> + <p> + “Will yof lend me th' book?” she asked abruptly. + </p> + <p> + Anice's own Bible lay upon a side-table. She took it up and handed it to + the girl, saying simply, “I will give you this one if you will take it. It + was mine.” + </p> + <p> + And Joan carried the book away with her. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV - The Open “Davy” + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Mester Derik + + Th' rools is ben broak agen on th' quiet bi them as broak em + afore, i naim no naimes an wudnt say nowt but our loifes is + in danger And more than one, i Only ax yo' tu Wach out. i am + + Respekfully + + A honest man wi a famly tu fede +</pre> + <p> + The engineer found this letter near his plate one morning on coming down + to breakfast. His landlady explained that her daughter had picked it up + inside the garden gate, where it had been thrown upon the gravel-walk, + evidently from the road. + </p> + <p> + Derrick read it twice or three times before putting it in his pocket. Upon + the whole, he was not unprepared for the intelligence. He knew enough of + human nature—such human nature as Lowrie represented—to feel + sure that the calm could not continue. If for the present the man did not + defy him openly, he would disobey him in secret, while biding his time for + other means of retaliation. + </p> + <p> + Derrick had been on the lookout for some effort at revenge; but so far + since the night Joan had met him upon the road, Lowrie outwardly had been + perfectly quiet and submissive. + </p> + <p> + After reading the letter, Derrick made up his mind to prompt and decisive + measures, and set about considering what these measures should be, There + was only one certain means of redress and safety,—Lowrie must be got + rid of at once. It would not be a difficult matter either. There was to be + a meeting of the owners that very week, and Derrick had reports to make, + and the mere mention of the violation of the rules would be enough. + </p> + <p> + “Bah!” he said aloud. “It is not pleasant; but it must be done.” + </p> + <p> + The affair had several aspects, rendering it unpleasant, but Derrick shut + his eyes to them resolutely. It seemed, too, that it was not destined that + he should have reason to remain undecided. That very day he was confronted + with positive proof that the writer of the anonymous warning was an honest + man, with an honest motive. + </p> + <p> + During the morning, necessity called him away from his men to a side + gallery, and entering this gallery, he found himself behind a man who + stood at one side close to the wall, his Davy lamp open, his pipe applied + to the flame. It was Dan Lowrie, and his stealthy glance over his shoulder + revealing to him that he was discovered, he turned with an oath. + </p> + <p> + “Shut that lamp,” said Derrick, “and give me your false key.” + </p> + <p> + Lowrie hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “Give me that key,” Derrick repeated, “or I will call the gang in the next + gallery and see what they have to say about the matter.” + </p> + <p> + “Dom yore eyes! does tha think as my toime 'll nivver coom?” + </p> + <p> + But he gave up the key. + </p> + <p> + “When it comes,” he said, “I hope I shall be ready to help myself. Now + I've got only one thing to do. I gave you fair warning and asked you to + act the man toward your fellows. You have played the scoundrel instead, + and I have done with you. I shall report you. That's the end of it.” + </p> + <p> + He went on his way, and left the man uttering curses under his breath. If + there had not been workers near at hand, Derrick might not have gotten + away so easily. Among the men in the next gallery there were some who were + no friends to Lowrie, and who would have given him rough handling if they + had caught him just at that moment, and the fellow knew it. + </p> + <p> + Toward the end of the week, the owners came, and Derrick made his report. + The result was just what he had known it would be. Explosions had been + caused before by transgressions of the rules, and explosions were + expensive and disastrous affairs. Lowrie received his discharge, and his + fellow-workmen a severe warning, to the secret consternation of some among + them. + </p> + <p> + That the engineer of the new mines was a zealous and really amiable young + man, if rather prone to innovations, became evident to his employers. But + his innovations were not encouraged. So, notwithstanding his arguments, + the blast-furnaces held their own, and “for the present,” as the + easy-natured manager put it, other matters, even more important, were set + aside. + </p> + <p> + “There is much to be done, Derrick,” he said; “really so much that + requires time and money, that we must wait a little. 'Rome, etc'.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Rome!” returned Derrick. “I am sometimes of the opinion that Rome had + better never been built at all. You will not discharge your imperfect + apparatus for the same reason that you will discharge a collier,—which + is hardly fair to the collier. Your blast-furnaces expose the miners to as + great danger as Lowrie's pipe. The presence of either may bring about an + explosion when it is least expected.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, well,” was the good-natured response; “we have not exploded yet; + and we have done away with Lowrie's pipe.” + </p> + <p> + Derrick carried the history of his ill-success to Anice, somewhat + dejectedly. + </p> + <p> + “All this is discouraging to a man,” said Derrick, and then he added + meditatively, “As to the rest, I wonder what Joan Lowrie will think of + it.” + </p> + <p> + A faint sense of discomfort fell upon Anice—not exactly easy to + understand. The color fluttered to her cheek and her smile died away. But + she did not speak,—merely waited to hear what Derrick had to say. + </p> + <p> + He had nothing more to say about Joan Lowrie:—when he recovered + himself, as he did almost immediately, he went back to the discussion of + his pet plans, and was very eloquent on the subject. + </p> + <p> + Going home one evening, Derrick found himself at a turn of the road only a + few paces behind Joan. He had thought much of her of late, and wondered + whether she was able to take an utterly unselfish view of his action. She + had a basket upon her arm and looked tired. He strode up to her side and + spoke to her without ceremony. + </p> + <p> + “Let me carry that,” he said. “It is too heavy for you.” + </p> + <p> + The sun was setting redly, so perhaps it was the sunset that flung its + color upon her face as she turned to look at him. + </p> + <p> + “Thank yo',” she answered. “I'm used to carryin' such-loike loads.” + </p> + <p> + But he took her burden from her, and even if she had wished to be left to + herself she had no redress, and accordingly submitted. Influences long at + work upon her had rendered her less defiant than she had been in the past. + There was an element of quiet in her expression, such as Derrick had not + seen when her beauty first caught his attention. + </p> + <p> + They walked together silently for a while. + </p> + <p> + “I should like to hear you say that you do not blame me,” said Derrick, at + last, abruptly. + </p> + <p> + She knew what he meant, it was evident. + </p> + <p> + “I conna blame yo' fur doin' what were reet,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + “Right,—you thought it right?” + </p> + <p> + “Why should na I? Yo' couldna ha' done no other.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you for saying that,” he returned. “I have thought once or twice + that you might have blamed me.” + </p> + <p> + “I did na know,” was her answer. “I did na know as I had done owt to mak' + yo' think so ill of me.” + </p> + <p> + He did not find further comment easy. He felt, as he had felt before, that + Joan had placed him at a disadvantage. He so often made irritating + mistakes in his efforts to read her, and in the end he seldom found that + he had made any advance. Anice Barholm, with her problems and her moods, + was far less difficult to comprehend than Joan Lowrie. + </p> + <p> + Liz was at the cottage door when they parted, and Liz's eyes had curiosity + and wonder in them when she met her friend. + </p> + <p> + “Joan,” she said, peering over the door-sill at Derrick's retreating + figure, “is na that one o' th' mesters? Is na it the Lunnon engineer, + Joan?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” Joan answered briefly. + </p> + <p> + The pretty, silly creature's eyes grew larger, with a shade of awe. + </p> + <p> + “Is na it th' one as yore feyther's so bitter agen?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “An' is na he a gentleman? He dunnot look loike a workin' mon. His cloas + dunnot fit him loike common foakes. He mun be a gentleman.” + </p> + <p> + “I've heerd foak ca' him one; an' if his cloas fit him reet, he mun be + one, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + Liz looked after him again. + </p> + <p> + “Aye,” she sighed, “he's a gentleman sure enow. I've seed gentlemen enow + to know th' look on 'em. Did——” hesitating fearfully, but + letting her curiosity get the better of her discretion nevertheless,—“did + he court thee, Joan?” + </p> + <p> + The next moment she was frightened into wishing she had not asked the + question. Joan turned round and faced her suddenly, pale and wrathful. + </p> + <p> + “Nay, he did na,” she said. “I am na a lady, an' he is what tha ca's him—a + gentleman.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV - A Discovery + </h2> + <p> + The first time that Joan appeared at the night school, the men and girls + looked up from their tasks to stare at her, and whisper among themselves; + but she was, to all appearances, oblivious of their scrutiny, and the + flurry of curiosity and excitement soon died out. After the first visit + her place was never vacant. On the nights appointed for the classes to + meet, she came, did the work allotted to her, and went her way again, + pretty much as she did at the mines. When in due time Anice began to work + out her plan of co-operation with her, she was not disappointed in the + fulfilment of her hopes. Gradually it became a natural thing for a slow + and timid girl to turn to Joan Lowrie for help. + </p> + <p> + As for Joan's own progress, it was not long before Miss Barholm began to + regard the girl with a new wonder. She was absolutely amazed to find out + how much she was learning, and how much she had learned, working on + silently and by herself. She applied herself to her tasks with a + determination which seemed at times almost feverish. + </p> + <p> + “I mun learn,” she said to Anice once. “I <i>will</i>,” and she closed her + hand with a sudden nervous strength. + </p> + <p> + Then again there were times when her courage seemed to fail her, though + she never slackened her efforts. + </p> + <p> + “Dost tha think,” she said, “dost tha think as I could ivver learn as much + as tha knows thysen? Does tha think a workin' lass ivver did learn as much + as a lady?” + </p> + <p> + “I think,” said Anice, “that <i>you</i> can do anything you try to do.” + </p> + <p> + By very slow degrees she had arrived at a discovery which a less close + observer might have missed altogether, or at least only arrived at much + later in the day of experience. Anice's thoughts were moved in this + direction the night that Derrick slipped into that half soliloquy about + Joan. She might well be startled. This man and woman could scarcely have + been placed at a greater distance from each other, and yet those half + dozen words of Fergus Derrick's had suggested to his hearer that each, + through some undefined attraction, was veering toward the other. Neither + might be aware of this; but it was surely true. Little as social creeds + influenced Anice, she could not close her eyes to the incongruous—the + unpleasant features of this strange situation. And, besides, there was a + more intimate and personal consideration. Her own feeling toward Fergus + Derrick was friendship at first, and then she had suddenly awakened and + found it something more. That had startled her, too, but it had not + alarmed her till her eyes were opened by that accidental speech of + Derrick's. After that, she saw what both Derrick and Joan were themselves + blind to. + </p> + <p> + Setting her own pain aside, she stood apart, and pitied both. As for + herself, she was glad that she had made the discovery before it was too + late. She knew that there might have been a time when it would have been + too late. As it was, she drew back,—with a pang, to be sure; but + still she could draw back. + </p> + <p> + “I have made a mistake,” she said to herself in secret; but it did not + occur to her to visit the consequences of the mistake upon any other than + herself. + </p> + <p> + The bond of sympathy between herself and Joan Lowrie only seemed to + increase in strength. Meeting oftener, they were knit more closely, and + drawn into deeper faith and friendship. With Joan, emotion was invariably + an undercurrent. She had trained herself to a stubborn stoicism so long, + and with such determination, that the habit of complete self-control had + become a second nature, and led her to hold the world aloof. It was with + something of secret wonder that she awoke to the consciousness of the fact + that she was not holding Anice Barholm aloof, and that there was no + necessity for doing so. She even found that she was being attracted toward + her, and was submitting to her influence as to a spell. She did not + understand at first, and wondered if it would last; but the nearer she was + drawn to the girl, the less doubting and reluctant she became. There was + no occasion for doubt, and her proud suspiciousness melted like a cloud in + the spring sunshine. Having armed herself against patronage and curiosity, + she encountered earnest friendship and good faith. She was not patronized, + she was not asked questions, she was left to reveal as much of herself as + she chose, and allowed to retain her own secrets as if they were her own + property. So she went and came to and from the Rectory; and from spending + a few minutes in Anice's room, at last fell into the habit of spending + hours there. In this little room the books, and pictures, and other + refinements appealed to senses unmoved before. She drew in some fresh + experience with almost every breath. + </p> + <p> + One evening, after a specially discouraging day, it occurred to Grace that + he would go and see Joan; and dropping in upon her on his way back to + town, after a visit to a parishioner who lived upon the high-road, he + found the girl sitting alone—sitting as she often did, with the + child asleep upon her knee; but this time with a book lying close to its + hand and her own. It was Anice's Bible. + </p> + <p> + “Will yo' set down?” she said in a voice whose sound was new to him. + “Theer's a chair as yo' con tak'. I conna move fur fear o' wakenin' th' + choild. I'm fain to see yo' toneet.” + </p> + <p> + He took the chair and thanked her, and waited for her next words. Only a + few moments she was silent, and then she looked up at him. + </p> + <p> + “I ha' been readin' th' Bible,” she said, as if in desperation. “I dunnot + know why, unless happen some un stronger nor me set me at it. Happen it + coom out o' settin here wi' th' choild. An'—well, queer enow, I coom + reet on summat about childer,—that little un as he tuk and set i' + th' midst o' them, an' then that theer when he said 'Suffer th' little + childer to coom unto me.' Do yo' say aw that's true? I nivver thowt on it + afore,—but somehow I should na loike to think it wur na. Nay, I + should na!” Then, after a moment's pause—“I nivver troubled mysen + wi' readin' th' Bible afore,” she went on, “I ha' na lived wi' th' Bible + soart; but now—well that theer has stirred me up. If he said <i>that</i>—if + he said it hissen—Ah! mester,”—and the words breaking from her + were an actual cry,—“Aye, mester, look at th' little un here! I + munnot go wrong—I munnot, if he said it hissen!” + </p> + <p> + He felt his heart beat quick, and his pulses throb. Here was the birth of + a soul; here in his hands perhaps lay the rescue of two immortal beings. + God help him! he cried inwardly. God help him to deal rightly with this + woman. He found words to utter, and uttered them with courage and with + faith. What words it matters not,—but he did not fail. Joan listened + wondering, and in a passion of fear and belief. + </p> + <p> + She clasped her arms about the child almost as if seeking help from it, + and wept. + </p> + <p> + “I munnot go wrong,” she said over and over again. “How could I hold th' + little un back, if he said hissen as she mun coom? If it's true as he said + that, I'll believe aw th' rest an' listen to yo'. 'Forbid them not—'. + Nay, but I wunnot—I could na ha' th' heart.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI - “Owd Sammy” in Trouble + </h2> + <p> + “Craddock is in serious trouble,” said Mr. Barholm to his wife and + daughter. + </p> + <p> + “'Owd Sammy' in trouble,” said Anice. “How is that, papa?” + </p> + <p> + The Reverend Harold looked at once concerned and annoyed. In truth he had + cause for irritation. The laurels he had intended to win through Sammy + Craddock were farther from being won to-day than they had ever been. He + was beginning to feel a dim, scarcely developed, but sore conviction, that + they were not laurels for his particular wearing. + </p> + <p> + “It is that bank failure at Illsbery,” he answered. “You have heard of it, + I dare say. There has been a complete crash, and Craddock's small savings + being deposited there, he has lost everything he depended upon to support + him in his old age. It is a hard business.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you been to see Craddock?” Mrs. Barholm asked. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! yes,” was the answer, and the irritation became even more apparent + than before. “I went as soon as I heard it, last night indeed; but it was + of no use. I had better have stayed away. I don't seem to make much + progress with Craddock, somehow or other. He is such a cross-grained, + contradictory old fellow, I hardly know what to make of him. And to add to + his difficulties, his wife is so prostrated by the blow that she is + confined to her bed. I talked to them and advised them to have patience, + and look for comfort to the Fountain-head; but Craddock almost seemed to + take it ill, and was even more disrespectful in manner than usual.” + </p> + <p> + It was indeed a heavy blow that had fallen upon “Owd Sammy.” For a man to + lose his all at his time of life would have been hard enough anywhere; but + it was trebly hard to meet with such a trial in Riggan. To have money, + however small a sum, “laid by i' th' bank,” was in Riggan to be + illustrious. The man who had an income of ten shillings a week was a + member of society whose opinion bore weight; the man with twenty was + regarded with private awe and public respect. He was deferred to as a man + of property; his presence was considered to confer something like honor + upon an assembly, or at least to make it respectable. The Government was + supposed to be not entirely oblivious of his existence, and his remarks + upon the affairs of the nation, and the conduct of the Prime Minister and + Cabinet, were regarded as having something more than local interest. Sammy + Craddock had been the man with twenty shillings income. He had worked hard + in his youth and had been too shrewd and far-sighted to spend hard. His + wife had helped him, and a lucky windfall upon the decease of a + parsimonious relative had done the rest. The weekly deposit in the old + stocking hidden under the mattress had become a bank deposit, and by the + time he was incapacitated from active labor, a decent little income was + ready. When the Illsbery Bank stopped payment, not only his daily bread + but his dearly valued importance was swept away from him at one fell blow. + Instead of being a man of property, with a voice in the affairs of the + nation, he was a beggar. He saw himself set aside among the frequenters of + The Crown, his political opinions ignored, his sarcasms shorn of their + point. Knowing his poverty and misfortune; the men who had stood in awe of + him would begin to suspect him of needing their assistance and would avoid + him accordingly. + </p> + <p> + “It's human natur',” he said. “No one loikes a dog wi' th' mange, whether + th' dog's to blame or no. Th' dog may ha' getten it honest. Tis na th' + dog, it's the mange as foakes want to get rid on.” + </p> + <p> + “Providence?” said he to the Rector, when that portly consoler called on + him. “It's Providence, is it? Well, aw I say is, that if that's th' ways + o' Providence, th' less notice Providence takes o' us, th' better.” + </p> + <p> + His remarks upon his first appearance at The Crown among his associates, + after the occurrence of the misfortune, were even more caustic and + irreverent. He was an irreverent old sinner at his best, and now Sammy was + at his worst. Seeing his crabbed, wrinkled old face drawn into an + expression signifying defiance at once of his ill luck and worldly + comment, his acquaintances shook their heads discreetly. Their reverence + for him as a man of property could not easily die out. The next thing to + being a man of property, was to have possessed worldly goods which had + been “made away wi',” it scarcely mattered how. Indeed even to have “made + away wi' a mort o' money” one's self, was to be regarded a man of parts + and of no inconsiderable spirit. + </p> + <p> + “Yo're in a mort o' trouble, Sammy, I mak' no doubt,” remarked one oracle, + puffing at his long clay. + </p> + <p> + “Trouble enow,” returned Sammy, shortly, “if you ca' it trouble to be on + th' road to th' poor-house.” + </p> + <p> + “Aye, indeed!” with a sigh. “I should think so. But trouble's th' lot o' + mon. Riches is deceitful an' beauty is vain—not as tha wur ivver + much o' a beauty, Sammy; I canna mean that.” + </p> + <p> + “Dunnot hurt thysen explaining I nivver set up fur one. I left that to + thee. Thy mug wus allus thy fortune.” + </p> + <p> + “Tha'rt fretted now, Sammy,” he said. “Tha'rt fretted, an' it maks thee + sharp-tongued.” + </p> + <p> + “Loike as not,” answered Sammy. “Frettin' works different wi' some foak to + what it does wi' others. I nivver seed thee fretted, mysen. Does it ha' + th' same effect on thee? If it happens to, I should think it would na harm + thee,—or other foak either. A bit o' sharpness is na so hard to + stand wheer it's a variety.” + </p> + <p> + “Sithee, Sammy,” called out a boisterous young fellow from the other side + of the room. “What did th' Parson ha' to say to thee? Thwaite wur tellin' + me as he carried th' prayer-book to thee, as soon as he heerd th' news. + Did he read thee th' Christenin' service, or th' Burial, to gi' thee a bit + o' comfort?” + </p> + <p> + “Happen he gi' him both, and throwed in th' Litany,” shouted another. “How + wur it, Sammy? Let's hear.” + </p> + <p> + Sammy's face began to relax. A few of the knots and wrinkles showed signs + of dispersing. A slow twisting of the features took place, which might + have been looked upon as promising a smile in due course of time. These + young fellows wanted to hear him talk, and “tak' off th' Parson.” His + occupation was not entirely gone, after all. It was specially soothing to + his vanity to feel that his greatest importance lay in his own powers, and + not altogether in more corruptible and uncertain attractions. He + condescended to help himself to a pipe-full of a friend's tobacco. + </p> + <p> + “Let's hear,” cried a third member of the company. “Gi' us th' tale owt + an' owt, owd lad. Tha'rt th' one to do it graidely.” + </p> + <p> + Sammy applied a lucifer to the fragrant weed, and sucked at his pipe + deliberately. + </p> + <p> + “It's noan so much of a tale,” he said, with an air of disparagement and + indifference. “Yo' chaps mak' so much out o' nowt. Th' Parson's well enow + i' his way, but,” in naïve self-satisfaction, “I mun say he's a foo', an' + th' biggest foo' fur his size I ivver had th' pleasure o' seein'.” + </p> + <p> + They knew the right chord was touched. A laugh went round, but there was + no other interruption and Sammy proceeded. + </p> + <p> + “Whatten yo' lads think as th' first thing he says to me wur?” puffing + vigorously. “Why, he cooms in an' sets hissen down, an' he swells hissen + out loike a frog i' trouble, an' ses he, 'My friend, I hope you cling to + th' rock o' ages.' An' ses I, 'No I dunnot nowt o' th' soart, an' be dom'd + to yo'. 'It wur na hos<i>pit</i>ible,'” with a momentary touch of + deprecation,—“An' I dunnot say as it wur hospitible, but I wor na i' + th' mood to be hospitible just at th' toime. It tuk him back too, but he + gettin round after a bit, an' he tacklet me agen, an' we had it back'ard + and for'ard betwixt us for a good haaf hour. He said it wur Providence, + an' I said, happen it wur, an' happen it wurn't. I wur na so friendly and + familiar wi' th' Lord as he seemed to be, so I could na tell foak aw he + meant, and aw he did na mean. Sithee here, lads,” making a fist of his + knotty old hand and laying it upon the table, “that theer's what stirs me + up wi' th' parson kind. They're allus settin down to explain what th' + Lordamoigty's up to, as if he wur a confidential friend o' theirs as they + wur bound to back up i' some road; an' they mun drag him in endways or + sideways i' their talk whether or not, an' they wun-not be content to + leave him to work fur hissen. Seems to me if I wur a disciple as they ca' + it, I should be ashamed i' a manner to be allus apologizin' fur him as I + believed in. I dunnot say for 'em to say <i>nowt</i>, but I <i>do</i> say + for 'em not to be so dom'd free an' easy about it. Now theer's th' owd + Parson, he's getten a lot o' Bible words as he uses, an' he brings 'em in + by the scruft o' th' neck, if he canna do no better,—fur bring 'em + in he mun,—an' it looks loike he's aw i' a fever till he's said 'em + an' getten 'em off his moind. An' it seems to me loike, when he has said + 'em, he soart o' straightens hissen out, an' feels comfortable, loike a + mon as has done a masterly job as conna be mended. As fur me, yo' know, + I'm noan the Methody soart mysen, but I am na a foo', an' I know a foine + loike principle when I see it, an' this matter o' religion is a foine enow + thing if yo' could get it straightforward an' plain wi'out so much + trimmins. But——” feeling perhaps that this was a large + admission, “I am noan o' th' Methody breed mysen.” + </p> + <p> + “An' so tha tellt Parson, I'll warrant,” suggested one of his listeners, + who was desirous of hearing further particulars of the combat. + </p> + <p> + “Well, well,” admitted Craddock with the self-satisfaction of a man who + feels that he has acquitted himself creditably. “Happen I did. He wur fur + havin' me thank th' A'moighty fur aw ut had happent me, but I towd him as + I did na quoite see th' road clear. I dunnot thank a chap as gi'es me a + crack at th' soide o' th' yed. I may stand it if so be as I conna gi' him + a crack back, but I dunnot know as I should thank him fur th' favor, an' + not bein' one o' th' regenerate, as he ca's 'em, I dunnot feel loike + singin' hymns just yet; happen it's 'cause I'm onregenerate, or happen + it's human natur'. I should na wonder if it's 'pull devil, pull baker,' + wi' th' best o' foak,—foak as is na prize foo's, loike th' owd + Parson. Ses I to him, 'Not bein' regenerate, I dunnot believe i' so much + grace afore meat. I say, lets ha' th' meat first, an' th' grace + arterward.'” + </p> + <p> + These remarks upon matters theological were applauded enthusiastically by + Craddock's audience. “Owd Sammy” had finished his say, however, and + believing that having temporarily exhausted his views upon any subject, it + was well to let the field lie fallow, he did not begin again. He turned + his attention from his audience to his pipe, and the intimate friends who + sat near. + </p> + <p> + “What art tha goin' to do, owd lad?” asked one. + </p> + <p> + “Try fur a seat i' Parlyment,” was the answer, “or pack my bits o' duds i' + a wheelbarrow, an' set th' owd lass on 'era an' tak' th' nighest road to + th' Union. I mun do summat fur a bein'.” + </p> + <p> + “That's true enow. We're main sorry fur thee, Sammy. Tak' another mug o' + sixpenny to keep up thy sperrets. Theer's nowt as cheers a mon loike a sup + o' th' reet soart.” + </p> + <p> + “I shanna get much on it if I go to th' poor-house,” remarked Sammy, + filling his beer mug. “Skilly an' water-gruel dunnot fly to a raon's head, + I'll warrant. Aye! I wonder how th' owd lass'll do wi'out her drop o' tea, + an' how she'll stand bein' buried by th' parish? That'll be worse than owt + else. She'd set her moind on ridin' to th' grave-yard i' th' shiniest + hearse as could be getten, an' wi' aw th' black feathers i' th' + undertaker's shop wavin' on th' roof. Th' owd wench wur quoite set i' her + notion o' bein' a bit fashynable at th' last. I believe hoo'd ha' enjoyed + th' ride in a quiet way. Eh, dear! I'm feart she'll nivver be able to + stand th' thowt o' bein' put under i' a common style. I wish we'd kept a + bit o' brass i' th' owd stockin'.” + </p> + <p> + “It's a bad enow lookout,” granted another, “but I would na gi' up aw at + onct, Sammy. Happen tha could find a bit o' leet work, as ud keep thee owt + o' th' Union. If tha could get a word or two spoke to Mester Hoviland, + now. He's jest lost his lodge-keeper an' he is na close about payin' a mon + fur what he does. How would tha loike to keep the lodge?” + </p> + <p> + “It ud be aw I'd ax,” said Sammy. “I'd be main well satisfied, yo' mebbe + sure; but yo' know theer's so mony lookin' out for a job o' that koind, + an' I ha' na mony friends among th' quality. I nivver wur smooth-tongued + enow.” + </p> + <p> + True enough that. Among the country gentry, Sammy Craddock was regarded as + a disrespectful, if not a dangerous, old fellow. A man who made satirical + observations upon the ways and manners of his social superiors, could not + be much better than a heretic. And since his associates made an oracle of + him, he was all the more dangerous. He revered neither Lords nor Commons, + and was not to be awed by the most imposing institutions. He did not take + his hat off when the gentry rode by, and it was well known that he had + jeered at several of the most important individuals in county office. + Consequently, discreet persons who did not believe in the morals of “the + masses” shook their heads at him, figuratively speaking, and predicted + that the end of his career would be unfortunate. So it was not very likely + that he would receive much patronage in the hour of his downfall. + </p> + <p> + Sammy Craddock was in an uncomfortable frame of mind when he left his + companions and turned homeward. It was a bad lookout for himself, and a + bad one for “th' owd lass.” His sympathy for the good woman was not of a + sentimental order, but it was sympathy nevertheless. He had been a good + husband, if not an effusive one. “Th' owd lass” had known her only rival + in The Crown and his boon companions; and upon the whole, neither had + interfered with her comfort, though it was her habit and her pleasure to + be loud in her condemnation and disparagement of both. She would not have + felt her connubial life complete without a grievance, and Sammy's tendency + to talk politics over his pipe and beer was her standard resource. + </p> + <p> + When he went out, he had left her lying down in the depths of despair, but + when he entered the house, he found her up and dressed, seated by the + window in the sun, a bunch of bright flowers before her. + </p> + <p> + “Well now!” he exclaimed. “Tha niwer says! What's takken thee? I thowt tha + wur bedrid fur th' rest o' thy days.” + </p> + <p> + “Howd thy tongue,” she answered with a proper touch of wifely irritation + at his levity. “I've had a bit o' company an' it's chirked me up summat. + That little lass o' th' owd Parson has been settin wi' me.” + </p> + <p> + “That's it, is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Aye, an' I tell yo' Sammy, she's a noice little wench. Why, she's getten + th' ways o' a woman, stead o' a lass,—she's that theer quoiet an' + steady, an' she's getten a face as pretty as her ways, too.” + </p> + <p> + Sammy scratched his head and reflected. + </p> + <p> + “I mak' no doubt on it,” he answered. “I mak' no doubt on it. It wur her, + tha knows, as settlet th' foight betwixt th' lads an' th' dog. I'm + wonderin' why she has na been here afore.” + </p> + <p> + “Well now!” taking up a stitch in her knitting, “that's th' queer part o' + it. Whatten yo' think th'little thing said, when I axt her why? She says, + 'It did na seem loike I was needed exactly, an' I did na know as yo'd care + to ha' a stranger coom wi'out bein' axt.' Just as if she had been nowt but + a neebor's lass, and would na tak' th' liberty.” + </p> + <p> + “That's noan th' owd Parson's way,” said Sammy. + </p> + <p> + “Th' owd Parson!” testily; “I ha' no patience wi' him. Th' little lass is + as different fro' him as chalk is fro' cheese.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII - The Member of Parliament + </h2> + <p> + The morning following, Anice's father being called away by business left + Riggan for a few days' absence, and it was not until after he had gone, + that the story of Mr. Haviland's lodge-keeper came to her ears. Mr. + Haviland was a Member of Parliament, a rich man with a large estate, and + his lodge-keeper had just left him to join a fortunate son in America. + Miss Barholm heard this from one of her village friends when she was out + with the phaeton and the gray pony, and she at once thought of Sammy + Craddock. The place was the very thing for him. The duties were light, the + lodge was a pretty and comfortable cottage, and Mr. Haviland was known to + be a generous master. If Sammy could gain the situation, he was provided + for. But of course there were other applicants, and who was to speak for + him? She touched up the gray pony with her whip, and drove away from the + woman who had told her the news, in a perplexed frame of mind. She herself + knew Mr. Haviland only by sight, his estate was three miles from the + village, her father was away, and there was really no time to be lost. She + drove to the corner of the road and paused there for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “Oh indeed, I must go myself,” she said at last. “It is unconventional, + but there is no other way.” And she bent over and touched the pony again + and turned the corner without any further delay. + </p> + <p> + She drove her three miles at a pretty steady trot, and at the end of the + third,—at the very gates of the Haviland Park, in fact,—fortune + came to her rescue. A good-humored middle-aged gentleman on a brown horse + came cantering down the avenue and, passing through the gates, approached + her. Seeing her, he raised his hat courteously; seeing him, she stopped + her pony, for she recognized Mr. Haviland. + </p> + <p> + She bent forward a little eagerly, feeling the color rise to her face. + </p> + <p> + It was somewhat trying to find herself obliged by conscience to stop a + gentleman on the highway and ask a favor of him. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Haviland,” she said. “If you have a moment to spare——” + </p> + <p> + He drew rein by her phaeton, removing his hat again. He had heard a great + deal of Miss Barholm from his acquaintance among the county families. He + had heard her spoken of as a rather singular young lady who had the + appearance of a child, and the views of a feminine reconstructor of + society. He had heard of her little phaeton too, and her gray pony, and + so, though he had never seen her before, he recognized her at once. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Barholm?” he said with deference. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” answered Anice. “And indeed I am glad to have been fortunate enough + to meet you here. Papa is away from home, and I could not wait for his + return, because I was afraid I should be too late. I wanted to speak to + you about the lodge-keeper's place, Mr. Haviland.” + </p> + <p> + He had been rather of the opinion that Miss Barholm must be a terrible + young woman, with a tendency to model cottages and night schools. + </p> + <p> + Young ladies who go out of the ordinary groove are not apt to be + attractive to the average English mind. There are conventional charities + in which they may indulge,—there are Sunday-schools, and rheumatic + old women, and flannel night-caps, and Dorcas societies, and such things + to which people are used and which are likely to alarm nobody. Among a + class of discreet persons these are held to afford sufficient charitable + exercise for any well regulated young woman; and girls whose plans branch + out in other directions are looked upon with some coldness. So the country + gentry, hearing of Miss Barholm and her novel fancies,—her teaching + in a night school with a young curate, her friendship for the daughter of + a dissipated collier, her intimate acquaintance with ragged boys and + fighting terriers, her interest in the unhappy mothers of nameless babies,—hearing + of these things, I say, the excellent nonenthusiasts shook their heads as + the very mildest possible expression of dissent. They suspected + strong-mindedness and “reform”—perhaps even politics and a tendency + to advance irregular notions concerning the ballot. “At any rate,” said + they, “it does not look well, and it is very much better for young persons + to leave these matters alone and do as others do who are guided wholly by + their elders.” + </p> + <p> + It was an agreeable surprise to Mr. Haviland to see sitting in her modest + phaeton, a quiet girl who looked up at him with a pair of the largest and + clearest eyes he had ever seen, while she told him about Sammy Craddock. + </p> + <p> + “I want the place very much for him, you see,” she ended. “But of course I + do not wish to be unfair to any one who may want it, and deserve it more. + If there is any one who really <i>is</i> in greater need of it, I suppose + I must give it up.” + </p> + <p> + “But I am glad to tell you, there is nobody,” answered Mr. Haviland quite + eagerly. “I can assure you, Miss Barholm, that the half dozen men who have + applied to me are without a solitary exception, unmitigated scamps—great + strong burly fellows, who would, ten to one, spend their days in the + public house, and their nights in my preserves, and leave their wives and + children to attend to my gates. This Craddock is evidently the very man + for me; I am not a model landowner, but I like to combine charity with + subservience to my own interest occasionally. I have heard of the old + fellow. Something of a demagogue, isn't he? But that will not frighten me. + I will allow him to get the better of me in political discussion, if he + will leave my pheasants alone.” + </p> + <p> + “I will answer for the pheasants,” said Anice, “if you will let me send + him to you.” + </p> + <p> + “I will see him to-morrow morning with pleasure,” said Mr. Haviland. “And + if there is anything else I can do, Miss Barholm———” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, there is nothing else at present. Indeed, you do not know how + grateful I feel.” + </p> + <p> + Before an hour had passed, Sammy Craddock heard the good news. Anice drove + back to his house and told him, without delay. + </p> + <p> + “If you will go to-morrow morning, Mr. Haviland will see you,” she ended; + “and I think you will be good friends, Mr. Craddock.” + </p> + <p> + “Owd Sammy” pushed his spectacles up on his forehead, and looked at her. + </p> + <p> + “An' tha went at th' business o' thy own accord an' managt it i' haaf an + hour!” he said. “Well, I'm dom'd,—axin your pardin fur takkin th' + liberty; it's a habit I've getten—but I be, an' no mistake.” + </p> + <p> + He had not time to get over his grateful amazement and recover his natural + balance before she had said all she had come to say, and was gone, leaving + him with “th' owd lass” and his admiration. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Sammy, “I mun say I nivver seed nowt loike it i' my loife. To + think o' th' little wench ha'in' so mich gumption, an' to think o' her + takkin th' matter i' hond th' minnit she struck it! Why! hoo's getten as + mich sense as a mon. Eh! but hoo's a rare un—I said it when I seed + her amongst th' lads theer, an' I say it again. An' hoo is na mich bigger + nor six penn'orth o' copper neyther. An' I warrant hoo nivver thowt o' + fillin her pocket wi' tracks by way o' comfort. Well, tha'st noan ha' to + dee i' th' Union after aw, owd lass, an' happen we con save a bit to gi' + thee a graidely funeral if tha'lt mak' up thy moind to stay to th' top a + bit longer.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII - A Confession of Faith + </h2> + <p> + The Sunday following the Curate's visit to Lowrie's cottage, just before + the opening of the morning service at St, Michael's, Joan Lowrie + entered, and walking up the side aisle, took her place among the free seats. + The church members turned to look at her as she passed their pews. On her + part, she seemed to see nobody and to hear nothing of the rustlings of the + genteel garments stirred by the momentary excitement caused by her + appearance. + </p> + <p> + The Curate, taking his stand in the pulpit that morning, saw after the + first moment only two faces among his congregation. One, from among the + old men and women in the free seats, looked up at him with questioning in + its deep eyes, as if its owner had brought to him a solemn problem to be + solved this very hour, or forever left at rest; the other, turned toward + him from the Barholm pew, alight with appeal and trust. He stood in sore + need of the aid for which he asked in his silent opening prayer. + </p> + <p> + Some of his flock who were somewhat prone to underrate the young Parson's + talents, were moved to a novel comprehension of them this morning. The + more appreciative went home saying among themselves that the young man had + power after all, and for once at least he had preached with uncommon fire + and pathos. His text was a brief one,—but three words,—the + three words Joan had read beneath the picture of the dead Christ: “It is + finished!” + </p> + <p> + If it was chance that led him to them to-day, it was a strange and + fortunate chance, and surely he had never preached as he preached then. + </p> + <p> + After the service, Anice looked for Joan in vain; she had gone before the + rest of the congregation. + </p> + <p> + But in the evening, being out in the garden near the holly hedge, she + heard her name spoken, and glancing over the leafy barrier, saw Joan + standing on the side path, just as she had seen her the first time they + had spoken to each other. + </p> + <p> + “I ha' na a minnit to stay,” she said without any prelude, “but I ha' + summat to say to yo'.” + </p> + <p> + Her manner was quiet, and her face wore a softened pallor. Even her + physical power for a time appeared subdued. And yet she looked steady and + resolved. + </p> + <p> + “I wur at church this mornin'.” she began again almost immediately. + </p> + <p> + “I saw you,” Anice answered. + </p> + <p> + “I wur nivver theer before. I went to see fur mysen. I ha' read the book + yo' g' me, an' theer's things in it as I nivver heerd on. Mester Grace + too,—he coom to see me an' I axt him questions. Theer wur things as + I wanted to know, an' now it seems loike it looks clearer. What wi' th' + pickur',—it begun wi' th' pictur',—an' th' book, an' what <i>he</i> + said to-day i' church, I've made up my moind.” + </p> + <p> + She paused an instant, her lips trembled. + </p> + <p> + “I dunnot want to say much about it now,” she said, “I ha' not getten th' + words. But I thowt as yo'd loike to know. I believe i' th' Book; I believe + i' th' Cross; I believe i' Him as deed on it! That's what I coom to say.” + </p> + <p> + The woman turned without another word and went away. + </p> + <p> + Anice did not remain in the garden. The spirit of Joan Lowrie's intense + mood communicated itself to her. She, too, trembled and her pulse beat + rapidly. She thought of Paul Grace and wished for his presence. She felt + herself drawn near to him again. She wanted to tell him that his harvest + had come, that his faithfulness had not been without its reward. Her own + labor she only counted as chance-work. + </p> + <p> + She found Fergus Derrick in the parlor, talking to her mother. + </p> + <p> + He was sitting in his favorite position, leaning back in a chair before a + window, his hands clasped behind his head. His friendly intercourse with + the family had extended beyond the ceremonious epoch, when a man's + attitudes are studied and unnatural. In these days Derrick was as much at + ease at the Rectory as an only son might have been. + </p> + <p> + “I thought some one spoke to you across the hedge, Anice?” her mother + said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” Anice answered. “It was Joan Lowrie.” + </p> + <p> + She sat down opposite Fergus, and told him what had occurred. Her voice + was not quite steady, and she made the relation as brief as possible. + Derrick sat looking out of the window without moving. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Derrick,” said Anice at last, after a few minutes had elapsed, “What + <i>now</i> is to be done with Joan Lowrie?” + </p> + <p> + Derrick roused himself with a start to meet her eyes and find them almost + sad. + </p> + <p> + “What now?” he said. “God knows! For one, I cannot see the end.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIX - Ribbons + </h2> + <p> + The light in the cottage upon the Knoll Road burned late in these days, + and when Derrick was delayed in the little town, he used to see it twinkle + afar off, before he turned the bend of the road on his way home. He liked + to see it. It became a sort of beacon light, and as such he began to watch + for it. He used to wonder what Joan was doing, and he glanced in through + the curtainless windows as he passed by. Then he discovered that when the + light shone she was at work. Sometimes she was sitting at the wooden table + with a book, sometimes she was laboring at some task with pen and ink, + sometimes she was trying to use her needle. + </p> + <p> + She had applied to Anice for instruction in this last effort. It was not + long before Anice found that she was intent upon acquiring the womanly + arts her life had put it out of her power to learn. + </p> + <p> + “I'd loike to learn to sew a bit,” she had said, and the confession seemed + awkward and reluctant “I want to learn to do a bit o' woman's work. I'm + tired o' bein' neyther th' one thing nor th' other. Seems loike I've allus + been doin' men's ways, an' I am na content.” + </p> + <p> + Two or three times Derrick saw her passing to and fro before the window, + hushing the child in her arms, and once he even heard her singing to it in + a low, and evidently rarely used voice. Up to the time that Joan first + sang to the child, she had never sung in her life. She caught herself one + day half chanting a lullaby she had heard Anice sing. The sound of her own + voice was so novel to her, that she paused all at once in her walk across + the room, prompted by a queer impulse to listen. + </p> + <p> + “It moight ha' been somebody else,” she said. “I wonder what made me do + it. It wur a queer thing.” + </p> + <p> + Sometimes Derrick met Joan entering the Rectory (at which both were + frequent visitors); sometimes, passing through the hall on her way home; + but however often he met her, he never felt that he advanced at all in her + friendship. + </p> + <p> + On one occasion, having bidden Anice goodnight and gone out on the + staircase, Joan stepped hurriedly back into the room and stood at the door + as if waiting. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” Anice asked. + </p> + <p> + Joan started. She had looked flushed and downcast, and when Anice + addressed her, an expression of conscious self-betrayal fell upon her. + </p> + <p> + “It is Mester Derrick,” she answered, and in a moment she went out. + </p> + <p> + Anice remained seated at the table, her hands clasped before her. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps,” at last she said aloud, “perhaps this is what is to be done + with her. And then—” her lips tremulous,—“it will be a work + for me to do.” + </p> + <p> + Derrick's friendship and affection for herself held no germ of warmer + feeling. If she had had the slightest doubt of this, she would have + relinquished nothing. She had no exaggerated notions of self-immolation. + She would not have given up to another woman what Heaven had given to + herself, any more than she would have striven to win from another woman + what had been Heaven's gift to her. If she felt pain, it was not the pain + of a small envy, but of a great tenderness. She was capable of making any + effort for the ultimate good of the man she could have loved with the + whole strength of her nature. + </p> + <p> + When she entered her room that night, Joan Lowrie was moved to some + surprise by a scene which met her eyes. It was a simple thing, and under + some circumstances would have meant little; but taken in connection with + her remembrance of past events, it had a peculiar significance. Liz was + sitting upon the hearth, with some odds and ends of bright-colored ribbon + on her knee, and a little straw hat in her hand. She was trimming the hat, + and using the scraps of ribbon for the purpose. When she heard Joan, she + looked up and reddened somewhat, and then hung her head over her work + again. + </p> + <p> + “I'm makin' up my hat agen,” she said, almost deprecatingly. “It wur sich + a faded thing.” + </p> + <p> + “Are yo'?” said Joan. + </p> + <p> + She came and stood leaning against the fireplace, and looked down at Liz + thoughtfully. The shallowness and simplicity of the girl baffled her + continually. She herself, who was prompted in action by deep motive and + strong feeling, found it hard to realize that there could be a surface + with no depth below. + </p> + <p> + Her momentary embarrassment having died out, Liz had quite forgotten + herself in the interest of her task. She was full of self-satisfaction and + trivial pleasure. She looked really happy as she tried the effect of one + bit of color after another, holding the hat up. Joan had never known her + to show such interest in anything before. One would never have fancied, + seeing the girl at this moment, that a blight lay upon her life, that she + could only look back with shrinking and forward without hope. She was + neither looking backward nor forward now,—all her simple energies + were concentrated in her work. How was it? Joan asked herself. Had she + forgotten—could she forget the past and be ready for petty vanities + and follies? To Joan, Liz's history had been a tragedy—a tragedy + which must be tragic to its end. There was something startlingly out of + keeping in the present mood of this pretty seventeen-year-old girl sitting + eager and delighted over her lapful of ribbons. Not that Joan begrudged + her the slight happiness—she only wondered, and asked herself how it + could be. + </p> + <p> + Possibly her silence attracted Liz's attention. Suddenly she looked up, + and when she saw the gravity of Joan's face, her own changed. + </p> + <p> + “Yo're grudgin' me doin' it,” she cried. “Yo' think I ha' no reet to care + for sich things,” and she dropped hat and ribbon on her knee with an angry + gesture. “Happen I ha' na,” she whimpered. “I ha' na getten no reet to no + soart o' pleasure, I dare say.” + </p> + <p> + “Nay,” said Joan rousing herself from her revery. “Nay, yo' must na say + that, Liz. If it pleases yo' it conna do no hurt; I'm glad to see yo' + pleased.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm tired o' doin' nowt but mope i' th' house,” Liz fretted. “I want to + go out a bit loike other foak. Theer's places i' Riggan as I could go to + wi'out bein' slurred at—theer's other wenches as has done worse nor + me. Ben Maxy towd Mary on'y yesterday as I was the prettiest lass i' th' + place, fur aw their slurs.” + </p> + <p> + “Ben Maxy!” Joan said slowly. + </p> + <p> + Liz twisted a bit of ribbon around her finger. + </p> + <p> + “It's not as I care fur what Ben Maxy says or what ony other mon says, fur + th' matter o' that, but—but it shows as I need na be so mich ashamed + o' mysen after aw, an' need na stay i' doors as if I dare na show my + face.” + </p> + <p> + Joan made no answer. + </p> + <p> + “An' yet,” she said, smiling faintly at her own train of thought + afterward, “I dunnot see what I'm complainin' on. Am I out o' patience + because her pain is na deeper? Surely I am na wantin' her to mak' th' most + o' her burden. I mun be a queer wench, tryin' to mak' her happy, an' then + feelin' worrited at her forgettin' her trouble. It's well as she con let + things slip so easy.” + </p> + <p> + But there came times when she could not help being anxious, seeing Liz + gradually drifting out into her old world again. She was so weak, and + pretty, and frivolous, so ready to listen to rough flatteries. Riggan was + more rigid in its criticism than in its morality, and criticism having + died out, offence was forgotten through indifference rather than through + charity. Those who had been hardest upon Liz in her day of darkness were + carelessly ready to take her up again when her fault was an old story + overshadowed by some newer scandal. + </p> + <p> + Joan found herself left alone with the child oftener than she used to be, + but in truth this was a relief rather than otherwise. She was accustomed + to solitude, and the work of self-culture she had begun filled her spare + hours with occupation. + </p> + <p> + Since his dismissal from the mines, she saw but little of her father. + Sometimes she saw nothing of him for weeks. The night after he lost his + place, he came into the house, and making up a small bundle of his + personal effects, took a surly leave of the two women. + </p> + <p> + “I'm goin' on th' tramp a bit,” he said. “If yo're axed, yo' con say I'm + gone to look fur a job. My day has na coom yet, but it's on th' way.” + </p> + <p> + Since then he had only returned once or twice, and his visits had always + been brief and unexpected, and at night. The first time he had startled + Joan by dropping in upon her at midnight, his small bundle on his + knob-stick over his shoulder, his clothes bespattered with road-side mud. + He said nothing of his motive in coming—merely asked for his supper + and ate it without much remark. + </p> + <p> + “I ha' na had luck,” he said. “Luck's not i my loine; I wur na born to it, + loike some foak. Happen th' tide'll tak' a turn after a bit.” + </p> + <p> + “Yore feyther wur axin me about th' engineer,” Liz said to Joan the next + morning. “He wanted to know if we seed him pass heer i' his road hoam. + D'yo' think he's getten a spite agen th' engineer yet, Joan?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm afeard,” Joan answered. “Feyther's loike to bear a grudge agen them + as put him out, whether they're reet or wrong. Liz——” + hesitating. + </p> + <p> + “What is it, Joan?” + </p> + <p> + “Dunnot yo' say no more nor yo' con help when he axes yo' about th' + engineer. I'm worritin' mysen lest feyther should get hissen into + trouble. He's hasty, yo' know.” + </p> + <p> + In the evening she went out and left the child to its mother. She had + business to look after, she told Liz, and it would keep her out late. + Whatever the business was, it kept her out so late that Liz was tired of + waiting, and went to bed worn out and a trifle fretted. + </p> + <p> + She did not know what hour it was when she awakened; voices and a light in + the road roused her, and almost as soon as she was fully conscious, the + door opened and Joan came in. Liz raised her head from the pillow to look + at her. She was pale and seemed excited. She was even trembling a little, + and her voice was unsteady as she asked, + </p> + <p> + “Has th' little un been quiet, Liz?” + </p> + <p> + “Quiet enow,” said Liz. “What a toime yo' ha' been, Joan! It mun be near + midneet. I got so worn out wi' waitin' fur yo' that I could na sit up no + longer. Wheer ha' yo' been?” + </p> + <p> + “I went to Riggan,” said Joan, “Theer wur summat as I wur obliged to see + to, an' I wur kept beyond my toime by summat as happent. But it is na + quoite midneet, though it's late enow.” + </p> + <p> + “Was na theer a lantern wi' yo'?” asked Liz. “I thowt I seed th' leet fro' + a lantern.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” Joan answered, “theer wur a lantern. As I wur turnin' into th' + road, I met Mester Derrick comin' fro' th' Rectory an'—an' he walked + alongside o' me.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XX - The New Gate-Keeper + </h2> + <p> + Sammy Craddock made his appearance at Mr. Haviland's promptly, and being + shown into the library, which was empty, took a seat and proceeded to + regard the surroundings critically. + </p> + <p> + “Dunnot scald thy nose wi' thy own broth,” Mrs. Craddock had said to him + warningly, when he left her. “Keep a civil tongue i' thy head. Thy toime + fur saucin' thy betters is past an' gone. Tha'lt ha' to tak' both fat an' + lean together i' these days, or go wi'out mate.” + </p> + <p> + Sammy remembered these sage remarks rather sorely, as he sat awaiting the + master of the household. His independence had been very dear to him, and + the idea that he must relinquish it was a grievous thorn in the flesh. He + glanced round at the pictures and statuettes and shook his head dubiously. + </p> + <p> + “A mon wi' so many crinkum-crankums as he seems to ha' getten 'll be apt + to be reyther set i' polytics. An' I'll warrant this is na th' best parlor + neyther. Aw th' wall covered wi' books too, an' a ornymental step-lather + to climb up to th' high shelves. Well, Sammy, owd lad, tha's not seen aw + th' world yet, tha finds out. Theer's a bit o' summat outside Riggan. + After aw, it does a mon no hurt to travel. I should na wonder if I mought + see things as I nivver heerd on if I getten as fur as th' Contynent. + Theer's France now—foak say as they dunnot speak Lancashire i' + France, an' conna so much as understand it. Well, theer's ignorance aw + o'er th' world.” + </p> + <p> + The door opened at this juncture, and Mr. Haviland entered—fresh, + florid and cordial. His temperament being an easy one, he rather dreaded + collision with anybody, and would especially have disliked an + uncomfortable interview with this old fellow. He would like to be able to + preserve his affability of demeanor for his own sake as well as for Miss + Barholm's. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” he said, “Craddock, is it? Glad to see you, Craddock.” + </p> + <p> + Sammy rose from his seat + </p> + <p> + “Aye,” he answered. “Sam'll Craddock fro' Riggan. Same to you, Mester.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Haviland waved his hand good-naturedly. + </p> + <p> + “Take your seat again,” he said. “Don't stand. You are the older man of + the two, you know, and I dare say you are tired with your walk. You came + about the lodge-keeper's place?” + </p> + <p> + “That little lass o' th' owd Parson's——” began Sammy. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Anice Barholm,” interposed Mr. Haviland. “Yes, she told me she + would send you. I never had the pleasure of seeing her until she drove + here yesterday to ask for the place for you. She was afraid to lose time + in waiting for her father's return.” + </p> + <p> + “Yo' nivver saw her afore?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” rubbing his hands excitedly over the knob of his stick, “hoo's a + rarer un than I thowt fur, even. Hoo'll stond at nowt, wont that little + wench,” and he gave vent to his feelings in a delighted chuckle. “I'd + loike to ax yo',” he added, “wheer's th' other lass, as ud ha' had the + pluck to do as mich?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't think there is another woman in the country who would have done + it,” said Mr. Haviland smiling. “We shall agree in our opinion of Miss + Barholm, I see, Craddock, if we quarrel about everything else.” + </p> + <p> + Sammy took out his flowered bandanna and wiped his bald forehead. He was + at once mollified and encouraged. He felt that he was being treated with a + kind of respect and consideration. Here was one of the gentry who placed + himself on a friendly footing with him. Perhaps upon the whole he should + not find it so difficult to reconcile himself to his change of position + after all. And being thus encouraged, a certain bold simplicity made him + address himself to Mr. Haviland not as a servant in prospective to a + prospective master, but as man to man. + </p> + <p> + “Th' fact is,” he said, “as I am na mich o' a lass's mon mysen, and I + wunnot say as I ha' mich opinion o' woman foak i' general—they're + flighty yo' see—they're flighty; but I mun say as I wur tuk by that + little wench o' th' Parson's—I wur tuk by her.” + </p> + <p> + “She would be glad to hear it, I am sure,” with an irony so suave that + Sammy proceeded with fresh gravity. + </p> + <p> + “I mak' no doubt on't,” dogmatically. “I mak' no doubt on't i' th' world, + but I dunnot know as th' flattery ud do her good. Sugar sop is na o'er + digestible to th' best o' 'em. They ha' to be held a bit i' check, yo' + see. But hoo's a wonderfu' little lass—<i>fur</i> a lass, I mun + admit. Seems a pity to ha' wasted so mich good lad metal on a slip o' a + wench,—does na it?” + </p> + <p> + “You think so? Well, that is a matter of opinion, you know. However—concerning + the lodge-keeper's place. You understand what your duties would be, I + suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “Tendin' th' gates an' th' loike. Aye sir. Th' little lass towd me aw + about it. Hoo is na one as misses owt.” + </p> + <p> + “So I see,” smiling again. “And you think you can perform them?” + </p> + <p> + “I wur thinkin' so. It did na stroike me as a mon need to be partic'lar + muskylar to do th' reet thing by 'em. I think I could tackle 'em wi'out + breakin' down.” + </p> + <p> + After a brief discussion of the subject, it was agreed that Mr. Craddock + should be installed as keeper of the lodge the week following. + </p> + <p> + “As to politics,” said Mr. Haviland, when his visitor rose to depart, “I + hear you are something of a politician, Craddock.” + </p> + <p> + “Summat o' one, sir,” answered Sammy, his evident satisfaction touched + with a doubtful gravity. “Summat o' one. I ha' my opinions o' things i' + gineral.” + </p> + <p> + “So I have been told; and they have made you rather unpopular among our + county people, per-haps?” + </p> + <p> + “I am na mich o' a favorite,” with satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + “No, the fact is that until Miss Barholm came to me I had rather a bad + idea of you, Craddock.” + </p> + <p> + This looked somewhat serious, Craddock regarding it rather in the light of + a challenge. + </p> + <p> + “I'd loike well enow to ha' yo' change it,” he said, “but my coat is na o' + th' turnin' web. I mun ha' my say about things—gentry or no gentry.” + And his wrinkled old visage expressed so crabbed a determination that Mr. + Haviland laughed outright. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! don't misunderstand me,” he said, “stick to your party, Craddock. We + will try to agree, for Miss Barholm's sake. I will leave you to your + opinion, and you will leave me to mine—even a Member of Parliament + has a right to an opinion, you know, if he doesn't intrude it upon the + public too much.” + </p> + <p> + Craddock went home in a mollified frame of mind. He felt that he had + gained his point and held his ground, and he respected himself + accordingly. He felt too that his associates had additional right to + respect him. It was their ground too, and he had held it for them as well + as for himself. He stopped at The Crown for his midday glass of ale; and + his self-satisfaction was so evident that his friends observed it, and + remarked among themselves that “th' owd lad wur pickin' up his crumbs a + bit.” + </p> + <p> + “Yo're lookin' graidely to-day, Sammy,” said one. + </p> + <p> + “I'm feelin' a trifle graidelier than I ha' done,” he answered, + oracularly. “Things is lookin' up.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm main glad to hear it. Tell us as how.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,”—with studied indifference,—“it's noan so great luck i' + comparison, but it's summat to be thankfu' fur to a mon as is down i' th' + world. I've getten the lodge-keeper's place at Mr. Haviland's.” + </p> + <p> + “Tha' nivver says! Who'd a' thowt it? How ivver did that coom about?” + </p> + <p> + “Friends i' coort,” with dignity. “Friends i' coort. Hond me that jug o' + ale, Tummy. Haviland's a mon o' discretion, if he is a Member o' + Parlyment. We've had quoite a friendly chat this mornin' as we set i' th' + loibery together. He is na so bad i' his pollytics after aw's said an' + done. He'll do, upo' th' whole.” + </p> + <p> + “Yo' stood up to him free enow, I warrant,” said Tummy. “Th' gentle folk + dunnot often hear sich free speakin' as yo' gi' 'em, Sammy.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I had to be a bit indypendent; it wur nat'ral. It would na ha' done + to ha' turnt soft, if he <i>wur</i> th' mester an' me th' mon. But he's a + mon o' sense, as I say, an' he wur civil enow, an' friendly enow. He's + getten gumption to see as pollytics is pollytics. I'll tell yo' what, + lads, I'm comin' to th' opinion as happen theer's more sense i' some o' + th' gentry than we gi' em credit fur; they ha' not mich but book larnin i' + their heads, it's true, but they're noan so bad—some on 'em—if + yo're charytable wi' 'em.” + </p> + <p> + “Who was thy friend i' coort, Sammy?” was asked next. + </p> + <p> + Sammy's fist went down upon the table with a force which made the mugs + dance and rattle. + </p> + <p> + “Now tha'rt comin' to the meat i' th' egg.” he said. “Who should tha think + it wur 'at had th' good-will an' th' head to tak' th' business i' hond?” + </p> + <p> + “It ud be hard to say.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, it wur that little lass o' th' owd Parsen's again. Dom'd if she + wunnot run aw Riggan i' a twelvemonth. I dunnot know wkeer she getten her + head-fillin' fro' unless she robbed th' owd Parson, an' left his nob + standin' empty. Happen that's what's up wi' th' owd chap.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXI - Derrick's Question + </h2> + <p> + Derrick had had a great deal to think about of late. Affairs at the mines + had been troublesome, as usual, and he had been often irritated by the + stupidity of the men who were in authority over him. He began to feel, + moreover, that an almost impalpable barrier had sprung up between himself + and his nearest friend. When he came to face the matter, he was obliged to + acknowledge to himself that there were things he had kept from Grace, + though it had been without any positive intention of concealment And, + perhaps, being the sensitive fellow he had called him, Grace had felt that + there was something behind his occasional abstraction and silence, and had + shrunk within himself, feeling a trifle hurt at Derrick's want of + frankness and confidence. + </p> + <p> + Hardly a day passed in which he did not spend some short time in the + society of his Pythias. He rarely passed his lodgings without dropping in, + and, to-night, he turned in on his way from the office, and fell upon + Grace hard at work over a volume of theology. + </p> + <p> + “Lay your book aside,” he said to him. “I want to gossip this evening, old + fellow.” + </p> + <p> + Grace closed his book and came to his usual seat, smiling affectionately. + There was a suggestion of feminine affectionateness in his bearing toward + his friend. + </p> + <p> + “Gossip,” he remarked. “The word gossip—— + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” put in Derrick, “it's a woman's word; but I am in a womanish sort of + humor. I am going to be—I suppose, one might say—confidential.” + </p> + <p> + The Reverend Paul reddened a little but as Derrick rather avoided looking + at him he did not observe the fact. + </p> + <p> + “Grace,” he said, after a silence, “I have a sort of confession to make. I + am in a difficulty, and I rather blame myself for not having come to you + before.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't blame yourself,” said the Curate, faintly. “You—you are not + to blame.” + </p> + <p> + Then Derrick glanced up at him quickly. This sounded so significant of + some previous knowledge of his trouble, that he was taken aback. He could + not quite account for it. + </p> + <p> + “What!” he exclaimed. “Is it possible that you have guessed it already?” + </p> + <p> + “I have thought so—sometimes I have thought so—though I feel + as if I ought almost to ask your pardon for going so far.” + </p> + <p> + Grace had but one thought as he spoke. His friend's trouble meant his + friend's honor and regard for himself. It was for his sake that Derrick + was hesitating on the brink of a happy love—unselfishly fearing for + him. He knew the young man's impetuous generosity, and saw how under the + circumstances, it might involve him. Loving Anice Barholm with the full + strength of a strong nature, Derrick was generous enough still to shrink + from his prospect of success with the woman his friend had failed to win. + </p> + <p> + Derrick flung himself back in his chair with a sigh. He was thinking, with + secret irritation, that he must have felt even more than he had + acknowledged to himself since he had in all unconsciousness, confessed so + much. + </p> + <p> + “You have saved me the trouble of putting into words a feeling I have not + words to explain,” he said. “Perhaps that is the reason why I have not + spoken openly before. Grace,”—abruptly,—“I have fancied there + was a cloud between us.” + </p> + <p> + “Between us!” said Grace, eagerly and warmly. “No, no! That was a poor + fancy indeed; I could not bear that.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor I,” impetuously. “But I cannot be explicit even now, Grace—even + my thoughts are not explicit. I have been bewildered and—yes, amazed—amazed + at finding that I had gone so far without knowing it. Surely there never + was a passion—if it is really a passion—that had so little to + feed upon.” + </p> + <p> + “So little!” echoed Grace. + </p> + <p> + Derrick got up and began to walk across the floor. + </p> + <p> + “I have nothing—nothing, and I am beset on every side.” + </p> + <p> + There was something extraordinary in the blindness of a man with an + absorbing passion. Absorbed by his passion for one woman, Grace was blind + to the greatest of inconsistencies in his friend's speech and manner. + Absorbed in his passion for another woman, Derrick forgot for the hour + everything concerning his friend's love for Anice Barholm. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly he paused in his career across the room. + </p> + <p> + “Grace,” he said, “I cannot trust myself; but I can trust you, I cannot be + unselfish in this—you can. Tell me what I am to do—answer me + this question, though God knows, it would be a hard one for any man to + answer. Perhaps I ought not to ask it—perhaps I ought to have + decision enough to answer it myself without troubling you. But how can I? + And you who are so true to yourself and to me in other things, will be + true in this I know. This feeling is stronger than all else—so + strong that I have feared and failed to comprehend it. I had not even + thought of it until it came upon me with fearful force, and I am conscious + that it has not reached its height yet. It is not an ignoble passion, I + know. How could a passion for such a creature be ignoble? And yet again, + there have been times when I have felt that perhaps it was best to + struggle against it. I am beset on every side, as I have said, and I + appeal to you. Ought love to be stronger than all else? I used to tell + myself so, before it came upon me—and now I can only wonder at + myself and tremble to find that I have grown weak.” + </p> + <p> + God knows it was a hard question he had asked of the man who loved him; + but this man did not hesitate to answer it as freely as if he had had no + thought that he was signing the death-warrant of all hopes for himself. + Grace went to him and laid a hand upon his broad shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Come, sit down and I will tell you,” he said, with a pallid face. + </p> + <p> + Derrick obeyed his gentle touch with a faint smile. + </p> + <p> + “I am too fiery and tempestuous, and you want to cool me,” he said. “You + are as gentle as a woman, Grace.” + </p> + <p> + The Curate standing up before him, a slight, not at all heroic figure in + his well worn, almost threadbare garments, smiled in return. + </p> + <p> + “I want to answer your question,” he said, “and my answer is this: When a + man loves a woman wholly, truly, purely, and to her highest honor,—such + a love is the highest and noblest thing in this world, and nothing should + lead to its sacrifice,—no ambition, no hope, no friendship.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXII - Master Landsell's Son + </h2> + <p> + “I dunnot know what to mak' on her,” Joan said to Anice, speaking of Liz. + “Sometimes she is i' sich sperrits that she's fairly flighty, an' then + agen, she's aw fretted an' crossed with ivvery-thing. Th' choild seems to + worrit her to death.” + </p> + <p> + “That lass o' Lowrie's has made a bad bargain, i' takin' up wi' that + wench,” said a townswoman to Grace. “She's noan one o' th' soart as 'll + keep straight. She's as shallow as a brook i' midsummer. What's she doin' + leavin' th' young un to Joan, and gaddin' about wi' ribbons i' her bonnet? + Some lasses would na ha' th' heart to show theirsens.” + </p> + <p> + The truth was that the poor weak child was struggling feebly in deep water + again. She had not thought of danger. She had only been tired of the + monotony of her existence, and had longed for a change. If she had seen + the end she would have shrunk from it before she had taken her first step. + She wanted no more trouble and shame, she only wanted variety and + excitement. + </p> + <p> + She was going down a by-lane leading to the Maxy's cottage, and was + hurrying through the twilight, when she brushed against a man who was + lounging carelessly along the path, smoking a cigar, and evidently + enjoying the balmy coolness of the summer evening. It was just light + enough for her to see that this person was well-dressed, and young, and + with a certain lazily graceful way of moving, and it was just light enough + for the man to see that the half-frightened face she lifted was pretty and + youthful. But, having seen this much, he must surely have recognized more, + for he made a quick backward step. “Liz!” he said. “Why, Liz, my girl!” + And Liz stood still. She stood still, because, for the moment, she lost + the power of motion. Her heart gave a great wild leap, and, in a minute + more, she was trembling all over with a strange, dreadful emotion. It + seemed as if long, terrible months were blotted out, and she was looking + into her cruel lover's face, as she had looked at it last. It was the man + who had brought her to her greatest happiness and her deepest pain and + misery. She could not speak at first; but soon she broke into a passion of + tears. It evidently made the young man uncomfortable—perhaps it + touched him a little. Ralph Landsell's nature was not unlike Liz's own. He + was invariably swayed by the passing circumstance,—only, perhaps, he + was a trifle more easily moved by an evil impulse than a good one. The + beauty of the girl's tearful face, too, overbalanced his first feeling of + irritation at seeing her and finding that he was in a difficult position. + Then he did not want her to run away and per-haps betray him in her + agitation, so he put out his hand and laid it on her shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Hush,” he said. “Don't cry. What a poor little goose you are. Somebody + will hear you.” + </p> + <p> + The girl made an effort to free herself from his detaining hand, but it + was useless. Light as his grasp was, it held her. + </p> + <p> + “Let me a-be,” she cried, sobbing petulantly. “Yo' ha' no reet to howd me. + Yo' were ready enow to let me go when—when I wur i' trouble.” + </p> + <p> + “Trouble!” he repeated after her. “Wasn't I in trouble, too? You don't + mean to say you did not know what a mess I was in? I'll own it looked + rather shabby, Liz, but I was obliged to bolt as I did. I hadn't time to + stay and explain. The governor was down on us, and there'd have been an + awful row. Don't be hard on a fellow, Lizzie. You're—you're too nice + a little girl to be hard on a fellow.” + </p> + <p> + But Liz would not listen. + </p> + <p> + “Yo' went away an' left me wi'out a word,” she said; “yo' went away an' + left me to tak' care o' mysen when I could na do it, an' had na strength + to howd up agen th' world. I wur turned out o' house an' home, an' if it + had na been fur th' hospytal, I might ha' deed i' th' street. Let me go. I + dunnot want to ha' awt to do wi' yo'. I nivver wanted to see yore face + agen. Leave me a-be. It's ower now, an' I dunnot want to get into trouble + agen.” + </p> + <p> + He drew his hand away, biting his lip and frowning boyishly. He had been + as fond of Liz as such a man could be. But she had been a trouble to him + in the end, and he had barely escaped, through his cowardly flight, from + being openly disgraced and visited by his father's wrath. + </p> + <p> + “If you had not gone away in such a hurry, you would have found that I did + not mean to treat you so badly after all,” he said. “I wrote to you and + sent you money, and told you why I was obliged to leave you for the time, + but you were gone, and the letter was returned to me. I was not so much to + blame.” + </p> + <p> + “Th' blame did na fa' on yo',” said Liz. “I tell yo' I wur turnt out, but—it—it + does na matter now,” with a sob. + </p> + <p> + Now that she was out of his reach, he discovered that she had not lost all + her old attractions for him. She was prettier than ever,—the shawl + had slipped from her curly hair, the tears in her eyes made them look + large and soft, and gave her face an expression of most pathetic + helplessness,—and he really felt that he would like to defend, if + not clear himself. So, when she made a movement as if to leave him, he was + positively anxious to detain her. + </p> + <p> + “You are not going?” he said. “You won't leave a fellow in this way, + Lizzie?” + </p> + <p> + The old tone, half caressing, half reproachful, was harder for the girl to + withstand than a stronger will could comprehend. It brought back so much + to her,—those first bright days, her poor, brief little reign, her + childish pleasures, his professed love for her, all her lost delight. If + she had been deliberately bad, she would have given way that instant, + knowing that she was trifling on the brink of sin once more. But she was + not bad, only emotional, weak and wavering. The tone held her one moment + and then she burst into fresh tears. + </p> + <p> + “I wunnot listen to yo',” she cried. “I wunnot listen to yo'. I wunnot—I + wunnot,” and before he had time to utter another word, she had turned and + fled down the lane back toward Joan's cottage, like some hunted creature + fleeing for life. + </p> + <p> + Joan, sitting alone, rose in alarm, when she burst open the door and + rushed in. She was quivering from head to foot, panting for breath, and + the tears were wet upon her cheeks. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” cried Joan. “Lizzie, my lass, what ails yo'?” + </p> + <p> + She threw herself down upon the floor and hid her face in the folds of + Joan's dress. + </p> + <p> + “I—ha'—I ha' seed a ghost, or—summat,” she panted and + whimpered. “I—I met summat as feart me.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me go and look what it wur,” said Joan. “Was it i' th' lane? Tha art + tremblin' aw o'er, Lizzie.” + </p> + <p> + But Liz only clung to her more closely. + </p> + <p> + “Nay—nay,” she protested. “Tha shall na go. I'm feart to be left—an'—an' + I dunnot want yo' to go. Dunnot go, Joan, dunnot.” + </p> + <p> + And Joan was fain to remain. + </p> + <p> + She did not go out into the village for several days after this, Joan + observed. She stayed at home and did not even leave the cottage. She was + not like herself, either. Up to that time she had seemed to be forgetting + her trouble, and gradually slipping back into the enjoyments she had known + before she had gone away. Now a cloud seemed to be upon her. She was + restless and nervous, or listless and unhappy. She was easily startled, + and now and then Joan fancied that she was expecting something unusual to + happen. She lost color and appetite, and the child's presence troubled her + more than usual. Once, when it set up a sudden cry, she started, and the + next moment burst into tears. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Liz!” said Joan, almost tenderly. “Yo' mun be ailin', or yo' hannot + getten o'er yo're fright yet. Yo're not yoresen at aw. What a simple little + lass yo' are to be feart by a boggart i' that way.” + </p> + <p> + “I dunnot know what's the matter wi' me,” said Liz, “I dunnot feel reet, + somehow. Happen I shall get o'er it i' toime.” + </p> + <p> + But though she recovered herself somewhat, she was not the same girl + again. And this change in her it was that made Joan open her heart to + Anice. She saw that something was wrong, and noted a new influence at work + even after the girl began to go out again and resume her visits to her + acquaintances. Then, alternating with fretful listlessness, were tremulous + high spirits and feverish fits of gayety. + </p> + <p> + There came a day, however, when Joan gained a clue to the meaning of this + change, though never from her first recognition of it until the end did + she comprehend it fully. Perhaps she was wholly unconscious of what + narrower natures experience. Then, too, she had little opportunity for + hearing gossip. She had no visitors, and she was kept much at home with + the child, who was not healthy, and who, during the summer months, was + constantly feeble and ailing. + </p> + <p> + Grace, hearing nothing more after the first hint of suspicion, was so far + relieved that he thought it best to spare Joan the pain of being stung by + it. + </p> + <p> + But there came a piece of news to Joan that troubled her. + </p> + <p> + “Theer's a young sprig o' one o' th' managers stayin' at th' 'Queen's + Arms,'” remarked a pit woman one morning. “He's a foine young chap, too—dresses + up loike a tailor's dummy, an' looks as if he'd stepped reet square out o' + a bandbox. He's a son o' owd Landsell's.” + </p> + <p> + Joan stopped a moment at her work. + </p> + <p> + “Are yo' sure o' that?” she asked, anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “Sure he's Mester Landsell's son? Aye, to be 'sure it's him. My mester + towd me hissen.” + </p> + <p> + This was Liz's trouble, then. + </p> + <p> + At noon Joan went home full of self-reproach because sometimes her + patience had failed her. Liz looked up with traces of tears in her eyes, + when Joan came in. Joan did not hesitate. She only thought of giving her + comfort. She went and sat down in a chair near by—she drew the curly + head down upon her lap, and laid her hand on it caressingly. + </p> + <p> + “Lizzie, lass,” she said; “yo' need na ha' been afeard to tell me.” + </p> + <p> + There was a quick little pant from Liz, and then stillness. + </p> + <p> + “I heard about it to-day,” Joan went on, “an' I did na wonder as yo' wur + full o' trouble. It brings it back, Liz, I dare say.” + </p> + <p> + The pant became a sob—the sob broke into a low cry. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Joan! Joan! dunnot blame me—dunnot. It wur na my fault as he + coom, an'—an' I canna bear it.” + </p> + <p> + Even then Joan had no suspicion. To her mind it was quite natural that + such a cry of pain should be wrung from the weak heart. Her hand lost its + steadiness as she touched the soft, tangled hair more tenderly than + before. + </p> + <p> + “He wur th' ghost as yo' seed i' th' lane,” she said. “Wur na he?” + </p> + <p> + “Aye,” wept Liz, “he wur, an' I dare na tell yo'. It seemit loike it tuk + away my breath, an' aw my heart owt o' me. Nivver yo' blame me, Joan—nivver + yo' be hard on me—ivverything else is hard enow. I thowt I wur safe + wi' yo'—I did fur sure.” + </p> + <p> + “An' yo' <i>are</i> safe,” Joan answered. “Dost tha' think I would turn + agen thee? Nay, lass; tha'rt as safe as th' choild is, when I hold it i' + my breast. I ha' a pain o' my own, Liz, as 'll nivver heal, an' I'd loike + to know as I'd held out my hond to them as theer is healin' fur. I'd thank + God fur th' chance—poor lass—poor lass—poor lass!” And + she bent down and kissed her again and again. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIII - “Cannybles” + </h2> + <p> + The night school gained ground steadily. The number of scholars was + constantly on the increase, so much so, indeed, that Grace had his hands + inconveniently full. + </p> + <p> + “They have dull natures, these people,” said the Reverend Harold; “and in + the rare cases where they are not dull, they are stubborn. Absolutely, I + find it quite trying to face them at times, and it is not my fortune to + find it difficult to reach people, as a rule. They seem to have made up + their minds beforehand to resent what I am going to say. It is most + unpleasant. Grace has been working among them so long that, I suppose, + they are used to his methods; he has learned to place himself on a level + with them, so to speak. I notice they listen to, and seem to understand + him. The fact is, I have an idea that that sort of thing is Grace's forte. + He is not a brilliant fellow, and will never make any particular mark, but + he has an odd perseverance which carries him along with a certain class. + Riggan suits him, I think. He has dropped into the right groove.” + </p> + <p> + Jud Bates and “th' best tarrier i' Riggan” were among the most faithful + attendants. The lad's fancy for Anice had extended to Grace. Grace's + friendly toleration of Nib had done much for him. Nib always appeared with + his master, and his manner was as composed and decorous as if rats were + subjects foreign to his meditations. His part it was to lie at Jud's feet, + his nose between his paws, his eyes twinkling sagaciously behind his + shaggy eyebrows, while occasionally, as a token of approval, he wagged his + tail. Once or twice, during a fitful slumber, he had been known to give + vent to his feelings in a sharp bark, but he never failed to awaken + immediately, with every appearance of the deepest abasement and confusion + at the unconscious transgression. + </p> + <p> + During a visit to the Rectory one day, Jud's eyes fell upon a book which + lay on Anice's table. It was full of pictures—illustrations + depicting the adventures and vicissitudes of a fortunate unfortunate, + whose desert island has been the paradise of thousands; whose goat-skin + habiliments have been more worthy of envy than kingly purple; whose hairy + cap has been more significant of monarchy than any crown. For the man who + wore these savage garments has reigned supreme in realms of romance, known + only in their first beauty to boyhood's ecstatic belief. + </p> + <p> + Jud put out his hand, and drawing the gold and crimson snare toward him, + opened it. When Anice came into the room she found him poring over it. His + ragged cap lay with Nib, at his feet, his face was in a glow, his hair was + pushed straight up on his head, both elbows were resting on the table. He + was spelling his way laboriously, but excitedly, through the story of the + foot-print on the sand. Anice waited a moment, and then spoke: + </p> + <p> + “Jud,” she said, “when you can read I will give you 'Robinson Crusoe.'” + </p> + <p> + In less than six months she was called upon to redeem her promise. + </p> + <p> + This occurred a few weeks after Craddock had been established at the lodge + at the Haviland gates. The day Anice gave Jud his well-earned reward, she + had a package to send to Mrs. Craddock, and when the boy came for the + book, she employed him as a messenger to the park. + </p> + <p> + “If you will take these things to Mrs. Craddock, Jud, I shall be much + obliged,” she said; “and please tell her that I will drive out to see her + to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + Jud accepted the mission readily. With Nib at his heels and “Robinson + Crusoe” under his arm, three miles were a trivial matter. He trudged off, + whistling with keen delight. As he went along he could fortify himself + with an occasional glance at the hero and his man Friday. What would he + not have sacrificed at the prospect of being cast with Nib upon a desert + island? + </p> + <p> + “Owd Sammy” sat near the chimney-corner smoking his pipe, and making + severe mental comments upon the conduct of Parliament, then in session, of + whose erratic proceedings he was reading an account in a small but highly + seasoned newspaper. Sammy shook his head ominously over the peppery + reports, but feeling it as well to reserve his opinions for a select + audience at The Crown, allowed Mrs. Craddock to perform her household + tasks unmolested. + </p> + <p> + Hearing Jud at the door, he turned his head. + </p> + <p> + “It's yo', is it?” he said. “Tha con coom in. What's browten?” + </p> + <p> + “Summat fur th' missis fro' th' Rectory,” Jud answered, producing his + parcel; “Miss Anice sent me wi' it.” + </p> + <p> + “Tak' it to th' owd lass, then,” said Sammy. “Tak' it to her. Tha'lt find + her in th' back kitchen.” + </p> + <p> + Having done as he was bidden, Jud came back again to the front room. Mrs. + Craddock had hospitably provided him with a huge sandwich of bread and + cheese, and Nib followed him with expectant eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Sit thee down, lad,” said Sammy, condescendingly. “Sit thee down, tha'st + getten a walk both afore and behind thee. What book 'st getten under thy + arm?” + </p> + <p> + Jud regarded the volume with evident pride and exultation. + </p> + <p> + “It's Robyson Crusoe, that theer is,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + Sammy shook his head dubiously. + </p> + <p> + “Dunnot know as I ivver heerd on him. He's noan scripter, is he?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Jud, repelling the insinuation stoutly; “he is na.” + </p> + <p> + “Hond him over, an' let's ha' a look at him.” + </p> + <p> + Jud advanced. + </p> + <p> + “Theer's picters in it,” he commented eagerly. “Theer's one at th' front. + That theer un,” pointing to the frontispiece, “that theer's him.” + </p> + <p> + Sammy gave it a sharp glance, then another, and then held the book at + arm's length, regarding Robinson's goat-skin habiliments over the rims of + his spectacles. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'm dom'd,” he exclaimed. “I'm dom'd, if I would na loike to see + that chap i' Riggan! What's th' felly getten on?” + </p> + <p> + “He's dressed i' goat-skins. He wur cast upon a desert island, an' had na + owt else to wear.” + </p> + <p> + “I thowt he must ha' been reduced i' circumstances, or he'd nivver ha' + turnt out i' that rig less he thowt more o' comfort than appearances. What + wur he doin' a-casting hissen on a desert island? Wur he reet i' th' upper + story?” + </p> + <p> + “He wur shipwrecked,” triumphantly. “Th' sea drifted him to th' shore, an' + he built hissen a hut, an' gettin' goats an' birds, an'—an' aw sorts—an'—it's + the graideliest book tha ivver seed. Miss Anice gave it me.” + </p> + <p> + “Has she read it hersen?” + </p> + <p> + “Aye, it wur her as tellt me most on it.” + </p> + <p> + Sammy turned the volume over, and looked at the back of it, at the edges + of the leaves, at the gilt-lettered title. + </p> + <p> + “I would na be surprised,” he observed with oracular amiability. “I would + na be surprised—if that's th' case—as theer's summat in it.” + </p> + <p> + “That as I've towd thee is nowt to th' rest on it,” answered Jud in + enthusiasm. “Theer's a mon ca'd Friday, an' a lot o' fellys as eats each + other—cannybles they ca' 'em——” + </p> + <p> + “Look tha here,” interposed Craddock, his curiosity and interest getting + the better of him. “Sit thee down and read a bit. That's something as I + nivver heard on—cannybles an' th' loike. Pick thee th' place, an' + let's hear summat about th' cannybles if tha has na th' toime to do no + more.” + </p> + <p> + Jud needed no second invitation. Sharing the general opinion that “Owd + Sammy” was a man of mark, he could not help feeling that Crusoe was + complimented by his attention. He picked out his place, as his hearer had + advised him, and plunged into the details of the cannibal feast with pride + and determination. Though his elocution may have been of a style peculiar + to beginners and his pronunciation occasionally startling in its + originality, still Sammy gathered the gist of the story. He puffed at his + pipe so furiously that the foreign gentleman's turbaned head was emptied + with amazing rapidity, and it was necessary to refill it two or three + times; he rubbed his corduroy knees with both hands, occasionally he + slapped one of them in the intensity of his interest, and when Jud stopped + he could only express himself in his usual emphatic formula— + </p> + <p> + “Well, I am dom'd. An' tha says, as th' chap's name wur Robyson?” + </p> + <p> + “Aye, Robyson Crusoe.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I mun say, as I'd ha' loike to ha' knowed him. I did know a mon by + th' name o' Robyson onct, but it could na ha' been him, fur he wur na mich + o' a chap. If he'd a bin cast o' a desert island, he would na had th' + gumption to do aw that theer—Jem Robyson could na. It could na ha' + been him—an' besides, he could na ha' writ it out, as that theer + felly's done.” + </p> + <p> + There was a pause, in which Craddock held his pipe in his hand + reflectively—shaking his head once more. + </p> + <p> + “Cannybles an' th' loike too,” he said. “Theer's a soight o' things as a + mon does na hear on. Why, <i>I</i> nivver heard o' cannybles mysen, an' I + am na considert ignorant by th' most o' foak.” Then, as Jud rose to go, + “Art tha fur goin'?” he asked. “Weil, I mun say as I'd loike to hear + summat more about Robyson; but, if tha mun go, tha mun, I suppose. Sithee + here, could tha coom again an' bring him wi' thee?” + </p> + <p> + “I mowt; I dunna moind the walk.” + </p> + <p> + “Then thee do it,” getting up to accompany him to the gates. “An' I'll + gi'e thee a copper now an' then to pay thee. Theer's summat i' a book o' + that soart. Coom thee again as soon as tha con, an' we'll go on wi' the + cannybles.” + </p> + <p> + “What's th' lad been readin' to thee, Sammy?” asked Mrs. Craddock entering + the room, after Jud had taken his departure. + </p> + <p> + “A bit o' litterytoor. I dunnot know as tha'd know what th' book wur, if I + towd thee. Tha nivver wur mich o' a hand at litterytoor. He wur readin' + Robyson Crusoe.” + </p> + <p> + “Not a tract, sure-ly?” + </p> + <p> + “Nay, that it wur na! It wur th' dairy o' a mon who wur cast upo' a desert + island 'i th' midst o' cannybles.” + </p> + <p> + “The dairy?” + </p> + <p> + “Nay, lass, nay,” testily, “not i' th' sense yo' mean. Th' dairy wur o' + th' litterairy soart. He wur a litterairy mon.” + </p> + <p> + “Cannybles an' th' loike,” Sammy said to himself several times during the + evening. “Cannybles an' th' loike. Theer's a power o' things i' th' + universe.” + </p> + <p> + He took his pipe after supper and went out for a stroll. Mental activity + made him restless. The night was a bright one. A yellow harvest moon was + rising slowly above the tree-tops, and casting a mellow light upon the + road stretching out before him. He passed through the gates and down the + road at a leisurely pace, and had walked a hundred yards or so, when he + caught sight of two figures approaching him—a girl and a man, so + absorbed that they evidently had not noticed him. The girl was of light + and youthful figure, and the little old red shawl she wore over her head + was pushed aside, and showed curly hair lying upon her brow. It was plain + that she was uneasy or frightened, for, as soon as she was near enough, + her voice reached him in a tone of frightened protest. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dunnot!” she was saying, “I conna bear it I dunnot want to hear yo', + an'—an' I will na. Yo' moight ha' let me be. I dunnot believe yo'. + Let me go whoam. I'll nivver coom again,” and then she broke out crying. + </p> + <p> + Craddock looked after them as they passed from sight. + </p> + <p> + “Theer's trouble there,” he said, eagerly. “A working lass, an' a mon i' + gentlemen's cloas. Dom sich loike chaps, say I. What would they think if + workin' men ud coom meddlin' wi' theer lasses? I wish I'd had more toime + to see th' wench's face.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIV - Dan Lowrie's Return + </h2> + <p> + Not a pleasant road to travel at any time—the high road to Riggan, + it was certainly at its worst to-night. + </p> + <p> + Between twelve and one o'clock, the rain which had been pouring down + steadily with true English pertinacity for two days, was gradually passing + into a drizzle still more unpleasant,—a drizzle that soaked into the + already soaked clay, that made the mud more slippery, that penetrated a + man's clothing and beat softly but irritatingly against his face, and + dripped from his hair and hat down upon his neck, however well he might + imagine himself protected by his outside wrappings. But, if he was a + common traveller—a rough tramp or laborer, who was not protected + from it at all, it could not fail to annoy him still more, and + consequently to affect his temper. + </p> + <p> + At the hour I have named, such a traveller was making his way through the + mire and drizzle toward Riggan,—a tramp in mud-splashed corduroy and + with the regulation handkerchief bundle tied to the thick stick which he + carried over his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Dom th' rain;—dom th' road,” he said. + </p> + <p> + It was not alone the state of the weather that put him out of humor. + </p> + <p> + “Th' lass,” he went on. “Dom her handsome face. Goin' agin a chap—workin' + agin him, an' settin' hersen i' his road. Blast me,” grinding his teeth—“Blast + me if I dunnot ha' it out wi' her!” + </p> + <p> + So cursing, and alternating his curses with raging silence, he trudged on + his way until four o'clock, when he was in sight of the cottage upon the + Knoll Road—the cottage where Joan and Liz lay asleep upon their poor + bed, with the child between them. + </p> + <p> + Joan had not been asleep long. The child had been unusually fretful, and + had kept her awake. So she was the more easily awakened from her first + light and uneasy slumber by a knock on the door. Hearing it, she started + up and listened. + </p> + <p> + “Who is it?” she asked in a voice too low to disturb the sleepers, but + distinct enough to reach Lowrie's hearing. + </p> + <p> + “Get thee up an' oppen th' door,” was the answer. “I want thee.” + </p> + <p> + She knew there was something wrong. She had not responded to his summons + for so many years without learning what each tone meant. But she did not + hesitate. + </p> + <p> + When she had hastily thrown on some clothing, she opened the door and + stood before him. + </p> + <p> + “I did not expect to see yo' toneet,” she said, quietly. + </p> + <p> + “Happen not,” he replied. “Coom out here. I ha' summat to say to yo'.” + </p> + <p> + “Yo' wunnot come in?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Nay. What I ha' to say mowt waken th' young un.” + </p> + <p> + She stepped out without another word, and closed the door quietly behind + her. + </p> + <p> + There was the faintest possible light in the sky, the first tint of dawn, + and it showed even to his brutal eyes all the beauty of her face and + figure as she stood motionless, the dripping rain falling upon her; there + was so little suggestion of fear about her that he was roused to fresh + anger. + </p> + <p> + “Dom yo'!” he broke forth. “Do yo' know as I've fun yo' out?” + </p> + <p> + She did not profess not to understand him, but she did not stir an inch. + </p> + <p> + “I did na know before,” was her reply. + </p> + <p> + “Yo' thowt as I wur to be stopped, did yo'? Yo' thowt as yo' could keep + quiet an' stond i' my way, an' houd me back till I'd forgetten? Yo're a + brave wench! Nivver moind how I fun yo' out, an' seed how it wur—I've + done it, that's enow fur yo'; an' now I've coom to ha' a few words wi' yo' + and settle matters. I coom here toneet a purpose, an' this is what I've + getten to say. Yo're stubborn enow, but yo' canna stop me. That's one + thing I ha' to tell yo', an here's another. Yo're hard enow, an' yo're + wise enow, but yo're noan so wise as yo' think fur, if yo' fancy as a + hundred years ud mak' me forget what I ha' made up my moind to, an' yo're + noan so wise as yo' think fur, if yo' put yoursen in my road. An' here's + another yet,” clinching his fist. “If it wur murder, as I wur goin' to do—not + as I say it is—but if it wur murder itsen an' yo' wur i' my way, + theer mowt be two blows struck i'stead o' one—theer mowt be two + murders done—an' I wunnot say which ud coom first—fur I'll do + what I've set my moind to, if I'm dom'd to hell fur it!” + </p> + <p> + She did not move nor speak. Perhaps because of her immobility he broke out + again. + </p> + <p> + “What!” he cried. “<i>Yo''</i> hangin' on to gentlemen, an' doggin' 'em, + an' draggin' yoursen thro' th' dark an' mire to save 'em fro' havin' theer + prutty faces hurt, an' getten theer dues! <i>Yo''</i> creepin' behind a mon + as cares no more fur yo' than he does for th' dirt at his feet, an' as + laughs, ten to one, to know as yo're ready to be picked up or throwed down + at his pleasure! <i>Yo''</i> watchin' i' th' shade o' trees an' stoppin' a + mon by neet as would na stop to speak to yo' by day. Dom yo'! theer were + na a mon i' Riggan as dare touch yo' wi' a yard-stick until this chap + coom.” + </p> + <p> + “I've listened to yo',” she said. “Will yo' listen to me?” + </p> + <p> + He replied with another oath, and she continued as if it had been an + assent. + </p> + <p> + “Theer's a few o' them words as yo've spoken as is na true, but theer's + others as is. It's true as I ha' set mysen to watch, an' it's true as I + mean to do it again. If it's nowt but simple harm yo' mean, yo' shanna do + it; if it's murder yo' mean—an' I dunnot trust yo' as it is na—if + it's murder yo' mean, theer's yo' an' me for it before it's done; an' if + theer's deathly blows struck, the first shall fa' on <i>me</i>. Theer!” + and she struck herself upon her breast. “If I wur ivver afraid o' yo' i' + my loife—if I ivver feared yo' as choild or woman, dunnot believe me + now.” + </p> + <p> + “Yo' mean that?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Yo' know whether I mean it or not,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + “Aye!” he said. “I'm dom'd if yo' dunnot, yo' she-devil, an' bein' as + that's what's ailin' thee, I'm dom'd if I dunnot mean summat too,” and he + raised his hand and gave her a blow that felled her to the ground; then he + turned away, cursing as he went. + </p> + <p> + She uttered no cry of appeal or dread, and Liz and the child slept on + inside, as quietly as before. It was the light-falling rain and the cool + morning air that roused her. She came to herself at last, feeling sick and + dizzy, and conscious of a fierce pain in her bruised temple. She managed + to rise to her feet and stand, leaning against the rough gate-post. She + had borne such blows before, but she never felt her humiliation so + bitterly as she did at this moment. She laid her brow upon her hand, which + rested on the gate, and broke into heavy sobs. + </p> + <p> + “I shall bear th' mark for mony a day,” she said. “I mun hide mysen away. + I could na bear fur <i>him</i> to see it, even tho' I getten it fur his + sake.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXV - The Old Danger + </h2> + <p> + It had been some time since Derrick on his nightly walks homeward had been + conscious of the presence of the silent figure; but the very night after + the occurrence narrated in the last chapter, he was startled at his first + turning into the Knoll Road by recognizing Joan. + </p> + <p> + There was a pang to him in the discovery. Her silent presence seemed only + to widen the distance Fate had placed between them. She was ready to + shield him from danger, but she held herself apart from him even in doing + so. She followed her own path as if she were a creature of a different + world,—a world so separated from his own that nothing could ever + bridge the gulf between them. + </p> + <p> + To-night, Derrick was seized with an intense longing to speak to the girl. + He had forborne for her sake before, but to-night he was in one of those + frames of mind in which a man is selfish, and is apt to let his course be + regulated by his impulse. Why should he not speak, after all? If there was + danger for him there was danger for her, and it was absurd that he should + not show her that he was not afraid. Why should she interpose her single + strength between himself and the vengeance of a man of whom he had had the + best in their only encounter? As soon as they had reached the more + unfrequented part of the road, he wheeled round suddenly, and spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Joan,” he said. + </p> + <p> + He saw that she paused and hesitated, and he made up his mind more + strongly. He took a few impetuous steps toward her, and seeing this, she + addressed him hurriedly. + </p> + <p> + “Dunnot stop,” she said. “If—if yo' want to speak to me, I'll go + along wi' yo'.” + </p> + <p> + “You think I'm in danger?” + </p> + <p> + He could not see her face, but her voice told him that her usual steady + composure was shaken—it was almost like the voice of another woman. + </p> + <p> + “Yo' nivver wur i' more danger i' yo're loife.” + </p> + <p> + “The old danger?” + </p> + <p> + “Th' old danger, as is worse to be feared now than ivver.” + </p> + <p> + “And you!” he broke out. “<i>You</i> interpose yourself between that + danger and me!” + </p> + <p> + His fire seemed to communicate itself to her. + </p> + <p> + “Th' harm as is meant to be done, is coward's harm,” she said, “an' will + be done i' coward's fashion—it is na a harm as will be done yo' wi' + fair warnin', i' dayleet, an' face to face. If it wur, I should na fear—but + th' way it is, I say it shanna be done—it shanna, if I dee fur it!” + Then her manner altered again, and her voice returned to its first tremor. + “It is na wi' me as it is wi' other women. Yo' munnot judge o' me as yo' + judge o' other lasses. What mowtn't be reet fur other lasses to do, is + reet enow fur me. It has na been left to me to be lass-loike, an' feart, + an'—an' modest,” and she drew her breath hard, as if she was forced + to check herself. + </p> + <p> + “It has been left to you,” he burst forth, “it has been left to you to + stand higher in my eyes than any other woman God ever made.” + </p> + <p> + He could not have controlled himself. And yet, when he had said this, his + heart leaped for fear he might have wounded her or given her a false + impression. But strange to say, it proved this time that he had no need + for fear. + </p> + <p> + There was a moment's silence, and then she answered low. + </p> + <p> + “Thank yo'!” + </p> + <p> + They had gone some yards together, before he recovered himself + sufficiently to remember what he had meant to say to her. + </p> + <p> + “I wanted to tell you,” he said, “that I do not think any—enemy I + have, can take me at any very great disadvantage. I am—I have + prepared myself.” + </p> + <p> + She shuddered. + </p> + <p> + “Yo' carry—summat?” + </p> + <p> + “Don't misunderstand me,” he said quickly. “I shall not use any weapon + rashly. It is to be employed more as a means of warning and alarm than + anything else. Rigganites do not like firearms, and they are not used to + them. I only tell you this, because I cannot bear that you should expose + yourself unnecessarily.” + </p> + <p> + There was that in his manner which moved her as his light touch had done + that first night of their meeting, when he had bound up her wounded temple + with his handkerchief. It was that her womanhood—her hardly used + womanhood, of which she had herself thought with such pathetic scorn—was + always before him, and was even a stronger power with him than her + marvellous beauty. + </p> + <p> + She remembered the fresh bruise upon her brow, and felt its throb with + less of shame, because she bore it for his sake. + </p> + <p> + “Promise me one thing,” he went on. “And do not think me ungracious in + asking it of you—promise me that you will not come out again through + any fear of danger for me, unless it is a greater one than threatens me + now and one I am unprepared to meet.” + </p> + <p> + “I conna,” she answered firmly. “I conna promise yo'. Yo' mun let me do as + I ha' done fur th' sake o' my own peace.” + </p> + <p> + She made no further explanation, and he could not persuade her to alter + her determination. In fact, he was led to see at last, that there was more + behind than she had the will or power to reveal to him; something in her + reticence silenced him. + </p> + <p> + “Yo' dunnot know what <i>I</i> do,” she said before they parted. “An' + happen yo' would na quoite understand it if yo' did. I dunnot do things + lightly,—I ha' no reason to,—an' I ha' set my moind on seein' + that th' harm as has been brewin' fur long enow, shanna reach wheer it's + aimed. I mun ha' my way. Dunnot ask me to gi'e it up. Let me do as I ha' + been doin' fur th' sake o' mysen, if fur no one else.” + </p> + <p> + The truth which he could not reach, and would not have reached if he had + talked to her till doomsday, was that she was right in saying that she + could not give it up. This woman had made no inconsequent boast when she + told her father that if deadly blows fell, they must fall first upon + herself. She was used to blows, she could bear them, she was fearless + before them,—but she could not have borne to sit at home, under any + possibility of wrong being done to this man. God knows what heavy sadness + had worn her soul, through the months in which she had never for a moment + flinched from the knowledge that a whole world lay between herself and + him. God knows how she had struggled against the unconquerable tide of + feeling as it crept slowly upon her, refusing to be stemmed and + threatening to overwhelm her in its remorseless waves. She was only left + endurance—yet even in this there was a gladness which she had in + nothing else. She could never meet him as a happier woman might, but she + could do for him what other women could not do—she could brave + darkness and danger, she could watch over him, if need be; if the worst + came to the worst, she could interpose herself between him and violence, + or death itself. + </p> + <p> + But of all this, Fergus Derrick suspected nothing. He only knew that while + she had not misinterpreted his appeal, some reason of her own held her + firm. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVI - The Package Returned + </h2> + <p> + As Joan turned the corner of a lane leading to the high road, she found + herself awkwardly trying to pass a man who confronted her—a young + fellow far too elegant and well-dressed to be a Rigganite. + </p> + <p> + “Beg pardon!” he said abruptly, as if he were not in the best of humors. + And then she recognized him. + </p> + <p> + “It's Mester Ralph Landsell,” she said to herself as she went on. “What is + he doin' here?” + </p> + <p> + But before she had finished speaking, she started at the sight of a figure + hurrying on before her,—Liz herself, who had evidently just parted + from her lover, and was walking rapidly homeward. + </p> + <p> + It was a shock to Joan, though she did not suspect the whole truth. She + had trusted the girl completely; she had never interfered with her + outgoing or incoming; she had been generously lenient toward her on every + point, and her pang at finding herself deceived was keen. Her sudden + discovery of the subterfuge filled her with alarm. + </p> + <p> + What was the meaning of it? Surely it could not mean that this man was + digging fresh pitfalls for the poor straying feet. She could not believe + this,—she could only shudder as the ominous thought suggested + itself. And Liz—nay, even Liz could not be weak enough to trifle + with danger again. + </p> + <p> + But it was Liz who was hurrying on before her, and who was walking so fast + that both were breathless when Joan reached her side and laid a detaining + hand upon her shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Liz,” she said, “are yo' afeard o' me?” + </p> + <p> + Liz turned her face around, colorless and frightened. There was a tone in + the voice she had never heard before, a reproach in Joan's eyes before + which she faltered. + </p> + <p> + “I—did na know it wur yo',” she said, almost peevishly. “What fur + should I be afeard o' yo'?” + </p> + <p> + Joan's hand dropped. + </p> + <p> + “Yo' know best,” she answered. “I did na say yo' wur.” + </p> + <p> + Liz pulled her shawl closer about her shoulders, as if in nervous protest. + </p> + <p> + “I dunnot see why I should be, though to be sure it's enow to fear one to + be followed i' this way. Canna I go out fur a minnit wi'out—wi'out—” + </p> + <p> + “Nay, lass,” Joan interrupted, “that's wild talk.” + </p> + <p> + Liz began to whimper. + </p> + <p> + “Th' choild wur asleep,” she said, “an' it wur so lonesome i' th' house. + Theer wur no harm i' comin' out.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope to God theer wur na,” exclaimed Joan. “I'd rayther see thy dead + face lyin' by th' little un's on th' pillow than think as theer wur. Yo' + know what I mean, Liz. Yo' know I could na ha' caught up wi' yo' wi'out + passin' thot mon theer,—th' mon as yo' ha' been meetin' on th' sly,—God + knows why, lass, fur I canna see, unless yo' want to fa' back to shame an' + ruin.” + </p> + <p> + They were at home by this time, and she opened the door to let the girl + walk in before her. + </p> + <p> + “Get thee inside, Liz,” she said. “I mun hear what tha has to say, fur I + conna rest i' fear for thee. I am na angered, fur I pity thee too much. + Tha art naught but a choild at th' best, an' th' world is fu' o' traps an' + snares.” + </p> + <p> + Liz took off her hat and shawl and sat down. She covered her face with her + hands, and sobbed appealingly. + </p> + <p> + “I ha' na done no harm,” she protested. “I nivver meant none. It wur his + fault. He wunnot let me a-be, an'—an' he said he wanted to hear + summat about th' choild, an' gi'e me summat to help me along. He said as + he wur ashamed o' hissen to ha' left me wi'out money, but he wur hard run + at the toime, an' now he wanted to gi' me some.” + </p> + <p> + “Money!” said Joan. “Did he offer yo' money?” + </p> + <p> + “Aye, he said——” + </p> + <p> + “Wait!” said Joan. “Did yo' tak' it?” + </p> + <p> + “What would yo' ha' me do?” restlessly. “Theer wur no harm——” + </p> + <p> + “Ha' yo' getten it on yo'?” interrupting her again. + </p> + <p> + “Aye,” stopping to look up questioningly. + </p> + <p> + Joan held out her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Gi'e it to me,” she said, steadily. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Ralph Landsell, who was sitting in his comfortable private parlor at + the principal hotel of the little town, was disturbed in the enjoyment of + his nightly cigar by the abrupt announcement of a visitor,—a young + woman, who surprised him by walking into the room and straight up to the + table near which he sat. + </p> + <p> + She was such a very handsome young woman, with her large eyes and finely + cut face, and heavy nut-brown hair, and, despite her common dress, so very + imposing a young woman, that the young man was quite startled,—especially + when she laid upon the table-cloth a little package, which he knew had + only left his hands half an hour before. + </p> + <p> + “I ha' browt it back to yo';” she said, calmly. + </p> + <p> + He glanced down at the package and then up at her, irritated and + embarrassed. + </p> + <p> + “You have brought it back to me?” he said. “May I ask what it is?” + </p> + <p> + “I dunnot think yo' need ask; but sin' yo' do so, I con answer. It's th' + money, Mester Landsell,—th' money yo' give to poor Lizzie.” + </p> + <p> + “And may I ask again, what the money I gave to poor Lizzie has to do with + you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yo' may ask again, an' I con answer. I am th' poor lass's friend,—happen + th' only friend she has i' th' world,—an' I tell yo' as I will na + see yo' play her false again.” + </p> + <p> + “The devil!” he broke forth, angrily. “You speak as—as if you + thought I meant her harm.” + </p> + <p> + He colored and faltered, even as he spoke. Joan faced him with bright and + scornful eyes. + </p> + <p> + “If yo' dunnot mean her harm, dunnot lead her to underhand ways o' + deceivin' them as means her well. If yo' dunnot mean her harm, tak' yore + belongings and leave Riggan to-morrow morning.” + </p> + <p> + He answered her by a short, uneasy laugh. + </p> + <p> + “By Jove!” he said. “You are a cool hand, young woman—but you can + set your mind at rest. I shall not leave Riggan to-morrow morning, as you + modestly demand—not only because I have further business to + transact, but because I choose to remain. I shall not make any absurd + promises about not seeing Lizzie, which, it seems to me, is more my + business than yours, under the circumstances—and I shall not take + the money back.” + </p> + <p> + “Yo' willna?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I will not.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. I ha' no more to say,” and she went out of the room, leaving + the package lying upon the table. + </p> + <p> + When she reached home, Liz was still sitting as she had left her, and she + looked up tearful and impatient. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “He has th' money,” was Joan's answer, “an' he ha' shown me as he is a + villain.” + </p> + <p> + She came and stood near the girl, a strong emotion in her half pitying, + half appealing look. + </p> + <p> + “Lizzie, lass!” she said. “Tha mun listen to me,—tha mun. Tha mun + mak' me a promise before tha tak's thy choild upo' thy breast toneet.” + </p> + <p> + “I dunnot care,” protested Liz, weeping fretfully. “I dunnot care what I + do. It's aw as bad as ivver now. I dunnot care for nowt. Ivvery-body's at + me—noan on yo' will let me a-be. What wi' first one an' then another + I'm a'most drove wild.” + </p> + <p> + “God help thee!” said Joan with a heavy sigh. “I dunnot mean to be hard, + lass, but yo' mun promise me. It is na mich, Lizzie, if—if things is + na worse wi' yo' than I would ivver believe. Yo're safe so far: promise me + as yo' will na run i' danger—promise me as yo' will na see that man + again, that yo'll keep out o' his way till he leaves Riggan.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll promise owt,” cried Liz. “I dunnot care, I tell yo'. I'll promise + owt yo'll ax, if yo'll let me a-be,” and she hid her face upon her arms + and wept aloud. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVII - Sammy Craddock's “Manny-ensis.” + </h2> + <p> + At least twice a week Jud Bates made a pilgrimage to Haviland Park. Having + been enlightened to the extent of two or three chapters of “Robinson + Crusoe,” Sammy Craddock was athirst for more. He regarded the adventures + of the hero as valuable information from foreign shores, as information + that might be used in political debates, and brought forth on state + occasions to floor a presumptuous antagonist. Accordingly, he held out + inducements to Jud such as the boy was not likely to think lightly of. A + penny a night, and a good supper for himself and Nib, held solid + attractions for Jud, and at this salary he found himself engaged in the + character of what “Owd Sammy” called “a manny-ensis.” + </p> + <p> + “What's that theer?” inquired Mrs. Craddock on first hearing this imposing + title. “A manny—what?” + </p> + <p> + “A manny-ensis, owd lass,” said Sammy, chuckling. “Did tha ivver hear o' a + private gentleman as had na a manny-ensis?” + </p> + <p> + “Nay. I know nowt about thy manny-ensisses, an' I'll warrant tha does na + know what such loike is thysen.” + </p> + <p> + “It means a power o' things,” answered Sammy; “a power o' things. It's a + word as is comprehensive, as they ca' it, an' it's one as will do as well + as any fur th' lad. A manny-ensis!” and manny-ensis it remained. + </p> + <p> + Surely the adventures of the island-solitary had never given such + satisfaction as they gave in the cheery house room of the lodge. Sammy + listened to them over numerous pipes, with a respect for literature such + as had never before been engendered in his mind by the most imposing + display of bindings. + </p> + <p> + “I've allus thowt as th' newspaper wur enow fur a mon to tackle,” he would + say, reflectively; “but theer's summat outside o' th' newspapers. I nivver + seed a paper as had owt in it about desert islands, let alone cannybles.” + </p> + <p> + “Cannybles, indeed!” replied Mrs. Craddock, who was occasionally one of + the audience. “I conna mak' no sense out o' thee an' thy cannybles. I + wonder they are na' shamt o' theirsens, goin' about wi'out so mich as a + hat on, an' eatin' each other, as if there wur na a bit o' good victual i' + th' place. I wonder th' Queen dunnot put a stop to it hersen if th' + parlyment ha' not getten the sense to do it. It's noan respectable, let + alone Christian.” + </p> + <p> + “Eh!” said Sammy; “but tha'rt i' a muddle. Th'dst allus be i' a muddle if + I'd let thee mak' things out thysen an' noan explain 'em to thee. Does tha + think aw this here happent i' England? It wur i' furrin lands, owd wench, + i' a desert island i' th' midst o' th' sea.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I wur hopin' it wur na i' Lancashire, I mun say!” + </p> + <p> + “Lancashire! Why, it happent further off nor Lunnon, i' a place as it's + loike th' Queen has nivver seed nor heerd tell on.” + </p> + <p> + The old woman looked dubious, if not disapproving. A place that was not in + Lancashire, and that the Queen had nothing to do with, was, to her, a + place quite “off color.” + </p> + <p> + “Well! well!” she resumed, with the manner of an unbeliever, “thee go on + thy way readin' if tha con tak' comfort i' it. But I mun say again as it + does na sound Christian to me. That's the least I con say on't.” + </p> + <p> + “Tha'rt slow i' understanding owd lass,” was her husband's tolerant + comment. “Tha' does na know enow o' litterytoor to appreciate. Th' female + intylect is na strong at th' best, an' tha nivver wur more than ordinary. + Get into it, Manny-ensis. It's getten late, and I'm fain to hear more + about th' mon Friday, an' how th' poor' chap managed.” + </p> + <p> + Both reader and audience were so full of interest that Jud's story was + prolonged beyond the usual hour. But to the boy, this was a matter of + small consequence. He had tramped the woods too often with Nib for a + companion to feel fear at any time. He had slept under a hedge many a + night from choice, and had enjoyed his slumber like a young vagabond, as + he was. + </p> + <p> + He set out on this occasion in high good humor. There were no clouds to + hide the stars; he had had an excellent supper, and he had enjoyed his + evening. He trudged along cheerily, his enjoyment as yet unabated. The + trees and hedges, half stripped of their leaves, were so suggestive of + birds' nests, that now and then he stepped aside to examine them more + closely. The nests might be there yet, though the birds had flown. Where + throstles had built this year, it was just possible others might build + again, and, at any rate, it was as well to know where their haunts had + been. So, having objects enough to attract his attention, the boy did not + find the way long. He was close upon the mine before he had time to feel + fatigue possible, and, nearing the mine, he was drawn from his path again + by a sudden remembrance brought up by the sight of a hedge surrounding a + field near it. + </p> + <p> + “Theer wur a bird as built i' that hedge i' th' spring,” he said. “She wur + a new kind. I'd forgotten her. I meant to ha' watched her. I wonder if any + other felly fun her. I'll go an' see if th' nest is theer.” + </p> + <p> + He crossed the road to the place where he fancied he had seen this + treasure; but not being quite certain as to the exact spot, he found his + search lengthened by this uncertainty. + </p> + <p> + “It wur here,” he said to himself; “at least I thowt it wur. Some chap mun + ha' fun it an' tuk it.” + </p> + <p> + At this moment he paused, as if listening. + </p> + <p> + “What's that theer?” he said. “Theer's some one on th' other side o' th' + hedge.” + </p> + <p> + He had been attracted by the sound of voices—men's voices—the + voices of men who were evidently crouching under the shadow of the hedge + on the other side, and whose tones in a moment more reached him distinctly + and were recognized. + </p> + <p> + The first was Dan Lowrie's, and before he had heard him utter a dozen + words, Jud dropped upon his knees and laid his hand warningly upon Nib's + neck. The dog pricked his pointed ears and looked up at him restlessly. + All the self-control of his nature could scarcely help him to suppress a + whine. + </p> + <p> + “Them as is feared to stand by Dan Lowrie,” said the voice, with an oath, + “let 'em say so.” + </p> + <p> + “Theer's not a mon here as is feart,” was the gruff answer. + </p> + <p> + “Then theer's no need to gab no more,” returned Lowrie. “Yo' know what yo' + ha' getten to do. Yo' ha' th' vitriol an' th' sticks. Wait yo' fur him at + th' second corner an' I'll wait at th' first. If he does na tak' one turn + into th' road he'll tak' th' other, an' so which turn he tak's we'll be + ready fur him. Blast him! he'll be done wi' engineerin' fur a while if he + fa's into <i>my</i> hands, an' he'll mak' no more rows about th' Davvies.” + </p> + <p> + Impatient for the word of command, Nib stirred uneasily among the dead + leaves, and the men heard him. Not a moment's space was given to the two + listeners, or they would have saved themselves. There was a smothered + exclamation from three voices at once, a burst of profanity, and Dan + Lowrie had leaped the low hedge and caught Jud by the collar. The man was + ghastly with rage. He shook the lad until even he himself was breathless. + </p> + <p> + “Yo' young devil!” he cried, hoarsely, “yo've been listenin', ha' yo'? + Nay, theer's no use o' yo' tryin' to brave it out. Yo've done for yorsen, + by God!” + </p> + <p> + “Let me a-be,” said Jud, but he was as pale as his captor. “I wur na doin' + thee no harm. I on'y coom to look fur a bird's nest.” + </p> + <p> + “Yo' listened,” said Lowrie; “y o' heerd what we said.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me a-be,” was Jud's sullen reply. + </p> + <p> + At this moment a man's face rose above the whitethorn hedge. + </p> + <p> + “Who is it?” asked the fellow, in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + “A dom'd young rascal as has been eaves-droppin'. Yo' may as well coom + out, lads. We've getten to settle wi' him, or we'n fun ourselves in th' + worst box yet.” + </p> + <p> + The man scrambled over the hedge without further comment and his companion + followed him; and seeing who they were, Jud felt that his position was + even more dangerous than he fancied at first. The three plotters who + grouped themselves about him were three of the most desperate fellows in + the district—brutal, revengeful, vicious, combining all the + characteristics of a bad class. The two last looked at him with evident + discomfort and bewilderment. + </p> + <p> + “Here's a pretty go,” said one. + </p> + <p> + “Aye, by th' Lord Harry!” added the other. “How long's he bin here?” + </p> + <p> + “How long'st bin here?” demanded Lowrie, with another shake. + </p> + <p> + “Long enow to look fur a bird's nest an' not find it,” said Jud, trying to + speak stoutly. + </p> + <p> + The three exchanged glances and oaths. + </p> + <p> + “He's heerd ivvery word,” said Lowrie, in a savage answer. + </p> + <p> + There was a moment's silence, and then Lowrie broke out again. + </p> + <p> + “Theer's on'y one road to stop his gab,” he said. “Pitch him into th' + mine, an' be dom'd to him. He shall na spoil th' job, if I ha' to swing + fur it.” + </p> + <p> + Nib gave a low whine, and Jud's heart leaped within him. Every lad in + Riggan knew Dan Lowrie and feared him. There was not a soul within + hearing, and people were not fond of visiting the mine at night, so if + they chose to dispose of him in any way, they would have time and + opportunity to do it without risk of being interfered with. But it + happened that upon the present occasion Lowrie's friends were not as + heated as himself. It was not a strictly personal grudge they were going + to settle, and consequently some remnant of humanity got the better of + them. + </p> + <p> + “Nay,” said the youngest, “one's enow.” + </p> + <p> + “Nay,” Lowrie put in; “one's not enow fur me, if theer's another as is + goin' to meddle. Summat's getten to be done, an' done quick.” + </p> + <p> + “Mak' him promise to keep his mouth shut,” suggested No. 3. “He'll do it + sooner nor get hissen into trouble.” + </p> + <p> + “Wilt ta?” demanded the young one. + </p> + <p> + Jud looked up at him. He had the stubborn North country blood in him, and + the North country courage. Having heard what he had, he was sharp enough + to comprehend all. There was only one engineer whom Lowrie could have a + grudge against, and that one was Derrick. They were going to work some + harm against “Mester Derrick,” who was his friend and Miss Anice's. + </p> + <p> + “Wilt ta?” repeated his questioner, feeling quite sure of him. The youth + of Riggan were generally ready enough for mischief, and troubled by no + scruples of conscience, so the answer he received took him by surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Nay,” said Jud, “I will na.” + </p> + <p> + “Tha will na?” + </p> + <p> + “Nay.” + </p> + <p> + The fellow fell back a step or two to stare at him. + </p> + <p> + “Well, tha'rt a plucky one at ony rate,” he growled, discomfited. + </p> + <p> + Jud stood his ground. + </p> + <p> + “Mester Derrick's bin good to me,” he said, “an' he's bin good to Nib. Th' + rest o' yo' ha' a kick for Nib whenivver he gits i' yo're way; but he + nivver so much as spoke rough to him. He's gin me a penny more nor onct to + buy him summat to eat. Chuck me down the shaft, if yo' want to.” + </p> + <p> + Though he scarcely believed they would take him at his word, since the two + were somewhat in his favor, it was a courageous thing to say. If his fate + had rested in Lowrie's hands alone, heaven knows what the result might + have been; but having the others to contend with, he was safe so far. But + there was not much time to lose, and even the less interested parties to + the transgression had a stolid determination to stand by their comrade. + There was a hurried consultation held in undertones, and then the youngest + man bent suddenly, and, with a short laugh, caught Nib in his arms. He was + vicious enough to take a pleasure in playing tormentor, if in his cooler + moods he held back from committing actual crime. + </p> + <p> + “Tha'rt a plucky young devil,” he said; “but tha's getten to swear to howd + thy tongue between thy teeth, an' if tha wunnot do it fur thy own sake, + happen tha will fur th' dog's.” + </p> + <p> + “What art tha goin' to do wi' him?” cried Jud, trembling. “He has na done + yo' no hurt.” + </p> + <p> + “We're goin' to howd him over th' shaft a minnit till tha mak's up thy + mind. Bring th' young chap along, lads.” + </p> + <p> + He had not struggled before, but he began to struggle now with all his + strength. He grew hot and cold by turns. It might not be safe to kill him; + but it would be safe enough to kill Nib. + </p> + <p> + “Let me a-be,” he cried. “Let that theer dog loose. Nib, Nib,—seize + him, lad!” + </p> + <p> + “Put thy hond over his mouth,” said the young man. + </p> + <p> + And so Jud was half dragged, half carried to the shaft. It was as useless + for him to struggle as it was for Nib. Both were powerless. But Jud's + efforts to free himself were so frantic that the men laughed,—Lowrie + grimly, the other two with a kind of malicious enjoyment of the + grotesqueness of the situation. + </p> + <p> + “Set him down, but keep him quiet,” was the command given when they + reached the pit's side. + </p> + <p> + The next instant a dreadful cry was smothered in the boy's grappled + throat. They were leaning against the rail and holding Nib over the black + abyss. + </p> + <p> + “Wilt ta promise?” he was asked. “Tha may let him speak, Lowrie; he canna + mak' foak hear.” + </p> + <p> + Nib looked down into the blackness, and broke into a terrific whine, + turning his head toward his master. + </p> + <p> + “I—I—conna promise,” said Jud; but he burst into tears. + </p> + <p> + “Let th' dog go,” said Lowrie. + </p> + <p> + “Try him again. Wilt ta promise, or mun we let th' dog go, lad? We're noan + goin' to do th' chap ony great harm; we're on'y goin' to play him a trick + to pay him back fur his cheek.” + </p> + <p> + Jud looked at Nib. + </p> + <p> + “Lowrie said you had vitriol and knob-sticks,” he faltered. “Yo' dunnat + play tricks wi' <i>them</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Yo' see how much he's heerd,” said Lowrie. “He'll noan promise.” + </p> + <p> + The one who held the dog was evidently losing patience. + </p> + <p> + “Say yes or no, yo' young devil,” he said, and he made a threatening + gesture. “We conna stand here aw neet. Promise ta will na tell mon, woman, + nor choild, what tha heerd us say. When I say 'three,' I'll drop th' dog. + One—two—” + </p> + <p> + The look of almost human terror in Nib's eyes was too much for his master. + Desperation filled him. He could not sacrifice Nib—he could not + sacrifice the man who had been Nib's friend; but he might make a sort of + sacrifice of himself to both. + </p> + <p> + “Stop!” he cried. “I'll promise yo'” + </p> + <p> + He had saved Nib, but there was some parleying before he was set free, + notwithstanding his promise to be silent. But for the fact that he was + under the control of the others for the time being, Lowrie would have + resorted to harsher precautions; but possibly influenced by a touch of + admiration for the lad, the youngest man held out against his companions. + They wrangled together for a few minutes, and then Nib was handed over. + </p> + <p> + “Here, cut an' run, tha young beggar,” said the fellow who had stood by + him, “an' dunnot let's hear ony more on thee. If we do, it'll be worse fur + thee an' th' dog too. So look out.” + </p> + <p> + Jud did not wait for a second command. The instant he felt Nib in his + arms, he scudded over the bare space of ground before him at his best + speed. They should not have time to repent their decision. If the men had + seen his face, they might not have felt so safe. But the truth was, they + were reckoning upon Jud Bates as they would have reckoned upon any other + young Riggan rascal of his age. After all, it was not so much his promise + they relied on as his wholesome fear of the consequences of its being + broken. It was not a matter of honor but of dread. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVIII - Warned + </h2> + <p> + It was even later than usual this evening when Fergus Derrick left the + Rectory. When Mr. Barholm was in his talkative mood, it was not easy for + him to break away. So Derrick was fain to listen and linger, and then + supper was brought in and he was detained again, and at eleven o'clock Mr. + Barholm suddenly hit upon a new topic. + </p> + <p> + “By the by,” he said, “where is that fellow, Lowrie? I thought he had left + Riggan.” + </p> + <p> + “He did leave Riggan,” answered Derrick. + </p> + <p> + “So I heard,” returned the Rector, “and I suppose I was mistaken in + fancying I caught sight of him to-day. I don't know the man very well and + I might easily be deceived. But where is he?” + </p> + <p> + “I think,” said Derrick, quietly, “that he is in Riggan. I am not of the + opinion that you were mistaken at all. I am sure he is here, but for + reasons of his own he is keeping himself quiet. I know him too well to be + deceived by any fancied resemblance.” + </p> + <p> + “But what are his reasons?” was the next question. “That looks bad, you + know. He belongs to a bad crew.” + </p> + <p> + “Bad enough,” said Derrick. + </p> + <p> + “Is it a grudge? He is just the rascal to bear a grudge.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Derrick. “It is a grudge against <i>me</i>.” + </p> + <p> + He looked up then across the table at Anice and smiled reassuringly. + </p> + <p> + “You did not tell us that you had seen him,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “No. You think I ought to be afraid of him, and I am too vain to like to + admit the possibility that it would be better to fear any man, even a + Riggan collier.” + </p> + <p> + “But such a man!” put in Mrs. Barholm. “It seems to me he is a man to be + feared.” + </p> + <p> + “I can thrash him,” said Derrick. He could not help feeling some enjoyment + in this certainty. “I <i>did</i> thrash him upon one occasion, you know, + and a single combat with a fellow of that kind is oftener than not + decisive.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said the Rector, “that is the principal cause of his grudge, I + think. He might forgive you for getting him into trouble, but he will + never forgive you for thrashing him.” + </p> + <p> + They were still sitting at the table discussing the matter, when Anice, + who sat opposite a window, rose from her seat, and crossing the room to + it, drew aside the curtain and looked out. + </p> + <p> + “There was somebody there,” she said, in answer to the questioning in the + faces of her companions. “There was a face pressed close against the glass + for a minute, and I am sure it was Jud Bates.” + </p> + <p> + Derrick sprang from his chair. To his mind, it did not appear at all + unlikely that Jud Bates had mischief in hand. There were apples enough in + the Rectory garden to be a sore trial to youthful virtue. + </p> + <p> + He opened the door and stepped into the night, and in a short time a sharp + familiar yelp fell upon the ears of the listeners. Almost immediately + after, Derrick returned, holding the trespasser by the arm. + </p> + <p> + It was Jud Bates, but he did not look exactly like a convicted culprit, + though his appearance was disordered enough. He was pale and out of + breath, he had no cap on, and he was holding Nib, panting and excited, in + his arms. + </p> + <p> + “Jud,” exclaimed Anice, “what have you been doing? Why did you come to the + window?” + </p> + <p> + Jud drew Nib closer, and turned, if possible, a trifle paler. + </p> + <p> + “I coom,” he said, tremulously, “to look in.” + </p> + <p> + Nobody smiled. + </p> + <p> + “To look in?” said Anice. “Why, whom did you want to see?” + </p> + <p> + Jud jerked his elbow at Derrick. + </p> + <p> + “It was <i>him</i>” he answered. “I wanted to see if he had gone home + yet.” + </p> + <p> + “But why?” she asked again. + </p> + <p> + He shuffled his feet uneasily and his eyes fell. He looked down at Nib's + head and faltered. + </p> + <p> + “I—” he said. “I wanted to stop him. I—I dunnot know——” + And then the rest came in a burst. “He munnot go,” he cried, trembling + afresh. “He mun keep away fro' th' Knoll Road.” + </p> + <p> + The party exchanged glances. + </p> + <p> + “There is mischief in hand,” said Mr. Barholm; “that is plain enough.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>He</i> munnot go,” persisted Jud; “<i>he</i> mun keep away fro' th' + Knoll Road. I'm gettin' myself i' trouble,” he added, the indifference of + despair in his pale face. “If I'm fun out they'll mill me.” + </p> + <p> + Derrick stepped aside into the hall and returned with his hat in his hand. + He looked roused and determined. + </p> + <p> + “There are two or three stout colliers in Riggan who are my friends, I + think,” he said, “and I am going to ask them to face the Knoll Road with + me. I should like to settle this matter to-night. If I give these fellows + the chance to attack me, they will be the more easily disposed of. A few + years in jail might have a salutary effect upon Lowrie.” + </p> + <p> + In his momentary heat, he forgot all but the strife into which he was + forced. He did not question Jud closely. He knew Riggan and the mining + districts too well not to have a clear enough idea of what means of + vengeance would be employed. + </p> + <p> + But when he got out into the night he had not gone many yards before a new + thought flashed upon him, and quickened his pulse. It was not a pleasant + thought because it checked him, and he was in a mood to feel impatient of + a check. But he could not throw it off. There arose within his mind a + picture of a silent room in a cottage,—of a girl sitting by the + hearth. He seemed to see quite clearly the bent head, the handsome face, + the sad eyes. He had a fancy that Liz was not with her to-night, that the + silence of the room was only broken by the soft breathing of the child + upon Joan's knee. + </p> + <p> + He stopped with an impatient gesture. + </p> + <p> + “What was I thinking of?” he demanded of himself, “to have forgotten <i>her</i>, + and what my madness would bring upon her? I am a selfish fool! Let it go. + I will give it up. I will stay in Riggan for the future—it will not + be long, and she need torture herself no more. I will give it up. Let them + think I am afraid to face him. I am afraid—afraid to wound the woman + I—yes—the woman I <i>love</i>.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIX - Lying in Wait + </h2> + <p> + Liz crept close to the window and looked down the road. At this time of + the year it was not often that the sun set in as fair a sky. In October, + Riggan generally shut its doors against damps and mist, and turned toward + its fire when it had one. And yet Liz had hardly seen that the sun had + shone at all to-day. Still, seeing her face a passer-by would not have + fancied that she was chilled. There was a flush upon her cheeks, and her + eyes were more than usually bright. She was watching for Joan with a + restless eagerness. + </p> + <p> + “She's late,” she said. “I mought ha' knowed she'd be late. I wisht she'd + coom—I do. An' yet—an' yet I'm feart. I wisht it wur over;” + and she twisted her fingers together nervously. + </p> + <p> + She had laid the child down upon the bed, and presently it roused her with + a cry. She went to it, took it up into her arms, and, carrying it to the + fire, sat down. + </p> + <p> + “Why couldn't tha stay asleep?” she said. “I nivver seed a choild loike + thee.” + </p> + <p> + But the next minute, the little creature whimpering, she bent down in + impatient repentance and kissed it, whimpering too. + </p> + <p> + “Dunnot,” she said. “I conna bear to hear thee. Hush, thee! tha goes on as + if tha knew. Eh! but I mun be a bad lass. Ay, I'm bad through an' through, + an' I conna be no worse nor I am.” + </p> + <p> + She did not kiss the child again, but held it in her listless way even + after it fell asleep. She rested an elbow on her knee and her chin upon + her hand while her tearful eyes searched the fire, and thus Joan found her + when she came in at dusk. + </p> + <p> + “Tha'rt late again, Joan,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” Joan answered, “I'm late.” + </p> + <p> + She laid her things aside and came to the firelight. The little one always + won her first attention when she came from her day's labor. + </p> + <p> + “Has she been frettin'?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” said Liz, “she's done nowt else but fret lately. I dunnot know what + ails her.” + </p> + <p> + She was in Joan's arms by this time, and Joan stood looking at the puny + face. + </p> + <p> + “She is na well,” she said in a low voice. “She has pain as we know nowt + on, poor little lass. We conna help her, or bear it fur her. We would if + we could, little un,”—as if she forgot Liz's presence. + </p> + <p> + “Joan,” Liz faltered, “what if yo' were to lose her?” + </p> + <p> + “I hope I shanna. I <i>hope</i> I shanna.” + </p> + <p> + “Yo' could na bear it?” + </p> + <p> + “Theer is na mich as we conna bear.” + </p> + <p> + “That's true enow,” said Liz. “I wish foak could dee o' trouble.” + </p> + <p> + “Theer's more nor yo' has wished th' same,” Joan answered. + </p> + <p> + She thought afterward of the girl's words and remembered how she looked + when she uttered them,—her piteous eyes resting on the embers, her + weak little mouth quivering, her small hands at work,—but when she + heard them, she only recognized in them a new touch of the old petulance + to which she had become used. + </p> + <p> + Joan went about her usual tasks, holding the baby in her arms. She + prepared the evening meal with Liz's assistance and they sat down to eat + it together. But Liz had little appetite. Indeed neither of them ate much + and both were more than usually silent. A shadow of reserve had lately + fallen between them. + </p> + <p> + After the meal was ended they drew their seats to the hearth again, and + Liz went back to her brooding over the fire. Joan, lulling the child, sat + and watched her. All Liz's beauty had returned to her. Her soft, rough + hair was twisted into a curly knot upon her small head, her pretty, + babyish face was at its best of bloom and expression—that absent, + subdued look was becoming to her. + </p> + <p> + “Theer's honest men as mought ha' loved her,” said Joan, inwardly. + “Theer's honest men as would ha' made her life happy.” + </p> + <p> + It was just as she was thinking this that Liz turned round to her. + </p> + <p> + “If she lived to be a woman,” with a gesture toward the child; “if she + lived to be a woman, do yo' think as sh'd remember me if—if owt + should happen to me now?” + </p> + <p> + “I conna tell,” Joan answered, “but I'd try to mak' her.” + </p> + <p> + “Would yo'?” and then she dropped her face upon her hands. “It ud be best + if she'd forget me,” she said. “It ud be best if she'd forget me.” + </p> + <p> + “Nay, Liz,” said Joan. “Tha'rt out o' soarts.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay, I am,” said the girl, “an' I need be. Eh, Joan! tha'rt a good wench. + I wish I wur loike thee.” + </p> + <p> + “Tha need na, lass.” + </p> + <p> + “But I do. Tha'd nivver go wrong i' th' world. Nowt could mak' thee go + wrong. Tha'rt so strong like. An' tha'rt patient, too, Joan, an' noan + loike the rest o' women. I dunnot think—if owt wur to happen me now—as + tha'd ha' hard thowts o' me. Wouldst tha?” wistfully. + </p> + <p> + “Nay, lass. I've been fond o' thee, an' sorry fur thee, and if tha wur to + dee tha mayst mak' sure I'd noan be hard on thee. But tha art na goin' to + dee, I hope.” + </p> + <p> + To her surprise the girl caught her hand, and, pulling it down upon her + knee, laid her cheek against it and burst into tears. + </p> + <p> + “I dunnot know; I mought, or—or—summat. But nivver tha turn + agen me, Joan,—nivver tha hate me. I am na loike thee,—I wur + na made loike thee. I conna stand up agen things, but I dunnot think as + I'm so bad as foaks say!” + </p> + <p> + When this impassioned mood passed away, she was silent again for a long + time. The baby fell asleep upon Joan's breast, but she did not move it,—she + liked to feel it resting there; its close presence always seemed to bring + her peace. At length, however, Liz spoke once more. + </p> + <p> + “Wheer wur thy feyther goin' wi' Spring an' Braddy?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + Joan turned a pale face toward her. + </p> + <p> + “Wheer did yo' see him wi' Spring an' Braddy?” + </p> + <p> + “Here,” was Liz's reply. “He wur here this afternoon wi' em. They did na + coom in, though,—they waited i' th' road, while he went i' th' back + room theer fur summat. I think it wur a bottle. It wur that he coom fur, I + know, fur I heerd Braddy say to him, 'Hast getten it?' an' thy feyther + said, 'Ay,' an' th' other two laughed as if they wur on a spree o' some + soart.” + </p> + <p> + Joan rose from her chair, white and shaking. + </p> + <p> + “Tak' th' choild,” she said, hoarsely. “I'm goin' out.” + </p> + <p> + “Out!” cried Liz. “Nay, dunnot go out. What ails thee, Joan?” + </p> + <p> + “I ha' summat to do,” said Joan. “Stay tha here with th' choild.” And + almost before she finished speaking she was gone, and the door had closed + behind her. + </p> + <p> + There would be three of them against one man. She walked faster as she + thought of it, and her breath was drawn heavily. + </p> + <p> + Lowrie bent down in his hiding-place, smiling grimly. He knelt upon the + grass behind a hedge at the road-side. He had reached the place a quarter + of an hour before, and he had chosen his position as coolly as if he had + been sitting down to take his tramp dinner in the shade. There was a gap + in the hedge and he must not be too near to it or too far from it. It + would be easier to rush through this gap than to leap the hedge; but he + must not risk being seen. The corner where the other men lay concealed was + not far above him. It was only a matter of a few yards, but if he stood to + wait at one turn and the engineer took the other, the game would escape. + </p> + <p> + So he had placed his comrades at the second, and he had taken the first. + </p> + <p> + “I'd loike to ha' th' first yammer at him,” he had said, savagely. “Yo' + can coom when yo' hear me.” + </p> + <p> + As he waited by the hedge, he put his hand out stealthily toward his + “knob-stick” and drew it nearer, saying to himself: + </p> + <p> + “When I ha' done settlin' wi' him fur mysen, I shall ha' a bit o' an + account to settle fur her. If it's his good looks as she's takken wi', + she'll be noan so fond on him when she sees him next, I'll warrant.” + </p> + <p> + He had hit upon the greater villainy of stopping short of murder,—if + he could contain himself when the time came. + </p> + <p> + At this instant a sound reached his ears which caused him to start. He + bent forward slightly toward the gap to listen. There were footsteps upon + the road above him—footsteps that sounded familiar. Clouds had + drifted across the sky and darkened it, but he had heard that tread too + often to mistake it now when every nerve was strung to its highest + tension. A cold sweat broke out upon him in the impotence of his wrath. + </p> + <p> + “It's th' lass hersen,” he said. “She's heerd summat, an' she's as good as + her word!”—with an oath. + </p> + <p> + He got up and stood a second trembling with rage. He drew his sleeve + across his forehead and wiped away the sweat, and then turned round + sharply. + </p> + <p> + “I'll creep up th' road an' meet her afore she reaches th' first place,” + he panted. “If she sees th' lads, it's aw up wi' us. I'll teach her summat + as she'll noan forget.” + </p> + <p> + He was out into the Knoll Road in a minute more. + </p> + <p> + “I'll teach her to go agen me,” he muttered. + </p> + <p> + “I'll teach her, by ———” But the sentence was never + ended. There was a murmur he did not understand, a rush, a heavy rain of + blows, a dash of something in his face that scorched like liquid fire, and + with a shriek, he fell writhing. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXX - The Slip of Paper + </h2> + <p> + A minute after there rushed past Joan, in the darkness, two men,—stumbling + and cursing as they went, out of breath, horror-stricken and running at + the top of their speed. + </p> + <p> + “It wur Lowrie hissen, by ———!” she heard one say, as he + dashed by. + </p> + <p> + “Feyther! Feyther, wheer are yo'? Feyther, are yo' nigh me?” she cried, + for she heard both the blows and the shriek. + </p> + <p> + But there came no answer to her ear. The rapid feet beating upon the road, + their echo dying in the distance, made the only sound that broke the + stillness. There was not even a groan. Yet a few paces from her, lay a + battered, bleeding form. There was no starlight now, she could see only + the vague outline of the figure, which might be that of either one man or + the other. For an instant, the similarity in stature which had deceived + his blundering companions, deceived her also; but when she knelt down and + touched the shoulder, she knew it was not the master who lay before her. + </p> + <p> + “It's feyther hissen,” she said, and then she drew away her hand, + shuddering. “It's wet wi' blood,” she said. “It's wet wi' blood!” + </p> + <p> + He did not hear her when she spoke; he was not conscious that she tried to + raise him; his head hung forward when she lifted him; he lay heavily, and + without motion, upon her arms. + </p> + <p> + “They ha' killed him!” she said. “How is it, as it is na <i>him?</i>” + </p> + <p> + There was neither light nor help nearer than “The Crown” itself, and when + her brain became clearer, she remembered this. Without light and + assistance, she could do nothing; she could not even see what hurt he had + sustained. Dead or dying, he must lie here until she had time to get help. + </p> + <p> + She took off her shawl, and folding it, laid his head gently upon it. Then + she put her lips to his ear. + </p> + <p> + “Feyther,” she said, “I'm goin' to bring help to thee. If tha con hear me, + stir thy hond.” + </p> + <p> + He did not stir it, so she disengaged her arm as gently as possible, and, + rising to her feet, went on her way. + </p> + <p> + There were half a dozen men in the bar-room when she pushed the door + inward and stood upon the threshold. They looked up in amazement. + </p> + <p> + “Those on yo' as want to help a deeing mon,” she said, “come wi' me. My + feyther's lyin' in the Knoll Road, done to death.” + </p> + <p> + All were astir in a moment. Lanterns and other necessaries were provided, + and bearing one of these lanterns herself, Joan led the way. + </p> + <p> + As she stepped out onto the pavement a man was passing, and, attracted by + the confusion, turned to the crowd: + </p> + <p> + “What is the matter?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “There's a mon been killed up on th' Knoll Road,” answered one of the + colliers. “It's this lass's feyther, Dan Lowrie.” + </p> + <p> + The man strode into the light and showed an agitated face. + </p> + <p> + “Killed!” he said, “Dan Lowrie!” + </p> + <p> + It was Fergus Derrick. + </p> + <p> + He recognized Joan immediately, and went to her. + </p> + <p> + “For pity's sake,” he exclaimed, “don't go with them. If what they say is + true, this is no place for you. Let me take you home. You ought not——” + </p> + <p> + “It wur me,” interrupted Joan, in a steady voice, “as found him.” + </p> + <p> + He could not persuade her to remain behind, so he walked on by her side. + He asked her no questions. He knew enough to understand that his enemy had + reaped the whirlwind he had himself sown. + </p> + <p> + It was he who knelt first by the side of the prostrate man, holding the + lantern above the almost unrecognizable face. Then he would have raised + the lifeless hand, but Joan, who had bent down near him, stopped him with + a quick move. + </p> + <p> + “Dunnot do that,” she faltered, and when he looked up in surprise, he + comprehended her meaning, even before she added, in a passionate + undertone, the miserable words: + </p> + <p> + “Ther's blood on it, as might ha' bin yo're own.” + </p> + <p> + “Theer's a bottle here,” some one cried out suddenly. “A bottle as I just + set my foot on. Chaps, theer's been vitriol throwed.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” cried another, “so theer has; chaps, look yo' here. Th' villains has + vitriolled him.” + </p> + <p> + They laid him upon the shutter they had brought, and carried him homeward. + Joan and Derrick were nearest to him as they walked. + </p> + <p> + They were not far from the cottage, and it was not long before the light + glimmered through the window upon them. Seeing it, Joan turned to Derrick + suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “I mun hurry on before,” she said. “I mun go and say a word to Liz. Comin' + aw at onct th' soight ud fear her.” + </p> + <p> + Reaching the house, she pushed the door open and went in. Everything was + so quiet that she fancied the girl must have gone to bed. + </p> + <p> + “Liz,” she said aloud. “Liz!” + </p> + <p> + Her voice fell with an echoing sound upon the silent room. She looked at + the bed and saw the child lying there asleep. Liz was not with it. She + passed quickly into the room adjoining and glanced around. It was empty. + Moved by some impulse she went back to the bed, and in bending over the + child, saw a slip of paper pinned upon its breast, and upon this paper + Joan read, in the sprawling, uncertain hand she knew so well: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Dunnot be hard on me, Joan, dunnot—Good-bye!” + </pre> + <p> + When Derrick entered the door, he found Joan standing alone in the centre + of the room, holding the scrap of paper in her hand. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXI - The Last Blow + </h2> + <p> + “He won't live,” the doctor said to Derrick. “He's not the man to get over + such injuries, powerful as he looks. He has been a reckless, drunken + brute, and what with the shock and reaction nothing will save him. The + clumsy rascals who attacked him meant to do him harm enough, but they have + done him more than they intended, or at least the man's antecedents will + help them to a result they may not have aimed at. We may as well tell the + girl, I suppose—fine creature, that girl, by the way. She won't have + any sentimental regrets. It's a good riddance for her, to judge from what + I know of them.” + </p> + <p> + “I will tell her,” said Derrick. + </p> + <p> + She listened to him with no greater show of emotion than an increased + pallor. She remembered the wounded man only as a bad husband and a bad + father. Her life would have been less hard to bear if he had died years + ago, but now that death stood near him, a miserable sense of desolateness + fell upon her, inconsistent as such a feeling might seem. + </p> + <p> + The village was full of excitement during this week. Everybody was ready + with suggestions and conjectures, everybody wanted to account for the + assault. At first there seemed no accounting for it at all, but at length + some one recollected that Lowrie had been last seen with Spring and + Braddy. They had “getten up a row betwixt theirsens, and t'others had + punsed him.” + </p> + <p> + The greatest mystery was the use of vitriol. It could only be decided that + it had not been an ordinary case of neighborly “punsing,” and that there + must have been a “grudge” in the matter. Spring and Braddy had + disappeared, and all efforts to discover their whereabouts were + unavailing. + </p> + <p> + On the subject of Liz's flight Joan was silent, but it did not remain a + secret many hours. A collier's wife had seen her standing, crying, and + holding a little bundle on her arm at the corner of a lane, and having + been curious enough to watch, had also seen Landsell join her a few + minutes later. + </p> + <p> + “She wur whimperin' afore he coom,” said the woman, “but she cried i' good + earnest when he spoke to her, an' talked to him an' hung back as if she + could na mak' up her moind whether to go or no. She wur a soft thing, that + wench, it wur allus whichivver way th' wind blowed wi' her. I could nivver + see what that lass o' Lowrie's wanted wi' her. Now she's getten th' choild + on her honds.” + </p> + <p> + The double shock had numbed Joan. She went about the place and waited upon + her father in a dull, mechanical way. She said but little to the curious + crowd, who, on pretence of being neighborly, flocked to the house. She had + even had very little to say to Anice. Perhaps after all, her affection for + poor Liz had been a stronger one than she had thought. + </p> + <p> + “I think,” Grace said gently to Anice, “that she does not exactly need us + yet.” + </p> + <p> + He made the remark in the Rector's presence and the Reverend Harold did + not agree with him. + </p> + <p> + “I am convinced that you are mistaken, Grace,” he said. “You are a little + too—well, too delicately metaphysical for these people. You have + sensitive fancies about them, and they are not a sensitive class. What + they want is good strong doctrine, and a certain degree of wholesome + frankness. They need teaching. That young woman, now—it seems to me + that this is the time to rouse her to a sense of her—her moral + condition. She ought to be roused, and so ought the man. It is a great + pity that he is unconscious.” + </p> + <p> + Of Joan's strange confession of faith, Anice had told him something, but + he had been rather inclined to pronounce it “emotional,” and somehow or + other could not quite divest himself of the idea that she needed the + special guidance of a well-balanced and experienced mind. The + well-balanced and experienced mind in view was his own, though of course + he was not aware of the fact that he would not have been satisfied with + that of any other individual. He was all the more disinclined to believe + in Joan's conversion because his interviews with her continued to be as + unsatisfactory as ever. Her manner had altered; she had toned down + somewhat, but she still caused him to feel ill at ease. If she did not + defy him any longer or set his teachings at naught, her grave eyes, + resting on him silently, had sometimes the effect of making his words fail + him; which was a novel experience with the Rector. + </p> + <p> + In a few days Lowrie began to sink visibly. As the doctor predicted, the + reaction was powerful, and remedies were of no avail. He lay upon the bed, + at times unconscious, at times tossing to and fro in delirium. During her + watching at the bedside, Joan learned the truth. Sometimes he fancied + himself tramping the Knoll Road homeward through the rain, and then he + muttered sullenly of the “day” that was coming to him, and the vengeance + he was returning to take; sometimes he went through the scene with Joan + herself, and again, he waited behind the hedge for his enemy, one moment + exultant, the next striving to struggle to his feet with curses upon his + lips and rage in his heart, as he caught the sound of the advancing steps + he knew so well. As he went over these scenes again and again, it was + plain enough to the listener that his vengeance had fallen upon his own + head. + </p> + <p> + The day after he received his hurts a collier dropped into “The Crown” + with a heavy stick in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “I fun this knob-stick nigh a gap i' th' hedge on th' Knoll Road,” he + said. “It wur na fur fro' wheer they fun Lowrie. Happen them chaps laid i' + wait fur him an' it belongs to one o' 'em.” + </p> + <p> + “Let's ha' a look at it,” said a young miner, and on its being handed to + him he inspected it closely. + </p> + <p> + “Why!” he exclaimed. “It's Lowrie's own. I seed him wi' it th' day afore + he wur hurt. I know th' shape o' th' knob. How could it ha' coom theer?” + </p> + <p> + But nobody could guess. It was taken to Joan and she listened to the story + without comment. There was no reason why they should be told what she had + already discovered. + </p> + <p> + When Lowrie died, Anice and Grace were in the room with Joan. After the + first two days the visitors had dropped off. They had satisfied their + curiosity. Lowrie was not a favorite, and Joan had always seemed to stand + apart from her fellows, so they were left to themselves. + </p> + <p> + Joan was standing near the bed when there came to him his first and last + gleam of consciousness. The sun was setting, and its farewell glow + streaming through the window fell upon his disfigured face and sightless + eyes. He roused himself, moving uneasily. + </p> + <p> + “What's up wi' me?” he muttered. “I conna see—I conna—” + </p> + <p> + Joan stepped forward. + </p> + <p> + “Feyther,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Then memory seemed to return to him. An angry light shot across his face. + He flung out his hands and groaned: + </p> + <p> + “What!” he cried, “tha art theer, art tha?” and helpless and broken as he + was, he wore that moment a look Joan had long ago learned to understand. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, feyther,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + It appeared as if, during the few moments in which he lay gasping, a full + recognition of the fact that he had been baffled and beaten after all—that + his plotting had been of no avail—forced itself upon him. He made an + effort to speak once or twice and failed, but at last the words came. + </p> + <p> + “Tha went agen me, did tha?” he panted. “Dom thee!” and with a struggle to + summon all his strength, he raised himself, groping, struck at her with + his clenched hand, and failing to reach her, fell forward with his face + upon the bed. + </p> + <p> + It was all over when they raised him and laid him back again. Joan stood + upright, trembling a little, but otherwise calm. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXII - “Turned Methody!” + </h2> + <p> + It had been generally expected that when all was over the cottage upon the + Knoll Road would be closed and deserted, but some secret fancy held Joan + to the spot. Perhaps the isolation suited her mood; perhaps the mere sense + of familiarity gave her comfort. + </p> + <p> + “I should na be less lonely any wheer else,” she said to Anice Barholm. + “Theer's more here as I feel near to than i' any other place. I ha' no + friends, yo' know. As to th' choild, I con carry it to Thwaite's wife i' + th' mornin' when I go to th' pit, an' she'll look after it till neet, for + a trifle. She's getten childern o' her own, and knows their ways.” + </p> + <p> + So she went backward and forward night and morning with her little burden + in her arms. The child was a frail, tiny creature, never strong, and often + suffering, and its very frailty drew Joan nearer to it. It was sadly like + Liz, pretty and infantine. Many a rough but experienced mother, seeing it, + prophesied that its battle with life would be brief. With the pretty face, + it had inherited also the helpless, irresolute, appealing look. Joan saw + this in the baby's eyes sometimes and was startled at its familiarity; + even the low, fretted cry had in it something that was painfully like its + girl-mother's voice. More than once a sense of fear had come upon Joan + when she heard and recognized it. But her love only seemed to strengthen + with her dread. + </p> + <p> + Day by day those who worked with her felt more strongly the change + developing so subtly in the girl. The massive beauty which had almost + seemed to scorn itself was beginning to wear a different aspect; the + defiant bitterness of look and tone was almost a thing of the past; the + rough, contemptuous speech was less scathing and more merciful when at + rare intervals it broke forth. + </p> + <p> + “Summat has coom over her,” they said among themselves. “Happen it wur + trouble. She wur different, somehow.” + </p> + <p> + They were somewhat uneasy under this alteration; but, on the whole, the + general feeling was by no means unfriendly. Time had been when they had + known Joan Lowrie only as a “lass” who held herself aloof, and yet in a + manner overruled them; but in these days more than one stunted, overworked + girl or woman found her hard task rendered easier by Joan's strength and + swiftness. + </p> + <p> + It was true that his quiet and unremitted efforts had smoothed Grace's + path to some extent. There were ill-used women whom he had helped and + comforted; there were neglected children whose lives he had contrived to + brighten; there were unbelievers whose scoffing his gentle simplicity and + long-suffering had checked a little. He could be regarded no longer with + contempt in Riggan; he even had his friends there. + </p> + <p> + Among those who still mildly jeered at the little Parson stood foremost, + far more through vanity than malice, “Owd Sammy Craddock.” A couple of + months after Lowrie's death, “Owd Sammy” had sauntered down to the mine + one day, and was entertaining a group of admirers when Grace went by. + </p> + <p> + It chanced that, for some reason best known to himself, Sammy was by no + means in a good humor. Something had gone wrong at home or abroad, and his + grievance had rankled and rendered him unusually contumacious. + </p> + <p> + Nearing the group, Grace looked up with a faint but kindly smile. + </p> + <p> + “Good-morning!” he said; “a pleasant day, friends!” + </p> + <p> + “Owd Sammy” glanced down at him with condescending tolerance. He had been + talking himself, and the greeting had broken in upon his eloquence. + </p> + <p> + “Which on us,” he asked dryly; “which on us said it wur na?” + </p> + <p> + A few paces from the group of idlers Joan Lowrie stood at work. Some of + the men had noted her presence when they lounged by, but in the enjoyment + of their gossip, they had forgotten her again. She had seen Grace too; she + had heard his greeting and the almost brutal laugh that followed it; and, + added to this, she had caught a passing glimpse of the Curate's face. She + dropped her work, and, before the laugh had died out, stood up confronting + the loungers. + </p> + <p> + “If theer is a mon among yo' as he has harmed,” she said; “if theer's one + among yo' as he's ivver done a wrong to, let that mon speak up.” + </p> + <p> + It was “Owd Sammy” who was the first to recover himself. Probably he + remembered the power he prided himself upon wielding over the weaker sex. + He laid aside his pipe for a moment and tried sarcasm,—an adaptation + of the same sarcasm he had tried upon the Curate. + </p> + <p> + “Which on us said theer wur?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Joan turned her face, pale with repressed emotion, toward him. + </p> + <p> + “There be men here as I would scarce ha' believed could ha' had much agen + him. I see one mon here as has a wife as lay nigh death a month or so ago, + an' it were the Parson as went to see her day after day, an' tuk her help + and comfort. Theer's another mon here as had a little un to dee, an' when + it deed, it wur th' Parson as knelt by its bed an' held its hond an' talkt + to it when it were feart. Theer's other men here as had help fro' him as + they did na know of, an' it wur help from a mon as wur na far fro' a-bein' + as poor an' hard worked i' his way as they are i' theirs. Happen th' mon I + speak on dunnot know much about th' sick wife, an' deein choild, an' what + wur done for 'em, an' if they dunnot, it's th' Parson's fault.” + </p> + <p> + “Why!” broke in “Owd Sammy.” “Blame me, if tha art na turned Methody! + Blame me,” in amazement, “if tha art na!” + </p> + <p> + “Nay,” her face softening; “it is na Methody so much. Happen I'm turnin' + woman, fur I conna abide to see a hurt gi'en to them as has na earned it. + That wur why I spoke. I ha' towd yo' th' truth o' th' little chap yo' + jeered at an' throw'd his words back to.” + </p> + <p> + Thus it became among her companions a commonly accepted belief that Joan + Lowrie had turned “Methody.” They could find no other solution to her + championship of the Parson. + </p> + <p> + “Is it true as tha's j'ined th' Methodys?” Thwaite's wife asked Joan, + somewhat nervously. + </p> + <p> + She had learned to be fond of the girl, and did not like the idea of + believing in her defection. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she answered, “it is na.” + </p> + <p> + The woman heaved a sigh of relief. + </p> + <p> + “I thowt it wur na,” she said. “I towd th' Maxys as I did na believe it + when they browt th' tale to me. They're powerful fond o' talebearing that + Maxy lot.” + </p> + <p> + Joan stopped in her play with the child. + </p> + <p> + “They dunnot understand,” she said, “that's aw. I ha' learned to think + different, an' believe i' things as I did na use to believe in. Happen + that's what they mean by talkin' o' th' Methodys.” + </p> + <p> + People learned no more of the matter than this. They felt that in some way + Joan had separated herself from their ranks, but they found it troublesome + to work their way to any more definite conclusion. + </p> + <p> + “Hast heard about that lass o' Lowrie's?” they said to one another; “hoo's + takken a new turn sin' Lowrie deed; hoo allus wur a queer-loike, + high-handed wench.” + </p> + <p> + After Lowrie's death, Anice Barholm and Joan were oftener together than + ever. What had at first been friendship had gradually become affection. + </p> + <p> + “I think,” Anice said to Grace, “that Joan must go away from here and find + a new life.” + </p> + <p> + “That is the only way,” he answered. “In this old one there has been + nothing but misery for her, and bitterness and pain.” + </p> + <p> + Fergus Derrick was sitting at a table turning over a book of engravings. + He looked up sharply. + </p> + <p> + “Where can you find a new life for her?” he asked. “And how can you help + her to it? One dare not offer her even a semblance of assistance.” + </p> + <p> + They had not spoken to him, but he had heard, as he always heard, + everything connected with Joan Lowrie. He was always restless and eager + where she was concerned. All intercourse between them seemed to be at an + end. Without appearing to make an effort to do so, she kept out of his + path. Try as he might, he could not reach her. At last it had come to + this: he was no longer dallying upon the brink of a great and dangerous + passion,—it had overwhelmed him. + </p> + <p> + “One cannot even approach her,” he said again. + </p> + <p> + Anice regarded him with a shade of pity in her face. + </p> + <p> + “The time is coming when it will not be so,” she said. + </p> + <p> + The night before Joan Lowrie had spent an hour with her. She had come in + on her way from her work, before going to Thwaite's, and had knelt down + upon the hearth-rug to warm herself. There had been no light in the room + but that of the fire, and its glow, falling upon her face, had revealed to + Anice something like haggardness. + </p> + <p> + “Joan,” she said, “are you ill?” + </p> + <p> + Joan stirred a little uneasily, but did not look at her as she answered: + </p> + <p> + “Nay, I am na ill; I nivver wur ill i' my loife.” + </p> + <p> + “Then,” said Anice, “what—what is it that I see in your face?” + </p> + <p> + There was a momentary tremor of the finely moulded, obstinate chin. + </p> + <p> + “I'm tired out,” Joan answered. “That's all,” and her hand fell upon her + lap. + </p> + <p> + Anice turned to the fire. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” she asked, almost in a whisper. + </p> + <p> + Joan looked up at her,—not defiant, not bitter, not dogged,—simply + in appeal against her own despair. + </p> + <p> + “Is na theer a woman's place fur me i' th' world? Is it allus to be this + way wi' me? Con I nivver reach no higher, strive as I will, pray as I + will,—fur I <i>have</i> prayed? Is na theer a woman's place fur me + i' th' world?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Anice, “I am sure there is.” + </p> + <p> + “I've thowt as theer mun be somewheer. Sometimes I've felt sure as theer + mun be, an' then agen I've been beset so sore that I ha' almost gi'en it + up. If there is such a place fur me I mun find it—I mun!” + </p> + <p> + “You will find it,” said Anice. “Some day, surely.” + </p> + <p> + Anice thought of all this again when she glanced at Derrick. Derrick was + more than usually disturbed to-day. He had for some time been working his + way to an important decision, fraught with some annoyance and anxiety to + himself. There was to be a meeting of the owners in a few weeks, and at + this meeting he had determined to take a firm stand. + </p> + <p> + “The longer I remain in my present position, the more fully I am convinced + of the danger constantly threatening us,” he said to Anice. “I am + convinced that the present system of furnaces is the cause of more + explosions than are generally attributed to it. The mine here is a 'fiery' + one, as they call it, and yet day after day goes by and no precautions are + taken. There are poor fellows working under me whose existence means bread + to helpless women and children. I hold their lives in trust, and if I am + not allowed to place one frail barrier between them and sudden death, I + will lead them into peril no longer,—I will resign my position. At + least I can do that.” + </p> + <p> + The men under him worked with a dull, heavy daring, born of long use and a + knowledge of their own helplessness against their fate. There was not one + among them who did not know that in going down the shaft to his labor, he + might be leaving the light of day behind him forever. But seeing the blue + sky vanish from sight thus during six days of fifty-two weeks in the year, + engendered a kind of hard indifference. Explosions had occurred, and might + occur again; dead men had been carried up to be stretched on the green + earth,—men crushed out of all semblance to humanity; some of + themselves bore the marks of terrible maiming; but it was an old story, + and they had learned to face the same hazard recklessly. + </p> + <p> + With Fergus Derrick, however, it was a different matter. It was he who + must lead these men into new fields of danger. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIII - Fate + </h2> + <p> + The time came, before many days, when the last tie that bound Joan to her + present life was broken. The little one, who from the first had clung to + existence with a frail hold, at last loosened its weak grasp. It had been + ill for several days,—so ill that Joan had remained at home to nurse + it,—and one night, sitting with it upon her knee in her accustomed + place, she saw a change upon the small face. + </p> + <p> + It had been moaning continuously, and suddenly the plaintive sound ceased. + Joan bent over it. She had been holding the tiny hand as she always did, + and at this moment the soft fingers closed upon one of her own quietly. + She was quite alone, and for an instant there was a deep silence. After + her first glance at the tiny creature, she broke this silence herself. + </p> + <p> + “Little lass,” she said in a whisper, “what ails thee? Is thy pain o'er?” + </p> + <p> + As she looked again at the baby face upturned as if in silent answer, the + truth broke in upon her. + </p> + <p> + Folding her arms around the little form, she laid her head upon its breast + and wept aloud,—wept as she had never wept before. Then she laid the + child upon a pillow and covered its face. Liz's last words returned to her + with a double force. It had not lived to forget or blame her. Where was + Liz to-night,—at this hour, when her child was so safe? + </p> + <p> + The next morning, on her way downstairs to the breakfast-room, Anice + Barholm was met by a servant. + </p> + <p> + “The young woman from the mines would like to see you, Miss,” said the + girl. + </p> + <p> + Anice found Joan awaiting her below. + </p> + <p> + “I ha' come to tell yo',” she said, “that th' little un deed at midneet. + Theer wur no one I could ca' in. I sat alone wi' it i' th' room aw th' + neet, an' then I left it to come here.” + </p> + <p> + Anice and Thwaite's wife returned home with her. What little there was to + be done, they re-mained to do. But this was scarcely more than to watch + with her until the pretty baby face was hidden away from human sight. + </p> + <p> + When all was over, Joan became restless. The presence of the child had + saved her from utter desolation, and now that it was gone, the emptiness + of the house chilled her. At the last, when her companions were about to + leave her, she broke down. + </p> + <p> + “I conna bear it,” she said. “I will go wi' yo'.” + </p> + <p> + Thwaite's wife had proposed before that she should make her home with + them; and now, when Mrs. Thwaite returned to Riggan, Joan accompanied her, + and the cottage was locked up. + </p> + <p> + This alteration changed greatly the routine of her life. There were + children in the Thwaite household—half a dozen of them—who, + having overcome their first awe of her, had learned before the baby died + to be fond of Joan. Her handsome face attracted them when they ceased to + fear its novelty; and the hard-worked mother said to her neighbors: + </p> + <p> + “She's getten a way wi' childer, somehow,—that lass o' Lowrie's. + Yo'd wonder if yo' could see her wi' 'em. She's mony a bit o' help to me.” + </p> + <p> + But as time progressed, Anice Barholm noted the constant presence of that + worn look upon her face. Instead of diminishing, it grew and deepened. + Even Derrick, who met her so rarely, saw it when he passed her in the + street. + </p> + <p> + “She is not ill, is she?” he asked Anice once, abruptly. + </p> + <p> + Anice shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “No, she is not ill.” + </p> + <p> + “Then she has some trouble that nobody knows about,” he said. “What a + splendid creature she is!” impetuously—“and how incomprehensible!” + </p> + <p> + His eyes chanced to meet Anice's, and a dark flush swept over his face. He + got up almost immediately after and began to pace the room, as was his + habit. + </p> + <p> + “Next week the crisis will come at the mines,” he said. “I wonder how it + will end for me.” + </p> + <p> + “You are still determined?” said Anice. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I am still determined. I wish it were over. Perhaps there will be a + Fate in it”—his voice lowering itself as he added this last + sentence. + </p> + <p> + “A Fate?” said Anice. + </p> + <p> + “I am growing superstitious and full of fancies,” he said. “I do not trust + to myself, as I once did. I should like Fate to bear the responsibility of + my leaving Riggan or remaining in it.” + </p> + <p> + “And if you leave it?” asked Anice. + </p> + <p> + For an instant he paused in his walk, with an uncertain air. But he shook + this uncertainty off with a visible effort, the next moment. + </p> + <p> + “If I leave it, I do not think I shall return, and Fate will have settled + a long unsettled question for me.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't leave it to Fate,” said Anice in a low tone. “Settle it for + yourself. It does not—it is not—it looks——” + </p> + <p> + “It looks cowardly,” he interrupted her. “So it does, and so it is. God + knows I never felt myself so great a coward before!” + </p> + <p> + He had paused again. This time he stood before her. The girl's grave, + delicate face turned to meet his glance and seeing it, a thought seemed to + strike him. + </p> + <p> + “Anice,” he said, the dark flush rising afresh. “I promised you that if + the time should ever come when I needed help that it was possible you + might give, I should not be afraid to ask you for it. I am coming to you + for help. Not now—some day not far distant. That is why I remind you + of the compact.” + </p> + <p> + “I did not need reminding,” she said to him. + </p> + <p> + “I might have known that,” he answered,—“I think I did know it But + let us make the compact over again.” + </p> + <p> + She held out her hand to him, and he took it eagerly. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIV - The Decision + </h2> + <p> + The owners of the Riggan collieries held their meeting. That a person in + their employ should differ from them boldly, and condemn their course + openly, was an extraordinary event; that a young man in the outset of his + career should dare so much was unprecedented. It would be a ruinous thing, + they said among themselves, for so young a man to lose so important a + position on the very threshold of his professional life, and they were + convinced that his knowledge of this would restrain him. But they were + astounded to find that it did not. + </p> + <p> + He brought his plans with him, and laid them before them. They were plans + for the abolition of old and dangerous arrangements, for the amelioration + of the condition of the men who labored at the hourly risk of their lives, + and for rendering this labor easier. Especially, there were plans for a + newer system of ventilation—proposing the substitution of fans for + the long-used furnace. One or two of the younger men leaned toward their + adoption. But the men with the greatest influence were older, and less + prone to the encouragement of novelty. + </p> + <p> + “It's all nonsense,” said one. “Furnaces have been used ever since the + mines were opened, and as to the rest—it arises, I suppose, from the + complaints of the men. They always will complain—they always did.” + </p> + <p> + “So far they have had reason for complaint,” remarked Derrick. “As you + say, there have been furnaces ever since there have been mines, and there + have also been explosions which may in many cases be attributed to them. + There was an explosion at Browton a month ago which was to some extent a + mystery, but there were old miners who understood it well enough. The + return air, loaded with gas, had ignited at the furnace, and the result + was that forty dead and wounded men were carried up the shaft, to be + recognized, when they were recognizable, by mothers, and wives, and + children, who depended upon them for their scant food.” + </p> + <p> + Derrick argued his cause well and with spirit, keeping a tight rein upon + himself; but when, having exhausted his arguments, he found that he had + not advanced his cause, and that it was a settled matter that he should + not, he took fire. + </p> + <p> + “Then, gentlemen,” he said, “I have but one resource. I will hold no human + life lightly in my hands. I have the honor to tender you my resignation.” + </p> + <p> + There was a dead silence for a moment or so. They had certainly not + expected such a result as this. A well-disposed young man, who sat near to + Derrick, spoke to him in a rapid undertone. + </p> + <p> + “My dear fellow,” he said, “it will be the ruin of you. For my part, I + admire your enthusiasm, but do not be rash.” + </p> + <p> + “A man with a will and a pair of clean hands is not easily ruined,” + returned Derrick a trifle hotly. “As to being rash or enthusiastic, I am + neither the one nor the other. It is not enthusiasm which moves me, it is + a familiarity with stern realities.” + </p> + <p> + When he left the room his fate had been decided. At the end of the week he + would have no further occupation in Riggan. He had only two more days' + work before him and he had gained the unenviable reputation of being a + fire-and-tow young fellow, who was flighty enough to make a martyr of + himself. + </p> + <p> + Under the first street-lamp he met Grace, who was evidently making his way + home. + </p> + <p> + “I will go with you,” he said, taking his arm. + </p> + <p> + Once within the walls of the pleasant little room, he found it easy to + unbosom himself. He described his interview with his employers, and its + termination. + </p> + <p> + “A few months ago, I flattered myself that my prospects were improving,” + he said; “but now it seems that I must begin again, which is not an easy + matter, by the way.” + </p> + <p> + By the time he ended he found his temporary excitement abating somewhat, + but still his mood was by no means undisturbed. + </p> + <p> + It was after they had finished tea and the armchairs had been drawn to the + fire that Grace himself made a revelation. + </p> + <p> + “When you met me to-night, I was returning from a visit I had paid to Joan + Lowrie.” + </p> + <p> + “At Thwaite's?” said Derrick. + </p> + <p> + “At Thwaite's. She—the fact is I went on business—she has + determined to change her plan of life.” + </p> + <p> + “In what manner?” + </p> + <p> + “She is to work no more at the mines. I am happy to say that I have been + able to find her other employment.” + </p> + <p> + There was an interval of silence, at length broken by Derrick. + </p> + <p> + “Grace,” he said, “can you tell me why she decided upon such a course?” + </p> + <p> + Grace looked at him with questioning surprise. + </p> + <p> + “I can tell you what she said to me on the subject,” he replied. “She said + it was no woman's work, and she was tired of it.” + </p> + <p> + “She is not the woman to do anything without a motive,” mused Derrick. + </p> + <p> + “No,” returned the Curate. + </p> + <p> + A moment later, as if by one impulse, their eyes met. Grace started as if + he had been stung. Derrick simply flushed. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I—I do not think I understand,” Grace faltered. “Surely I am + blundering.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Derrick, gloomily. “You cannot blunder since you know the + truth. You did not fancy that my feeling was so trivial that I could have + conquered it so soon? Joan Lowrie——” + </p> + <p> + “Joan Lowrie!” + </p> + <p> + Grace's voice had broken in upon him with a startled sound. + </p> + <p> + The two men regarded each other in bewilderment. Then again Derrick was + the first to speak. + </p> + <p> + “Grace,” he said, “you have misunderstood me.” + </p> + <p> + Grace answered him with a visible tremor. + </p> + <p> + “If,” he said, “it was to your love for Joan Lowrie you referred when you + spoke to me of your trouble some months ago, I <i>have</i> misunderstood + you. If the obstacles you meant were the obstacles you would find in the + path of such a love, I have misunderstood you. If you did not mean that + your heart had been stirred by a feeling your generous friendship caused + you to regard as unjust to <i>me</i>, I have misunderstood you miserably.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear fellow!” Derrick exclaimed, with some emotion. “My dear fellow, + do you mean to tell me that you imagined I referred to Miss Barholm?” + </p> + <p> + “I was sure of it,” was Grace's agitated reply. “As I said before, I have + misunderstood you miserably.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet you had no word of blame for me?” + </p> + <p> + “I had no right to blame you. I had not lost what I believed you had won. + It had never been mine. It was a mistake,” he added, endeavoring to steady + himself. “But don't mind me, Derrick. Let us try to set it right; only I + am afraid you will have to begin again.” + </p> + <p> + Derrick drew a heavy breath. He took up a paper-knife from the table, and + began to bend it in his hands. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said, “we shall have to begin again. And it is told in a few + words,” he said, with a deliberateness painful in its suggestion of an + intense effort at self-control. “Grace, what would you think of a man who + found himself setting reason at defiance, and in spite of all obstacles + confronting the possibility of loving and marrying—if she can be won—such + a woman as Joan Lowrie?” + </p> + <p> + “You are putting me in a difficult position,” Paul answered. “If he would + dare so much, he would be the man to dare to decide for himself.” + </p> + <p> + Derrick tossed the paper-knife aside. + </p> + <p> + “And you know that I am the person in question. <i>I</i> have so defied + the world, in spite of myself at first, I must confess. <i>I</i> have + confronted the possibility of loving Joan Lowrie until I <i>do</i> love + her. So there the case stands.” + </p> + <p> + Gradually there dawned upon the Curate's mind certain remembrances + connected with Joan. Now and then she had puzzled and startled him, but + here, possibly, might be a solution of the mystery. + </p> + <p> + “And Joan Lowrie herself?” he asked, questioningly. + </p> + <p> + “Joan Lowrie herself,” said Derrick, “is no nearer to me to-day than she + was a year ago.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you,”—hesitatingly,—“are you quite sure of that?” + </p> + <p> + The words had escaped his lips in spite of himself. + </p> + <p> + Derrick started and turned toward him with a sudden movement + </p> + <p> + “Grace!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I asked if you were sure of that,” answered Grace, coloring. “I am not.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXV - In the Pit + </h2> + <p> + The next morning Derrick went down to the mine as usual. There were + several things he wished to do in these last two days. He had heard that + the managers had entered into negotiations with a new engineer, and he + wished the man to find no half-done work. The day was bright and frosty, + and the sharp, bracing air seemed to clear his brain. He felt more + hopeful, and less inclined to view matters darkly. + </p> + <p> + He remembered afterward that, as he stepped into the cage, he turned to + look at the unpicturesque little town, brightened by the winter's sun; and + that, as he went down, he glanced up at the sky and marked how intense + appeared the bit of blue, which was framed in by the mouth of the shaft. + </p> + <p> + Even in the few hours that had elapsed since the meeting the rumor of what + he had said and done had been bruited about. Some collier had heard it and + had told it to his comrades, and so it had gone from one to the other. It + had been talked over at the evening and morning meal in divers cottages, + and many an anxious woman had warmed into praise of the man who had “had a + thowt for th' men.” + </p> + <p> + In the first gallery he entered he found a deputation of men awaiting him,—a + group of burly miners with picks and shovels over their shoulders,—and + the head of this deputation, a spokesman burlier and generally gruffer + than the rest, stopped him. + </p> + <p> + “Mester,” he said, “we chaps 'ud loike to ha' a word wi' yo'.” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” was Derrick's reply, “I am ready to listen.” + </p> + <p> + The rest crowded nearer as if anxious to participate as much as possible, + and give their spokesman the support of their presence. + </p> + <p> + “It is na mich as we ha' getten to say,” said the man, “but we're fain to + say it. Are na we, mates?” + </p> + <p> + “Ay, we are, lad,” in chorus. + </p> + <p> + “It's about summat as we'n heerd. Theer wur a chap as towd some on us last + neet, as yo'd getten th' sack fro' th' managers—or leastways as yo'd + turned th' tables on 'em an' gi'en them th' sack yo'rsen. An' we'n heerd + as it begun wi' yo're standin' up fur us chaps—axin fur things as + wur wanted i' th' pit to save us fro' runnin' more risk than we need. An' + we heerd as yo' spoke up bold, an' argied fur us an' stood to what yo' + thowt war th' reet thing, an' we set our moinds on tellin' yo' as we'd + heerd it an' talked it over, an' we'd loike to say a word o' thanks i' + common fur th' pluck yo' showed. Is na that it, mates?” + </p> + <p> + “Ay, that it is, lad!” responded the chorus. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly one of the group stepped out and threw down his pick. + </p> + <p> + “An' I'm dom'd, mates,” he said, “if here is na a chap as 'ud loike to + shake hands wi' him.” + </p> + <p> + It was the signal for the rest to follow his example. They crowded about + their champion, thrusting grimy paws into his hand, grasping it almost + enthusiastically. + </p> + <p> + “Good luck to yo', lad!” said one. “We'n noan smooth soart o' chaps, but + we'n stand by what's fair an' plucky. We shall ha' a good word fur thee + when tha hast made thy flittin'.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm glad of that lads,” responded Derrick, heartily, by no means unmoved + by the rough-and-ready spirit of the scene. “I only wish I had had better + luck, that's all.” + </p> + <p> + A few hours later the whole of the little town was shaken to its very + foundations, by something like an earthquake, accompanied by an ominous, + booming sound which brought people flocking out of their houses, with + white faces. Some of them had heard it before—all knew what it + meant. From the colliers' cottages poured forth women, shrieking and + wailing,—women who bore children in their arms and had older ones + dragging at their skirts, and who made their desperate way to the pit with + one accord. From houses and workshops there rushed men, who, coming out in + twos and threes joined each other, and, forming a breathless crowd, ran + through the streets scarcely daring to speak a word—and all ran + toward the pit. + </p> + <p> + There were scores at its mouth in five minutes; in ten minutes there were + hundreds, and above all the clamor rose the cry of women: + </p> + <p> + “My Mester's down!” + </p> + <p> + “An' mine!” + </p> + <p> + “An' mine!” + </p> + <p> + “Four lads o' mine is down!” + </p> + <p> + “Three o' mine!” + </p> + <p> + “My little un's theer—th' youngest—nobbut ten year owd—nobbut + ten year owd, poor little chap! an' on'y been at work a week!” + </p> + <p> + “Ay, wenches, God ha' mercy on us aw'—God ha' mercy!” And then more + shrieks and wails in which the terror-stricken children joined. + </p> + <p> + It was a fearful sight. How many lay dead and dying in the noisome + darkness below, God only knew! How many lay mangled and crushed, waiting + for their death, Heaven only could tell! + </p> + <p> + In five minutes after the explosion occurred, a slight figure in clerical + garb made its way through the crowd with an air of excited determination. + </p> + <p> + “The Parson's feart,” was the general comment. + </p> + <p> + “My men,” he said, raising his voice so that all could hear, “can any of + you tell me who last saw Fergus Derrick?” + </p> + <p> + There was a brief pause, and then came a reply from a collier who stood + near. + </p> + <p> + “I coom up out o' th' pit an hour ago,” he said, “I wur th' last as coom + up, an' it wur on'y chance as browt me. Derrick wur wi' his men i' th' new + part o' th' mine. I seed him as I passed through.” + </p> + <p> + Grace's face became a shade or so paler, but he made no more inquiries. + </p> + <p> + His friend either lay dead below, or was waiting for his doom at that very + moment. He stepped a little farther forward. + </p> + <p> + “Unfortunately for myself, at present,” he said, “I have no practical + knowledge of the nature of these accidents. Will some of you tell me how + long it will be before we can make our first effort to rescue the men who + are below?” + </p> + <p> + Did he mean to volunteer—this young whipper-snapper of a parson? And + if he did, could he know what he was doing? + </p> + <p> + “I ask you,” he said, “because I wish to offer myself as a volunteer at + once; I think I am stronger than you imagine and at least my heart will be + in the work. I have a friend below,—myself,” his voice altering its + tone and losing its firmness,—“a friend who is worthy the sacrifice + of ten such lives as mine if such a sacrifice could save him.” + </p> + <p> + One or two of the older and more experienced spoke up. Under an hour it + would be impossible to make the attempt—it might even be a longer + time, but in an hour they might, at least, make their first effort. + </p> + <p> + If such was the case, the Parson said, the intervening period must be + turned to the best account. In that time much could be thought of and done + which would assist themselves and benefit the sufferers. He called upon + the strongest and most experienced, and almost without their recognizing + the prominence of his position, led them on in the work. He even rallied + the weeping women and gave them something to do. One was sent for this + necessary article and another for that. A couple of boys were despatched + to the next village for extra medical assistance, so that there need be no + lack of attention when it was required. He took off his broadcloth and + worked with the rest of them until all the necessary preparations were + made and it was considered possible to descend into the mine. + </p> + <p> + When all was ready, he went to the mouth of the shaft and took his place + quietly. + </p> + <p> + It was a hazardous task they had before them. Death would stare them in + the face all through its performance. There was choking after-damp below, + noxious vapors, to breathe which was to die; there was the chance of + crushing masses falling from the shaken galleries—and yet these men + left their companions one by one and ranged themselves, without saying a + word, at the Curate's side. + </p> + <p> + “My friends,” said Grace, baring his head, and raising a feminine hand. + “My friends, we will say a short prayer.” + </p> + <p> + It was only a few words. Then the Curate spoke again. + </p> + <p> + “Ready!” he said. + </p> + <p> + But just at that moment there stepped out from the anguished crowd a girl, + whose face was set and deathly, though there was no touch of fear upon it. + </p> + <p> + “I ax yo',” she said, “to let me go wi' yo' and do what I con. Lasses, + some on yo' speak a word fur Joan Lowrie!” + </p> + <p> + There was a breathless start. The women even stopped their outcry to look + at her as she stood apart from them,—a desperate appeal in the very + quiet of her gesture as she turned to look about her for some one to + speak. + </p> + <p> + “Lasses,” she said again. “Some on yo' speak a word fur Joan Lowrie!” + </p> + <p> + There rose a murmur among them then, and the next instant this murmur was + a cry. + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” they answered, “we con aw speak fur yo'. Let her go, lads! She's + worth two o' th' best on yo'. Nowt fears her. Ay, she mun go, if she will, + mun Joan Lowrie! Go, Joan, lass, and we'n not forget thee!” + </p> + <p> + But the men demurred. The finer instinct of some of them shrank from + giving a woman a place in such a perilous undertaking—the coarser + element in others rebelled against it. + </p> + <p> + “We'n ha' no wenches,” these said, surlily. + </p> + <p> + Grace stepped forward. He went to Joan Lowrie and touched her gently on + the shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “We cannot think of it,” he said. “It is very brave and generous, and—God + bless you!—but it cannot be. I could not think of allowing it + myself, if the rest would.” + </p> + <p> + “Parson,” said Joan coolly, but not roughly, “tha'd ha' hard work to help + thysen, if so be as th' lads wur willin'.” + </p> + <p> + “But,” he protested, “it may be death. I could not bear the thought of it. + You are a woman. We cannot let you risk your life.” + </p> + <p> + She turned to the volunteers. + </p> + <p> + “Lads,” she cried, passionately, “yo' munnot turn me back. I—sin I + mun tell yo'——” and she faced them like a queen,—“theer's + a mon down theer as I'd gi' my heart's blood to save.” + </p> + <p> + They did not know whom she meant, but they demurred no longer. + </p> + <p> + “Tak' thy place, wench,” said the oldest of them. “If tha mun, tha mun.” + </p> + <p> + She took her seat in the cage by Grace, and when she took it she half + turned her face away. But when those above began to lower them, and they + found themselves swinging downward into what might be to them a pit of + death, she spoke to him. + </p> + <p> + “Theer's a prayer I'd loike yo' to pray,” she said. “Pray that if we mun + dee, we may na dee until we ha' done our work.” + </p> + <p> + It was a dreadful work indeed that the rescuers had to do in those black + galleries. And Joan was the bravest, quickest, most persistent of all. + Paul Grace, following in her wake, found himself obeying her slightest + word or gesture. He worked constantly at her side, for he, at least, had + guessed the truth. He knew that they were both engaged in the same quest. + When at last they had worked their way—lifting, helping, comforting—to + the end of the passage where the collier had said he last saw the master + then, for one moment, she paused, and her companion, with a thrill of + pity, touched her to attract her attention. + </p> + <p> + “Let me go first,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Nay,” she answered, “we'n go together.” + </p> + <p> + The gallery was a long and low one, and had been terribly shaken. In some + places the props had been torn away, in others they were borne down by the + loosened blocks of coal. The dim light of the “Davy” Joan held up showed + such a wreck that Grace spoke to her again. + </p> + <p> + “You must let me go first,” he said, with gentle firmness. “If one of + these blocks should fall——” + </p> + <p> + Joan interrupted him,— + </p> + <p> + “If one on 'em should fall I'm th' one as it had better fall on. There is + na mony foak as ud miss Joan Lowrie. Yo' ha' work o' yo're own to do.” + </p> + <p> + She stepped into the gallery before he could protest, and he could only + follow her. She went before, holding the Davy high, so that its light + might be thrown as far forward as possible. Now and then she was forced to + stoop to make her way around a bending prop; sometimes there was a fallen + mass to be surmounted, but she was at the front still when they reached + the other end without finding the object of their search. + </p> + <p> + “It—he is na there,” she said. “Let us try th' next passage,” and + she turned into it. + </p> + <p> + It was she who first came upon what they were looking for; but they did + not find it in the next passage, or the next, or even the next. It was + farther away from the scene of the explosion than they had dared to hope. + As they entered a narrow side gallery, Grace heard her utter a low sound, + and the next minute she was down upon her knees. + </p> + <p> + “Theer's a mon here,” she said, “It's him as we're lookin' fur.” + </p> + <p> + She held the dim little lantern close to the face,—a still face with + closed eyes, and blood upon it Grace knelt down too, his heart aching with + dread. + </p> + <p> + “Is he———” he began, but could not finish. + </p> + <p> + Joan Lowrie laid her hand upon the apparently motionless breast and waited + almost a minute, and then she lifted her own face, white as the wounded + man's—white and solemn, and wet with a sudden rain of tears. + </p> + <p> + “He is na dead,” she said. “We ha' saved him.” + </p> + <p> + She sat down upon the floor of the gallery and lifting his head laid it + upon her bosom, holding it close as a mother might hold the head of her + child. + </p> + <p> + “Mester,” she said, “gi' me th' brandy flask, and tak' thou thy Davy an' + go fur some o' th' men to help us get him to th' leet o' day. I'm gone + weak at last. I conna do no more. I'll go wi' him to th' top.” + </p> + <p> + When the cage ascended to the mouth again with its last load of sufferers, + Joan Lowrie came with it, blinded and dazzled by the golden winter's + sunlight as it fell upon her haggard face. + </p> + <p> + She was holding the head of what seemed to be a dead man upon her knee. A + great shout of welcome rose up from the bystanders. + </p> + <p> + She helped them to lay her charge upon a pile of coats and blankets + prepared for him, and then she turned to the doctor who had hurried to the + spot to see what could be done. + </p> + <p> + “He is na dead,” she said. “Lay yo're hond on his heart. It beats yet, + Mester,—on'y a little, but it beats.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said the doctor, “he is not dead—yet,” with a breath's pause + between the two last words. “If some of you will help me to put him on a + stretcher, he may be carried home, and I will go with him. There is just a + chance for him, poor fellow, and he must have immediate attention. Where + does he live?” + </p> + <p> + “He must go with me,” said Grace. “He is my friend.” + </p> + <p> + So they took him up, and Joan stood a little apart and watched them carry + him away,—watched the bearers until they were out of sight, and then + turned again and joined the women in their work among the sufferers. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVI - Alive Yet + </h2> + <p> + In the bedroom above the small parlor a fire was burning at midnight, and + by this fire Grace was watching. The lamp was turned low and the room was + very quiet; a dropping cinder made quite a startling sound. When a moan or + a movement of the patient broke the stillness—which was only at rare + intervals—the Curate rose and went to the bedside. But it was only + to look at the sufferer lying upon it, bandaged and unconscious. There was + very little he could do. He could follow the instructions given by the + medical man before he went away, but these had been few and hurried, and + he could only watch with grief in his heart. There was but a chance that + his friend's life might be saved. Close attention and unremitting care + might rescue him, and to the best of his ability the Curate meant to give + him both. But he could not help feeling a deep anxiety. His faith in his + own skill was not very great, and there were no professional nurses in + Riggan. + </p> + <p> + “It is the care women give that he needs,” he said once, standing near the + pillow and speaking to himself. “Men cannot do these things well. A mother + or sister might save him.” + </p> + <p> + He went to the window and drew back the curtain to look out upon the + night. As he did so, he saw the figure of a woman nearing the house. As + she approached, she began to walk more slowly, and when she reached the + gates she hesitated, stopped and looked up. In a moment it became evident + that she saw him, and was conscious that he saw her. The dim light in the + chamber threw his form into strong relief. She raised her hand and made a + gesture. He turned away from the window, left the room quietly, and went + down-stairs. She had not moved, but stood at the gate awaiting him. She + spoke to him in a low tone, and he distinguished in its sound a degree of + physical exhaustion. + </p> + <p> + “Yo' saw me,” she said. “I thowt yo' did though I did na think o' yo' + bein' at th' winder when I stopped—to—to see th' leet.” + </p> + <p> + “I am glad I saw you,” said Grace. “You have been at work among the men + who were hurt?” + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” pulling at a bush of evergreen nervously, and scattering the leaves + as she spoke. “Theer's scarce a house o' th' common soart i' Riggan as has + na trouble in it.” + </p> + <p> + “God help them all!” exclaimed Grace, fervently. + </p> + <p> + “Have you seen Miss Barholm?” he asked next. + </p> + <p> + “She wur on th' ground i' ten minnits after th' explosion. She wur in th' + village when it happent, an' she drove to th' pit. She's been workin' as + hard as ony woman i' Riggan. She saw us go down th' mine, but she did not + see us come up. She wur away then wi' a woman as had a lad to be carried + home dead. She would ha' come to <i>him</i> but she knowed yo' were wi' + him, an' theer wur them as needed her. When th' cages coom up theer wur + women as screamed an' held to her, an' throwed theirsens on their knees + an' hid their faces i' her dress, an' i' her honds, as if they thowt she + could keep th' truth fro' 'em.” + </p> + <p> + Grace trembled in his excitement. + </p> + <p> + “God bless her! God bless her!” he said, again and again. + </p> + <p> + “Where is she now?” he asked at length. + </p> + <p> + “Theer wur a little chap as come up i' the last cageful—he wur hurt + bad, an' he wur sich a little chap as it went hard wi' him. When th' + doctor touched him he screamed an' begged to be let alone, an' she heerd + an' went to him, an' knelt down an' quieted him a bit. Th' poor little lad + would na let go o' her dress; he held to it fur dear life, an' sobbed an' + shivered and begged her to go wi' him an' howd his head on her lap while + th' doctor did what mun be done. An' so she went, an' she's wi' him now. + He will na live till day-leet, an' he keeps crying out for th' lady to + stay wi' him.” + </p> + <p> + There was another silence, and then Joan spoke: + </p> + <p> + “Canna yo' guess what I coom to say?” + </p> + <p> + He thought he could, and perhaps his glance told her so. + </p> + <p> + “If I wur a lady,” she said, her lips, her hands trembling, “I could na ax + yo' what I've made up my moind to; but I'm noan a lady, an' it does na + matter. If yo' need some one to help yo' wi' him, will yo' let me ha' th' + place? I dunnot ax nowt else but—but to be let do th' hard work.” + </p> + <p> + She ended with a sob. Suddenly she covered her face with her hands, + weeping wildly. + </p> + <p> + “Don't do that,” he said, gently. “Come with me. It is you he needs.” + </p> + <p> + He led the way into the house and up the stairs, Joan following him. When + they entered the room they went to the bedside. + </p> + <p> + The injured man lay motionless. + </p> + <p> + “Is theer loife i' him yet?” asked Joan. “He looks as if theer might na + be.” + </p> + <p> + “There is life in him,” Grace answered; “and he has been a strong man, so + I think we may feel some hope.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVII - Watching and Waiting + </h2> + <p> + The next morning the pony-carriage stopped before the door of the Curate's + lodgings. When Grace went downstairs to the parlor, Anice Barholm turned + from the window to greet him. The appearance of physical exhaustion he had + observed the night before in Joan Lowrie, he saw again in her, but he had + never before seen the face which Anice turned toward him. + </p> + <p> + “I was on the ground yesterday, and saw you go down into the mine,” she + said. “I had never thought of such courage before.” + </p> + <p> + That was all, but in a second he comprehended that this morning they stood + nearer together than they had ever stood before. + </p> + <p> + “How is the child you were with?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “He died an hour ago.” + </p> + <p> + When they went upstairs, Joan was standing by the sick man. + </p> + <p> + “He's worse than he wur last neet,” she said. “An' he'll be worse still. I + ha' nursed hurts like these afore. It'll be mony a day afore he'll be + better—if th' toime ivver comes.” + </p> + <p> + The Rector and Mrs. Barholm, hearing of the accident, and leaving Browton + hurriedly to return home, were met by half a dozen different versions on + their way to Riggan, and each one was so enthusiastically related that Mr. + Barholm's rather dampened interest in his daughter's protégé was fanned + again into a brisk flame. + </p> + <p> + “There must be something in the girl, after all,” he said, “if one could + only get at it. Something ought to be done for her, really.” + </p> + <p> + Hearing of Grace's share in the transaction, he was simply amazed. + </p> + <p> + “I think there must be some mistake,” he said to his wife. “Grace is not + the man—not the man <i>physically</i>” straightening his broad + shoulders, “to be equal to such a thing.” + </p> + <p> + But the truth of the report forced itself upon him after hearing the story + repeated several times before they reached Riggan, and arriving at home + they heard the whole story from Anice. + </p> + <p> + While Anice was talking, Mr. Barholm began to pace the floor of the room + restlessly. + </p> + <p> + “I wish I had been there,” he said. “I would have gone down myself.” + </p> + <p> + (It is true: he would have done so.) + </p> + <p> + “You are a braver man than I took you for,” he said to his Curate, when he + saw him,—and he felt sure that he was saying exactly the right + thing. “I should scarcely have expected such dashing heroism from you, + Grace.” + </p> + <p> + “I hardly regarded it in that light,” said the little gentleman, coloring + sensitively. “If I had, I should scarcely have expected it of myself.” + </p> + <p> + The fact that Joan Lowrie had engaged herself as nurse to the injured + engineer made some gossip among her acquaintances at first, but this soon + died out. Thwaite's wife had a practical enough explanation of the case. + </p> + <p> + “Th' lass wur tired o' pit-work; an' no wonder. She's made up her moind to + ha' done wi' it; an' she's a first-rate one to nurse,—strong i' the + arms, an' noan sleepy-headed. Happen she'll tak' up wi' it fur a trade. As + to it bein' <i>him</i> as she meant when she said theer wur a mon as she + meant to save, it wur no such thing. Joan Lowrie's noan th' kind o' wench + to be runnin' after gentlefolk,—yo' know that yoresens. It's noan o' + our business who the mon wur. Happen he's dead; an' whether he's dead or + alive, you'd better leave him a-be, an' her too.” + </p> + <p> + In the sick man's room the time passed monotonously. There were days and + nights of heavy slumber or unconsciousness,—restless mutterings and + weary tossings to and fro. The face upon the pillow was sometimes white, + sometimes flushed with fever; but whatever change came to pass, Death + never seemed far away. + </p> + <p> + Grace lost appetite, and grew thin with protracted anxiety and watching. + He would not give up his place even to Anice or Mrs. Barholm, who spent + much of their time in the house. He would barely consent to snatch a few + minutes' rest in the day-time; in truth, he could not have slept if he + would. Joan held to her post unflinchingly. She took even less respite + than Grace. Having almost forced her to leave the room one morning, Anice + went downstairs to find her lying upon the sofa,—her hands clasped + under her head, her eyes wide open. + </p> + <p> + “I conna sleep yet a while,” she said. “Dunnot let it trouble yo'. I'm + used to it.” + </p> + <p> + Sometimes during the long night Joan felt his hollow eyes following her as + she moved about the room, and fixed hungrily upon her when she stood near + him. + </p> + <p> + “Who are you?” he would say. “I have seen you before, and I know your + face; but—but I have lost your name. Who are you?” + </p> + <p> + One night, as she stood upon the hearth, alone in the room,—Grace + having gone downstairs for something,—she was startled by the sound + of Derrick's voice falling with a singular distinctness upon the silence. + </p> + <p> + “Who is it that is standing there?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Do I know you? Yes—it is——-” but before he could + finish, the momentary gleam of recognition had passed away, and he had + wandered off again into low, disjointed murmurings. + </p> + <p> + It was always of the mine, or one other anxiety, that he spoke. There was + something he must do or say,—some decision he must reach. Must he + give up? Could he give up? Perhaps he had better go away,—far away. + Yes; he had better go. No,—he could not,—he must wait and + think again. He was tired of thinking,—tired of reasoning and + arguing with himself. Let it go for a few minutes. Give him just an hour + of rest. He was full of pain; he was losing himself, somehow. And then, + after a brief silence, he would begin again and go the weary round once + more. + </p> + <p> + “He has had a great deal of mental anxiety of late,—too much + responsibility,” said the medical man; “and it is going rather against + him.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVIII - Recognition + </h2> + <p> + The turning-point was reached at last. One evening, at the close of his + usual visit, the doctor said to Grace: + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow, I think, you will see a marked alteration. I should not be + surprised to find on my next visit that his mind had become permanently + cleared. The intervals of half consciousness have become lengthened. + Unless some entirely unlooked-for change occurs, I feel sure that the + worst is over. Give him close attention to-night. Don't let the young + woman leave the room.” + </p> + <p> + That night Anice watched with Joan. It was a strange experience through + which these two passed together. If Anice had not known the truth before, + she would have learned it then. Again and again Derrick went the endless + round of his miseries. How must it end? How could it end? What must he do? + How black and narrow the passages were! There she was, coming toward him + from the other end,—and if the props gave way———! + They <i>were</i> giving way!—Good God! the light was out, and he was + held fast by the mass which had fallen upon him. What must he do about her + whom he loved, and who was separated from him by this horrible wall? He + was dying, and she would never know what he wanted to tell her. What was + it that he wanted to say,—That he loved her,—loved her,—loved + her! Could she hear him? He must make her hear him before he died,—“Joan! + Joan!” + </p> + <p> + Thus he raved hour after hour; and the two sat and listened, often in dead + silence; but at last there rose in Joan Lowrie's face a look of such + intense and hopeless pain, that Anice spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Joan! my poor Joan!” she said. + </p> + <p> + Joan's head sank down upon her hands. + </p> + <p> + “I mun go away fro' Riggan,” she whispered. “I mun go away afore he knows. + Theer's no help fur me.” + </p> + <p> + “No help?” repeated Anice after her. + </p> + <p> + She did not understand. + </p> + <p> + “Theer's none,” said Joan. “Dunnot yo' see as ony place wheer he is con be + no place fur me? I thowt—I thowt the trouble wur aw on my side, but + it is na. Do yo' think I'd stay an' let him do hissen a wrong?” + </p> + <p> + Anice wrung her hands together. + </p> + <p> + “A wrong?” she cried. “Not a wrong, Joan—I cannot let you call it + that.” + </p> + <p> + “It would na be nowt else. Am <i>I</i> fit wife fur a gentlemon? Nay, my + work's done when the danger's ower. If he wakes to know th' leet o' day + to-morrow morning, it's done then.” + </p> + <p> + “You do not mean,” said Anice, “that you will leave us?” + </p> + <p> + “I conna stay i' Riggan; I mun go away.” + </p> + <p> + Toward morning Derrick became quieter. He muttered less and less until his + voice died away altogether, and he sank into a profound slumber. Grace, + coming in and finding him sleeping, turned to Joan with a look of intense + relief. + </p> + <p> + “The worst is over,” he said; “now we may hope for the best.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” Joan answered, quietly, “th' worst is ower—fur him.” + </p> + <p> + At last darkness gave way to a faint gray light, and then the gray sky + showed long slender streaks of wintry red, gradually widening and + deepening until all the east seemed flushed. + </p> + <p> + “It's mornin',” said Joan, turning from the window to the bed. “I mun gi' + him th' drops again.” + </p> + <p> + She was standing near the pillow when the first flood of the sunlight + poured in at the window. At this moment Derrick awoke from his sleep to a + full recognition of all around him. But the strength of his delirium had + died out; his prostration was so utter, that for the moment he had no + power to speak and could only look up at the pale face hopelessly. It + seemed as if the golden glow of the morning light transfigured it. + </p> + <p> + “He's awake,” Joan said, moving away and speaking to those on the other + side of the room. “Will one on yo' pour out th' medicine? My hand's noan + steady.” + </p> + <p> + Grace went to the bedside hurriedly. + </p> + <p> + “Derrick,” he said, bending down, “do you know me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” Derrick answered in a faltering whisper, and as he said it the + bedroom door closed. Both of them heard it. A shadow fell upon the sick + man's face. His eyes met his friend's with a question in them, and the + next instant the question put itself into words: + </p> + <p> + “Who—went out?” + </p> + <p> + Grace bent lower. + </p> + <p> + “It was Joan Lowrie.” + </p> + <p> + He closed his eyes and waited a little as if to gain fresh strength. There + rose a faint flush upon his hollow cheeks and his mouth trembled. + </p> + <p> + “How”—he said next—“how—long?” + </p> + <p> + “You mean to ask me,” said Grace, “how long she has been here?” + </p> + <p> + A motion of assent. + </p> + <p> + “She has been here from the first.” + </p> + <p> + He asked no further questions. His eyes closed once more and he lay + silent. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIX - A Testimonial + </h2> + <p> + Joan went back to her lodgings at the Thwaites' and left Mrs. Barholm and + Anice to fill her place. + </p> + <p> + Too prostrate to question his nurses, Derrick could only lie with closed + eyes helpless and weary. He could not even keep himself awake long enough + to work his way to any very clear memories of what had happened. He had so + many half recollections to tantalize him. He could remember his last + definite sensation,—a terrible shock flinging him to the ground, a + second of pain and horror, and then utter oblivion. Had he awakened one + night and seen Joan Lowrie by the dim fire-light and called out to her, + and then lost himself? Had he awakened for a second or so again and seen + her standing close to his pillow, looking down at him with an agony of + dread in her face? + </p> + <p> + In answer to his question, Grace had told him that she had been with him + from the first. How had it happened? This he asked himself again and again, + until he grew feverish over it. + </p> + <p> + “Above all things,” he heard the doctor say, “don't let him talk and don't + talk to him.” + </p> + <p> + But Grace comprehended something of his mental condition. + </p> + <p> + “I see by your look that you wish to question me,” he said to him. “Have + patience for a few days and then I will answer every question you may ask. + Try to rest upon that assurance.” + </p> + <p> + There was one question, however, which would not wait. Grace saw it lying + in the eager eyes and answered it. + </p> + <p> + “Joan Lowrie,” he said, “has gone home.” + </p> + <p> + Joan's welcome at the Thwaites' house was tumultuous. The children crowded + about her, neighbors dropped in, both men and women wanting to have a word + with her. There were few of them who had not met with some loss by the + explosion, and there were those among them who had cause to remember the + girl's daring. + </p> + <p> + “How's th' engineer?” they asked. “What do th' doctors say o' him?” + </p> + <p> + “He'll get better,” she answered. “They say as he's out o' danger.” + </p> + <p> + “Wur na it him as had his head on yo're knee when yo' come up i' th' + cage?” asked one woman. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Thwaite answered for her with some sharpness. They should not gossip + about Joan, if she could help it. + </p> + <p> + “I dunnot suppose as she knowd th' difference betwixt one mon an' + another,” she said. “It wur na loikely as she'd pick and choose. Let th' + lass ha' a bit o' quoiet, wenches. Yo' moither her wi' yo're talk.” + </p> + <p> + “It's an ill wind as blows nobody good,” said Thwaite himself. “Th' + explosion has done one thing—it's made th' mesters change their + minds. They're i' th' humor to do what th' engineer axed fur, now.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” said a tired-looking woman, whose poor attempt at mourning told its + own story; “but that wunnot bring my mester back.” + </p> + <p> + “Nay,” said another, “nor my two lads.” + </p> + <p> + There had been a great deal of muttered discontent among the colliers + before the accident, and since its occurrence there had been signs of open + rebellion. Then, too, results had proved that the seasonable adoption of + Derrick's plan would have saved some lives at least, and, in fact, some + future expenditure. Most of the owners, perhaps, felt somewhat remorseful; + a few, it is not impossible, experienced nothing more serious than + annoyance and embarrassment, but it is certain that there were one or two + who were crushed by a sense of personal responsibility for what had + occurred. + </p> + <p> + It was one of these who made the proposition that Derrick's plan be + accepted unreservedly, and that the engineer himself should be requested + to resume his position and undertake the management of the work. There was + some slight demurring at first, but the catastrophe was so recent that its + effect had not had time to wear away, and finally the agreement was made. + </p> + <p> + But at that time Derrick was lying senseless in the bedroom over the + parlor, and the deputation from the company could only wait upon Grace, + and make an effort at expressing their sympathy. + </p> + <p> + After Joan's return to her lodgings, she, too, was visited. There was some + curiosity felt concerning her. A young and handsome woman, who had taken + so remarkable a part in the tragedy, was necessarily an object of + interest. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Barholm was so fluently decided in his opinion that something really + ought to be done, that a visit to the heroine of the day was the immediate + result. There was only one form the appreciation of a higher for a lower + social grade could take, and it was Mr. Barholm who had been, naturally, + selected as spokesman. He explained to Joan the nature of the visit. His + friends of the Company had heard the story of her remarkable heroism, and + had felt that something was due to her—some token of the admiration + her conduct had inspired in them. They had agreed that something ought to + be done, and they had called this evening to present her with a little + testimonial. + </p> + <p> + The bundle of crisp bank-notes burned the hand of the man who held them, + as Joan Lowrie listened to this speech. She stood upright before them, + resting one hand upon the back of a chair, but when the bearer of the + testimonial in question rose, she made a step forward. There was more of + her old self in her gesture than she had shown for months. Her eyes + flashed, her face hardened, a sudden red flew to her cheek. + </p> + <p> + “Put it up,” she said. “I wunnot tak' it.” + </p> + <p> + The man who had the money laid it upon the table, as if he were anxious to + be rid of it He was in a glow of anger and shame at the false step they + had made. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I see we have made a mistake.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” she said, “yo' ha' made a mistake. If yo' choose to tak' that an' + gi'e it to th' women an' childer as is left to want bread, yo' may do it + an' welcome.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XL - Going South + </h2> + <p> + The first day Fergus Derrick was allowed to spend an hour in an easy-chair + by the fire, he heard the story of his rescue from the lips of his friend, + listening to it as he rested against the propping cushions. + </p> + <p> + “Don't be afraid of exciting me,” he had said to Grace. “I have + conjectured until I am tired of it. Tell me the whole story. Let me hear + the end <i>now</i>.” + </p> + <p> + Derrick's breath came quick and short as he listened, and his haggard face + flushed. It was not only to his friend he owed his life, but to Joan + Lowrie. + </p> + <p> + “I should like to see her,” he said when Grace had finished. “As for you, + Grace—well—words are poor things.” + </p> + <p> + “They are very poor things between friends,” was Grace's answer; “so let + us have none of them. You are on this side of the grave, dear fellow—that + is enough.” + </p> + <p> + During the rest of the day Derrick was silent and abstracted, but plainly + full of active thought. + </p> + <p> + By nightfall a feverish spot burned upon his cheek, and his pulse had + quickened dangerously. + </p> + <p> + “I must wait,” he said to Grace, “and it is hard work.” + </p> + <p> + Just at that time Anice was sitting in her room at the Rectory, thinking + of Joan also, when there came to her the sound of footsteps in the passage + and then a summons to the door. + </p> + <p> + “You may come in,” she said. + </p> + <p> + But it was not a servant, as she had supposed; it was Joan, with a bundle + upon her arm. + </p> + <p> + “You are going away, Joan?” she said. “Tonight?” + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” Joan answered, as she came and stood upon the hearth. “I'm goin' + away toneet.” + </p> + <p> + “You have quite made up your mind?” + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” said Joan. “I mun break loose. I want to get as far fro' th' owd + life as I con. I'd loike to forget th' most on it. I'm goin' toneet, + because I dunnot want to be axed questions. If I passed thro' th' town by + day-leet, theer's them as ud fret me wi' their talk.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you seen Mr. Grace?” Anice asked. + </p> + <p> + “No. I shanna ha' th' chance to say good-by to him. I coom partly to ax + yo' to say it fur me.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I will say it I wish there were no need that I should, though. I + wish I could keep you.” + </p> + <p> + There was a brief silence. Joan knelt on one knee by the fender. + </p> + <p> + “I ha' bin thinkin' o' Liz,” she said. “I thowt I'd ax yo'—if it wur + to happen so as she'd drift back here agen while I wur away—as yo'd + say a kind word to her, an' tell her about th' choild, an' how as I nivver + thowt hard on her, an' as th' day nivver wur as I did na pity her fro' th' + bottom o' my soul. I'm goin' toward th' south,” she said again after a + while. “They say as th' south is as different fro' th' north as th' day is + fro' the neet. I ha' money enow to help me on, an' when I stop I shall + look fur work.” + </p> + <p> + Anice's face lighted up suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “To the south!” she said. “Why did I not think of that before? If you go + toward the south, there is Ashley-Wold and grandmamma, Mrs. Galloway. I + will write to her now, if you will let me,” rising to her feet. + </p> + <p> + “If yo'll gi' me th' letter, I'll tak' it an' thank yo',” said Joan. “If + she could help me to work or th' loike, I should be glad enow.” + </p> + <p> + Anice's mother's mother had always been her safest resource in the past, + and yet, curiously enough, she had not thought of turning toward her in + this case until Joan's words had suggested such a course. + </p> + <p> + Joan took the letter and put it in the bosom of her dress. + </p> + <p> + “Theer's no more danger fur <i>him?</i>” she said. “Thwaite towd me he wur + better.” + </p> + <p> + She spoke questioningly, and Anice answered her— + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he is out of danger. Joan, what am I to say to him?” + </p> + <p> + “To say to him!” + </p> + <p> + She started slightly, but ended with a strained quietness of manner. + </p> + <p> + “Theer's nowt to say,” she added, rising, and preparing to go. + </p> + <p> + Anice rose also. She held out both her hands, and Joan took them. + </p> + <p> + “I will go downstairs with you,” said Anice; and they went out together. + </p> + <p> + When they reached the front door, they kissed each other, and Anice stood + in the lighted hall and watched the girl's departure. + </p> + <p> + “Good-by!” she said; “and God bless you!” + </p> + <p> + Early in the morning, Derrick called his friend to his bedside. + </p> + <p> + “I have had a bad night,” he said to him. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” Grace answered. “It is easy enough to see that.” + </p> + <p> + There was an unnatural sparkle in the hollow eyes, and the flush upon the + cheek had not faded away. + </p> + <p> + Derrick tried to laugh, and moved restlessly upon his pillow. + </p> + <p> + “So I should imagine,” said he. “The fact is—well you see I have + been thinking.” + </p> + <p> + “About—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—yes—Grace, I cannot wait—I must hear something. A + hundred things might happen. I must at least be sure she is not far away. + I shall never regain strength as long as I have not the rest that + knowledge will bring me. Will you go to her and take her a few words of + gratitude from me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, readily.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you go now?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Grace would have left the room, but Derrick stretched out his hand and + touched him. + </p> + <p> + “Stay—” he said. + </p> + <p> + Grace turned to him again. + </p> + <p> + “You know”—in the old resolute way—“you know what I mean the + end to be, if it may be?” + </p> + <p> + “I think I do.” + </p> + <p> + Grace appeared at the Rectory very soon afterward, and asked for Miss + Barholm. Anice came down into the parlor to meet him at once. She could + not help guessing that for some reason or other he had come to speak of + Joan, and his first words confirmed her impression. + </p> + <p> + “I have just left the Thwaites',” he said. “I went there to see Joan + Lowrie, and find that she is not there. Mrs. Thwaite told me that she had + left Riggan. Is that true?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. She went away last night She came here to bid me good-by, and leave + a farewell message for you.” + </p> + <p> + Grace was both troubled and embarrassed. + </p> + <p> + “I——” he faltered. “Do <i>you</i> understand it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” Anice answered. + </p> + <p> + Their eyes met, and she went on: + </p> + <p> + “You know we have said that it was best that she should break away + entirely from the past. She has gone to try if it is possible to do it. + She wants another life altogether.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not know what I must do,” said Grace. “You say she has gone away, + and I—I came to her from Derrick.” + </p> + <p> + “From Mr. Derrick!” Anice exclaimed; and then both relapsed into silence. + </p> + <p> + It was Anice who spoke first + </p> + <p> + “Mamma was going to send some things to Mr. Derrick this morning,” she + said. “I will have the basket packed and take it myself. If you will let + me, I will go with you as soon as I can have the things prepared.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLI - “A Soart o' Pollygy” + </h2> + <p> + The interview between Anice and Derrick was a long one. At the end Derrick + said: + </p> + <p> + “I shall go to Ashley-Wold.” + </p> + <p> + Grace had been called out almost immediately after his return to the + house; but on his way home he met Anice, and having something to say about + the school, he turned toward the Rectory with her. + </p> + <p> + They had not gone far, however, before they were joined by a third party,—Mr. + Sammy Craddock, who was wending his way Crownward. Seeing them, Mr. + Craddock hesitated for a moment, as if feeling somewhat doubtful; but as + they approached him, he pulled off his hat. “I dunnot know,” he said, + “after aw, if it would not be as well to ha' a witness. Hope yo're nicely, + Miss,” affably; “an' th' same to yo', Parson. Would yo'” clearing his + throat, “would yo' moind shakin' honds wi' a chap?” + </p> + <p> + Grace gave him his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Thank yo', Parson,” said “Owd Sammy.” “It's th' first toime, yo' know, + but it shanna be th' last, if yo' dnnnot see owt agen it. Th' truth is, as + it's summat as has been on my moind for some toime,—ivver sin' th' + accident, i' fact. Pluck's pluck, yo' see, whether yo're for a mon or agen + him. Yo're not mich to look at. Yo' mowt be handsomer, an' yo' mowt be + likelier,—yo' mowt easily ha' more muscle, an' yo' dnnnot look as if + yo' wnr like to be mich i' argyment; but yo're getten a backbone o' yo're + own,—I'm danged if yo' ha' na.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm much obliged to you, I am sure,” said Grace. + </p> + <p> + “Yo' need na be,” answered Sammy, encouragingly. “Yo' need na be. If yo'd + getten owt to be obleeged to me fur, I should na ha' so mich to say. Yo' + see I'm makin' a soart o' pollygy,—a soart o' pollygy,” with evident + enjoyment of the word. “An' that's why I said as it mowt be as well to ha' + a witness. I wur allus one as set more store by th' State than th' Church, + an' parsons wur na i' my line, an' happen I ha' ben a bit hard on yo', an' + ha' said things as carried weight agen yo' wi' them as valleyed my opinion + o' things i' general. An' sin' th' blow-up, I ha' made up my moind as I + would na moind tellin' yo' as I wur agoin' to w'draw my oppysition, sin' + it seemit as if I'd made a bit o' a mistake. Yo're neyther knave nor foo', + if yo' are a parson. Theer now! Good-mornin' to yo'!” + </p> + <p> + “Noan on 'em con say as I wur na fair,” Owd Sammy said to himself, as he + went on his way shaking his head, “I could na ha' done no fairer. He + desarved a bit o' commendation, an' I let him ha' it. Be fair wi a mon, + say I, parson or no. An' he is na th' wrong sort, after aw.” + </p> + <p> + He was so well pleased with himself, that he even carried his virtue into + The Crown, and diffused it abroad over his pint of sixpenny. He found it + not actually unpleasant to display himself as a magnate, who, having made + a most natural mistake, had been too independent and straightforward to + let the matter rest, and consequently had gone to the magnificent length + of apologetic explanation. + </p> + <p> + “I ha' bin havin' a word or so wi' th' little Parson,” he said. “I ha' ben + tellin' him what I thowt o' what he did th' day o' th' blow-up. I changed + my moind about th' little chap that day, an' I ha' ben tellin' him so.” + </p> + <p> + “Yo' ha'?” in an amazed chorus. “Well, now, that theer <i>wur</i> a turn, + Sammy.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay, it wur. I'm noan afeard to speak my moind one way or t'other, yo' + see. When a mon shows as he's med o' th' reet cloth, I am na afeard to + tell him I loike th' web.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0042" id="link2HCH0042"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLII - Ashley-Wold + </h2> + <p> + Two weeks after Joan left Riggan, she entered the village of Ashley-Wold + on foot. With the exception of a few miles here and there, when a friendly + wagoner had offered her a lift, she had made all her journey in this + manner. She had met with discouragement and disappointment. She had not + fancied that it would be an easy matter to find work, though she had + expressed no doubt to Anice, but it was even a more difficult matter than + she had imagined. At some places work was not to be had, in others the + fact that she was an utter stranger went against her. + </p> + <p> + It was evening when she came to Ashley-Wold; the rain was falling soft and + slowly, and the air was chill. She was cold, and faint with hunger. The + firelight that shone through the cottage windows brought to her an acute + sense of her bodily weariness through its suggestion of rest and + cheerfulness. The few passers-by—principally men and women returning + from their daily labor—glanced at her curiously. + </p> + <p> + She had held to the letter as a last resource. When she could not help + herself she would ask for assistance, but not until then. Still she had + always turned her face toward Ashley-Wold, Now she meant to go to Mrs. + Galloway and deliver the letter. + </p> + <p> + Upon entering the village she had stopped and asked a farmer for + directions. He had stared at her at first, hardly comprehending her + northern dialect, but had finally understood and pointed out the house, + whose gables could be seen from the road-side. + </p> + <p> + So Joan made her way toward it through the evening rain and mist. It was a + pretty place, with a quaint picturesqueness. A hedge, which was a marvel + of trimness, surrounded the garden, ivy clung to the walls and gables, and + fancifully clipped box and other evergreens made a modest greenery about + it, winter though it was. At her first glance at this garden Joan felt + something familiar in it. Perhaps Anice herself had planned some portion + of it. Joan paused a moment and stood looking over the hedge. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Galloway, sitting at her work-table near the window, had found her + attention attracted a few moments before by a tall young woman coming down + the road which passed on one side of the hedge. + </p> + <p> + “There is something a little remarkable about her,” she said. “She + certainly does not belong to Ashley-Wold.” + </p> + <p> + Then Joan stopped by the hedge and she saw her face and uttered a low + exclamation of surprise at its beauty. She drew nearer to the window and + looked out at her. + </p> + <p> + “She must be very cold,” said Mrs. Galloway. “She looks as if she had made + a long journey. I will send Hollis to her.” + </p> + <p> + A few minutes later there tripped down the garden-walk a trimly attired + young housemaid. + </p> + <p> + The mistress had seen her from the window and thought she looked cold and + tired. Would she come into the house to rest? + </p> + <p> + Joan answered with a tinge of color on her cheek. She felt a little like a + beggar. + </p> + <p> + “Thank yo'; I'll come,” she said. “If th' mistress is Mrs. Galloway, I ha' + a letter fur her fro' Lancashire.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Galloway met them on the threshold. + </p> + <p> + “The young woman, ma'am,” said the servant, “has a letter from + Lancashire.” + </p> + <p> + “From Lancashire!” said Mrs. Galloway. + </p> + <p> + “Fro' Riggan, mistress,” said Joan. “Fro' Miss Anice. I'm Joan Lowrie.” + </p> + <p> + That Joan Lowrie was a name familiar to her was evident by the change in + Mrs. Galloway's face. A faint flush of pleasure warmed it, and she spoke + quickly. + </p> + <p> + “Joan Lowrie!” she said. “My dear child's friend! Then I know you very + well. Come into the room, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + She led her into the room and closed the door. + </p> + <p> + “You are very cold and your shawl is wet,” laying a kind hand upon it. + “Give it to me, and take a seat by the fire. You must warm yourself + thoroughly and have a cup of tea,” she said, “and then I will begin to ask + questions.” + </p> + <p> + There was a wide, low-seated, low-armed, soft-cushioned chair at one side + of the fire, and in this chair she had made Joan seat herself. The sudden + change from the chill dampness of the winter day to the exquisite relief + and rest, almost overcame the girl. She was deadly pale when Mrs. Galloway + ceased, and her lips trembled; she tried to speak, and for a moment could + not; tears rushed to her eyes and stood in them. But she managed to answer + at last. + </p> + <p> + “I beg yo're pardon,” she said. “Yo' ha' no need to moind me. Th' warmth + has made me a bit faint, that's aw. I've noan been used to it lately.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Galloway came and stood near her. + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry to hear that, my dear,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Yo're very kind, ma'am,” Joan answered. + </p> + <p> + She drew the letter from her dress and handed it to her. + </p> + <p> + “I getten that fro' Miss Anice the neet I left Riggan,” she said. + </p> + <p> + When the tea was brought in and Joan had sat down, the old lady read the + letter. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Keep her with you if you can. Give her the help she needs most. She + has had a hard life, and wants to forget it</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Now, I wonder,” said Mrs. Galloway to herself, “what the help is that she + needs most?” + </p> + <p> + The rare beauty of the face impressed her as it invariably impressed + strangers, but she looked beneath the surface and saw something more in it + than its beauty. She saw its sadness, its resolution. + </p> + <p> + When Joan rose from the table, the old lady was still standing with the + letter in her hand. She folded it and spoke to her. + </p> + <p> + “If you are sufficiently rested, I should like you to sit down and talk to + me a little. I want to speak to you about your plans.” + </p> + <p> + “Then,” said Joan, “happen I'd better tell yo' at th' start as I ha' + none.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Galloway put her hand upon her shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Then,” she returned, “that is all the better for me, for I have in my + mind one of my own. You would like to find work to help you——” + </p> + <p> + “I <i>mun</i> find work,” Joan interrupted, “or starve.” + </p> + <p> + “Of any kind?” questioningly. + </p> + <p> + “I ha' worked at th' pit's mouth aw my life,” said Joan. “I need na be + dainty, yo' see.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Galloway smoothed the back of the small, withered hand upon her knee + with the palm of the other. + </p> + <p> + “Then, perhaps,” she said slowly, “you will not refuse to accept my offer + and stay here—with me?” + </p> + <p> + “Wi' yo'?” Joan exclaimed. “I am an old woman, you see,” Mrs. Galloway + answered. “I have lived in Ashley-Wold all my life, and have, as it were, + accumulated duties, and now as the years go by, I do not find it so easy + to perform them as I used to. I need a companion who is young and strong, + and quick to understand the wants of those who suffer. Will you stay here + and help <i>me?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Wi' yo'?” said Joan again. “Nay,” she cried; “nay—that is not fur + me. I am na fit.” + </p> + <p> + On her way to her chamber some hours later Mrs. Galloway stopped at the + room which had been Anice's, and looked in upon her guest. But Joan was + not asleep, as she had hoped to find her. She stood at the fireside, + looking into the blaze. + </p> + <p> + “Will you come here a minnit?” she said. + </p> + <p> + She looked haggard and wearied, but the eyes she raised to her hostess + were resolute. + </p> + <p> + “Theer's summat as I ha' held back fro' sayin' to yo',” she said, “an' th' + more I think on it, th' more I see as I mun tell yo' if I mean to begin + fair an' clear. I ha' a trouble as I'm fain to hide; it's a trouble as I + ha' fowt wi' an' ha' na helped mysen agen. It's na a shame,” straightening + herself; “it's a trouble such as ony woman might bear an' be honest. I + coom away fro' Riggan to be out o' th' way on it—not to forget it, + for I conna—but so as I should na be so near to—to th' hurt on + it.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not need another word,” Mrs. Galloway answered. “If you had chosen + to keep it a secret, it would have been your own secret as long as you + chose that it should be so. There is nothing more you need? Very well + Good-night, my dear!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0043" id="link2HCH0043"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLIII - Liz Comes Back + </h2> + <p> + “Miss,” said Mrs. Thwaite, “it wur last neet, an' you mowt ha' knocked me + down wi' a feather, fur I seed her as plain as I see yo'.” + </p> + <p> + “Then,” said Anice, “she must be in Riggan now.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” the woman answered, “that she mun, though wheer, God knows, I + dunnot. It wur pretty late, yo' see, an' I wur gettin' th' mester's supper + ready, an' as I turns mysen fro' th' oven, wheer I had been stoopin' down + to look at th' bit o' bacon, I seed her face agen th' winder, starin' in + at me wild loike. Ay, it wur her sure enow, poor wench! She wur loike + death itsen—main different fro' th' bit o' a soft, pretty, + leet-headed lass she used to be.” + </p> + <p> + “I will go and speak to Mr. Grace,” Anice said. + </p> + <p> + The habit of referring to Grace was growing stronger every day. She met + him not many yards away, and before she spoke to him saw that he was not + ignorant of what she had to say. + </p> + <p> + “I think you know what I am going to tell you,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I think I do,” was his reply. + </p> + <p> + The rumor had come to him from an acquaintance of the Maxys, and he had + made up his mind to go to them at once. + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” said the mother, regarding them with rather resentful curiosity, + “she wur here this mornin'—Liz wur. She wur in a bad way enow—said + she'd been out on th' tramp fur nigh a week—seemit a bit out o' her + head. Th' mon had left her again, as she mowt ha' knowed he would. Ay, + lasses <i>is</i> foo's. She'd ben i' th' Union, too, bad o' th' fever. I + towd her she'd better ha' stayed theer. She wanted to know wheer Joan + Lowrie wur, an' kept axin fur her till I wur tired o' hearin' her, and + towd her so.” + </p> + <p> + “Did she ask about her little child?” said Anice. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, I think she did, if I remember reet. She said summat about wantin' to + know wheer we'd put it, an' if Joan wur dead, too. But it did na seem to + be th' choild she cared about so much as Joan Lowrie.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you tell her where we buried it?” Grace asked. + </p> + <p> + “Ay.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you. I will go to the church-yard,” he said to Anice. “I may find + her there.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you let me go too?” Anice asked. + </p> + <p> + He paused a moment + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid that it would be best that I should go alone.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me go,” she pleaded. “Don't be afraid for me. I could not stay away. + Let me go—for Joan's sake.” + </p> + <p> + So he gave way, and they passed out together. But they did not find her in + the church-yard. The gate had been pushed open and hung swinging on its + hinges. There were fresh footprints upon the damp clay of the path that + led to the corner where the child lay, and when they approached the little + mound they saw that something had been dropped upon the grass near it. It + was a thin, once gay-colored, little red shawl. Anice bent down and picked + it up. “She has been here,” she said. + </p> + <p> + It was Anice who, after this, first thought of going to the old cottage + upon the Knoll Road. The afternoon was waning when they left the + church-yard; when they came within sight of the cottage the sun had sunk + behind the hills. In the red, wintry light, the place looked terribly + desolate. Weeds had sprung up about the house, and their rank growth + covered the very threshold, the shutters hung loose and broken, and a damp + greenness had crept upon the stone step. + </p> + <p> + A chill fell upon her when they stood before the gate and saw what was + within. Something besides the clinging greenness had crept upon the step,—something + human,—a homeless creature, who might have staggered there and + fallen, or who might have laid herself there to die. It was Liz, lying + with her face downward and with her dead hand against the closed door. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0044" id="link2HCH0044"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLIV - Not Yet + </h2> + <p> + Mrs. Galloway arose and advanced to meet her visitor with a slightly + puzzled air. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. ———” she began. + </p> + <p> + “Fergus Derrick,” ended the young man. “From Riggan, madam.” + </p> + <p> + She held out her hand cordially. + </p> + <p> + “Joan is in the garden,” she said, after a few moments of earnest + conversation. “Go to her.” + </p> + <p> + It was a day very different from the one upon which Joan Lowrie had come + to Ashley-Wold. Spring had set her light foot fairly upon the green + Kentish soil. Farther north she had only begun to show her face timidly, + but here the atmosphere was fresh and balmy, the hedges were budding + bravely, and there was a low twitter of birds in the air. The garden Anice + had so often tended was flushing into bloom in sunny corners, and the + breath of early violets was sweet in it. Derrick was conscious of their + springtime odor as he walked down the path, in the direction Mrs. Galloway + had pointed out. It was a retired nook where evergreens were growing, and + where the violet fragrance was more powerful than anywhere else, for the + rich, moist earth of one bed was blue with them. Joan was standing near + these violets,—he saw her as he turned into the walk,—a + motionless figure in heavy brown drapery. + </p> + <p> + She heard him and started from her revery. With another half-dozen steps + he was at her side. + </p> + <p> + “Don't look as if I had alarmed you,” he said. “It seems such a poor + beginning to what I have come to say.” + </p> + <p> + Her hand trembled so that one or two of the loose violets she held fell at + his feet. She had a cluster of their fragrant bloom fastened in the full + knot of her hair. The dropping of the flowers seemed to help her to + recover herself. She drew back a little, a shade of pride in her gesture, + though the color dyed her cheeks and her eyes were downcast. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot—I cannot listen,” she said. + </p> + <p> + The slight change which he noted in her speech touched him unutterably. It + was not a very great change; she spoke slowly and uncertainly, and the + quaint northern burr still held its own, and here and there a word + betrayed her effort. + </p> + <p> + “No, no,” he said, “you will listen. You gave me back my life. You will + not make it worthless. If you cannot love me,” his voice shaking, “it + would have been less cruel to have left me where you found me—a dead + man,—for whom all pain was over.” + </p> + <p> + He stopped. The woman trembled from head to foot. She raised her eyes from + the ground and looked at him catching her breath. + </p> + <p> + “Yo' are askin' me to be yo're wife!” she said. “Me!” + </p> + <p> + “I love you,” he answered. “<i>You</i>, and no other woman!” + </p> + <p> + She waited a moment and then turned suddenly away from him, and leaned + against the tree under which they were standing, resting her face upon her + arm. Her hand clung among the ivy leaves and crushed them. Her old speech + came back in the quick hushed cry she uttered. + </p> + <p> + “I conna turn yo' fro' me,” she said. “Oh! I conna!” + </p> + <p> + “Thank God! Thank God!” he cried. + </p> + <p> + He would have caught her to his breast, but she held up her hand to + restrain him. + </p> + <p> + “Not yet,” she said, “not yet. I conna turn you fro' me, but theer's + summat I must ask. Give me th' time to make myself worthy—give me + th' time to work an' strive; be patient with me until th' day comes when I + can come to yo' an' know I need not shame yo'. They say I am na slow at + learnin'—wait and see how I can work for th' mon—for th' mon I + love.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's That Lass O' Lowrie's, by Frances Hodgson Burnett + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THAT LASS O' LOWRIE'S *** + +***** This file should be named 25725-h.htm or 25725-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/5/7/2/25725/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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