Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: Ben fled, pursued to some distance
by a little cloud of bees.]
TWILIGHT:
_A STORY OF TWO VILLAGES._
BY
ANNETTE LYSTER
AUTHOR OF
"ALONE IN CROWDS," "THE WHITE GIPSY," "DOROTHY THE DICTATOR,"
"A LEAL LIGHT HEART," "HATHERLEY'S HOMESPUNS," ETC. ETC.
_Illustrated by H. M. Paget._
PUBLISHED UNDER THE DIRECTION OF THE GENERAL
LITERATURE COMMITTEE.
LONDON:
SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE
NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, CHARING CROSS, W.C.;
43, QUEEN VICTORIA STREET, E.C.
BRIGHTON: 135, NORTH STREET.
NEW YORK: E. & J. B. YOUNG & CO.
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
CHAP.
I. GILES BRENT'S HOME-COMING
II. THE COTTAGE NEAR THE MINER'S ROAD
III. TURF AND COAL
IV. THE FEVER MOUND
V. THE MEDAL
VI. BY "THE WATER"
VII. A HARD STRUGGLE
VIII. IN THE MINE
IX. GILES'S CRUTCH
X. LEFT ALONE
XI. FLIGHT
XII. KINGSFIELD
XIII. MOUNT SALEM
XIV. THREE HAPPY YEARS
XV. "WHAT WILL BECOME OF HER?"
XVI. MISS PERSIS
XVII. HESSIE'S STORY
[Illustration]
TWILIGHT:
A STORY OF TWO VILLAGES.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
GILES BRENT'S HOME-COMING.
IN the north of England there is a chain of hills, which in some places
melt into Lancashire on the one side and Yorkshire on the other;
further north, they skirt Westmoreland and divide Cumberland from
Durham. But the place with which I have to do is in Yorkshire.
It is a little village which lies low on the mountain, just where a
small stream rises, which runs along a kind of shallow valley. This
valley does not run up into the mountain, like most of the others, but
across it; the great slope comes down steeply, then there is an abrupt
descent, at the foot of which lies a level space, and beyond that space
there is a sudden rise, from the top of which the descent into the
plain is unbroken. In this cleft, which was probably made by a great
landslip long ago, stands the village, and the second hill hides it
so completely that you might be within a mile of it, and never become
aware of its existence; indeed, from below, the cleft is lost sight of,
and the slope of the mountain seems unbroken.
The stream rises to the north of the village, runs its little course
along the level space, and then turns towards the plain and makes its
way down, to fall, by and by, into the Calder. I do not know that it
ever had a name; the village is called Blackmead, and the people always
call the stream "the Water," as if there were no other water in the
world. It is indeed the only water they have, except what falls in the
form of rain, of which they get a large share.
Blackmead, though a tiny place, has a history, and has had many
misfortunes. Long ago it was a thriving little place, with a very hardy
and industrious population, but some mysterious illness swept them all
away, and the place was deserted for a long time.
Then some enterprising person discovered that there was coal in the
ragged hill at the back of the plain, and forthwith a new village
sprang up, and the coal was dug for, but it proved a terrible
disappointment. There was but little, and what there was, was not very
good—a light, glittering coal which burnt away very fast, and, like
the Staffordshire coal, made no cinders, but burnt itself quite away
in a wonderfully short space of time. One after another the mines were
abandoned, and all the best and strongest of the new settlers left the
place.
None remained but the sickly, the idle, and those who had some
reason for keeping out of the way, for which the place offered great
facilities. These managed to live, but in the poorest possible way;
they became, as time went on, more and more ignorant and uncivilized.
They had no church, no clergyman, no doctor, no schools. Yet somehow it
was a place that took hold of the imagination, and became a haunting
memory to any one who left it. It was seldom that this occurred, but a
long time ago—in the year 1787—a boy named Giles Brent ran away from
his home.
And on the very day on which my story opens, Giles Brent, his wife
and child, having with them a donkey and cart, piled up with a couple
of boxes and some plain deal furniture, were painfully ascending the
rough, half-made road which followed the track of "the Water," to the
village where Giles had spent his childhood, and where he confidently
expected to become well and strong again.
This certainly was much to be desired, for Giles, who had been a
soldier nearly ever since he ran off, having enlisted as a drummer,
looked rather a forlorn object just now, as with his trusty crutch he
slowly made his way along the rough road. He had served his country
in many of the great battles of the Peninsula, escaping with but
slight hurts, but at Waterloo he received two severe wounds. He had a
bullet in his knee which refused to come out, and which had stiffened
the joint, and had had another in his chest, which had injured his
breathing. He had been in hospital for a long time, first at Brussels,
and then at Plymouth, and had recently been discharged on account of
his wounds, which made him no longer fit for service. Being disabled,
and (as every one thought except himself) not likely to live long, he
had been awarded a small pension.
Giles had left Blackmead a rosy urchin of thirteen, and had a distinct
remembrance of the pure sweet air, the warm sun, and the pleasant
life—so he deemed it now—of his boyhood's home: he had forgotten the
trying winters, the frequent scarcity of food, and the other drawbacks,
which had caused him to run away. He firmly believed that he would soon
find his breathing quite easy, his knee far less painful, if not quite
strong, and his health and appetite in a most flourishing condition.
Giles believed all this, and Kate, his wife, believed him: believed
also that her baby, the youngest and only survivor of a large family,
would thrive amain, and grow up a "fine, likely man, same as his
father," instead of getting croup and dying before he could walk, as
all his little brothers and sisters had done.
Poor meek, quiet Kate! She had had her troubles while "following the
drum," for in those by-gone days not much trouble was taken for the
soldier's comfort, and still less for that of his wife and family. But
she had had a tolerably steady, not unkind, husband, rather more sober,
too, than many soldiers in those days—for hard drinking was the fashion
in all ranks of life. Kate was a Plymouth woman, and rather above
the class of an ordinary soldier's wife: but she never had grumbled,
patiently doing her best, according to her light, to be a good wife and
a good woman. If her light was dim, that was not exactly her fault.
Kate was driving the donkey now, carrying the baby tied up in her
shawl, on her back; its wee red face was all that could be seen of it.
Giles came behind, doing his utmost to keep up, but getting woefully
worn out.
"Giles," said Kate, "are you sure you know the way? I thought you said
there was a good road?"
"Well, my lass—I s'pose 'twas better in those days. I know I've run
down it many a time, full speed."
"The rough road must hurt your knee, I'm afraid."
"So it do. But 'tis my breathing, Kate, that—beats me. I 'am' beat—and
no mistake. There's no use denying it—I must rest a bit."
He turned aside and sat down on a big stone. Then, to Kate's dismay, if
not much to her surprise, he slipped off the stone and lay on the grass.
"Indeed then—I'm beat," he muttered.
"O my man! My dear man!" cried Kate.
To unpin the shawl, lay it and the baby on the ground, get a tin can
from the cart, and begin to scramble down the bank to the stream, was
the work of a minute. She came back with some water.
Giles was quite himself, though he had hardly strength to swallow.
However, after a few moments, he sat up a little better.
"Kate," he said, "I wish I had taken your advice and stayed a bit at
that farm near Grassley. The people were mighty kind, and I should have
been stronger maybe—but after all, I do long for the mountain air.
You'll have to go on without me, for the truth is, I can't walk another
step. But I've described the place to you often, and you'll easily find
my brother's house. Indeed, I dare say any of them will help you, if
you say you're my wife—Giles Brent, the son of Big Giles the carpenter."
"Have I far to go still?" asked Kate, as she promptly prepared to obey.
"I'm not sure. I don't find that I remember the places as well as I
thought I did. The village ought to be round the corner yonder—" waving
his hand vaguely, "but then I've thought so at the two last corners."
"Could you bear the cart, if I lifted out some of the things?"
"No, I couldn't," Giles said shortly. "You just tell Bob that I used to
carry him long ago, and now he must come and help me. I wonder is it
possible that old father's alive yet?"
"We shall soon know, I hope," answered Kate, as she finished tying and
pinning her shawl, and took hold once more of the reins.
"You'll go faster without John Donkey," said Giles. "Tie him to yon
bush: he'll stand. 'Tis what suits him. It's getting cold, Kate—make
haste."
In the same quiet, quick way, Kate made the donkey fast to the bush,
and set off at a great pace.
And Giles, being a philosopher in his way, got his back against the big
stone, lighted his pipe, and prepared to wait with patience.
Kate trudged on bravely, but she still had a long way to go. What
kind of vision did she see as she hurried along? She had heard the
description of Blackmead so often, that as she drew near it, she almost
fancied she could see it already.
Here she turned the corner—another stretch of rough road, but no
village. Houses built of big stones; none of your foolish cob-walls
here! The stream running along the side of the street, the blacksmith's
forge the first thing you saw, a little way up the hill, with his
cottage behind it. The furthest-off house, standing at the very end of
the village, was the house where Giles's father had lived, and where
doubtless his brother lived now. And high up, the great wide entrances
into the mines, showing black against the reddish earth and grey rocks.
She turned another corner now.
A few miserable stone hovels, in a very tumbledown condition, met her
view. Kate stopped and gazed.
"Why, what a fool I am!" she said presently. "This never can be
Blackmead! Street, indeed! Why these houses—to call them houses—look as
if they had been thrown down here by accident. Oh, this is some wild
bit of common where poor folk have settled. Though that's a forge, no
doubt, and there's a stream. But the mines! Sure those holes up yonder
can't be the mines Giles talks of! They look like big fox-holes!"
She stood looking about for a few moments, but then walked on, and
was presently met by a set of children, boys and girls both, who came
running from all directions, screaming to each other.
"A strange woman—a strange woman—come and see the fun."
"What's she got on her back?" said one imp, not addressing Kate, but
asking the question of a tall boy who could see what the burthen was.
"A baby—ugly little beast. Where are you going?" the tall boy asked
abruptly.
He spoke with the north-country "burr," with which Kate was familiar,
as Giles had never lost it. She, on the contrary, had the soft
sing-song Devonshire accent, but I shall make no attempt to reproduce
either. Also I must warn you that in reporting what was said by these
children and by the people of the place generally, I am rather giving
a free translation than an exact copy; for really, between swearing
and other varieties of bad language, a correct copy would be most
unpleasant to read.
"I'm going to Blackmead, my boy. Is it far now?"
The wild-looking, unkempt, ragged set stared for a moment, then set
up a shout of rough laughter, and rushed away—some home to tell this
wonderful tale to their own people, some to the blacksmith's forge.
"Ben Marks! Ben Marks! Here's a mad woman coming along!"
The loud, quick-falling hammering ceased, and Ben Marks, the
blacksmith, pushed back his matted hair with a black hand, which did
not add to the dirt of his face, simply because that was impossible.
"What are you jawing about?" said he roughly.
"Here she comes! Hurray! Here's the mad body."
"Will you tell me, please," said Kate's soft, quiet voice, "is it much
further to Blackmead?"
Marks stared rudely.
"You're not bound for Blackmead?" said he.
"Yes, I am. My husband's people live there."
"Not they!" he answered, shaking his head. "You're none of 'our' sort,
I tell you. Why, woman, this is Blackmead."
Kate actually staggered, so great was the shock.
The young people laughed and shouted, but then suddenly got angry—and
truly, Kate's very evident horror was not complimentary.
"And Blackmead is good enough for 'you,' with your ugly brat on your
back," some of them called out.
"Get out of this, young ones," said Ben Marks, and to ensure obedience,
he knocked down one or two of the boys. "Turn about, ma'am, and go back
to where you came from; that's my advice. People like you—with shawls
and bonnets and good shoes—won't like Blackmead."
"But—oh, sir, do listen to me,—" for Ben was lifting his hammer, and
signing to his boy to blow the bellows,—"do let me speak a word, sir.
My man, Giles Brent, was born here, and he's coming home. He's been a
soldier for years and years, and he was wounded in the great battle of
Waterloo, and is discharged—and his heart was all to come to Blackmead,
and the sweet fresh air, and his brother Bob. But the road is steep,
and he but weak, and I had to leave him and come on to get help."
Ben Marks, hammer in hand, listened to all this with a lowering face,
and when Kate ceased to speak, he began to hammer, merely saying—
"Get help then."
Kate stood waiting. Surely the man could not mean to be so brutal.
Surely he would just finish his job and then help her. The children
had crept up to the door again soon, and with them there were several
men and women now. They did not interfere, however; it did not do to
interfere with Ben Marks. That hero left off hammering again, and
looking at Kate, said—
"Clear out, now."
"Do you mean to say," asked Kate, "that you're not going to help me?"
"I do mean just that. Clear out. Why should I help you?" And he swore
at her in a manner which Kate, though used to soldiers, had never heard
equalled.
"Why should you help me?" she repeated. "Here's my man, from your own
place—a brave soldier, hurt fighting for his country, and coming home
expecting a welcome, and—"
"And more fool he, say I. A welcome! A crippled man with a wife and
child, coming to help eat our food, that we seldom get enough of
without his help. Welcome, indeed! And as for fighting—a fool for that
too, say I. Who asked him to fight?—not me. Well then, why be I to help
him because he fought? No one's the better for all the fighting that I
can see; it never put a penny in my pocket I know. Clear out now, and
let me work."
"My husband will be a burthen to none; he has a pension for his life,"
cried Kate indignantly.
"Oh, you blessed idiot, why didn't you say so before? What's this you
said his name was?"
"Giles Brent. His father was a carpenter—is he alive still?"
"Dead before I came here. But Bob, his son, is alive; there's one of
his girls out there. Look here, Jenny Brent, run up street and tell
your father that a man that says he is his brother is coming back—a
soldier with a pension: mind you say them words, Jenny, or I'll break
your bones for you. Come, Tom, you and me can do what's needed. Now,
ma'am, you promise me and my boy Tom Lucas a shilling apiece, and we'll
fetch your man up to his brother's, in no time, so to speak."
"Very well," said Kate, looking round upon the dirty, wild-looking
faces, and making up her mind that a night's shelter was all she would
accept in Blackmead, if she could get away.
She set out, accompanied by Marks and his boy, who was a tall fellow
enough, but not a bit more delightful to look at than his master. Their
dress suggested that they had been robbing some scarecrow, and the
little crowd that followed from curiosity were so scantily clothed that
one would think that there were but few scarecrows to be robbed in the
neighbourhood.
It was a fine spring day, but the sun had not much strength yet, and
now, at five o'clock, it was very cold; a wild wind was rushing down
the road, and poor Giles was nearly dead from the cold.
The sight of the donkey and cart, and the cart's contents, impressed
the beholders mightily: a boy at once offered to drive the donkey, but
Kate very prudently refused to be parted from her belongings. She got a
big grey blanket out of a box, and showed Marks how to carry poor Giles
in it. Then she herself drove the donkey, and soft-hearted as she was,
she thumped poor John Donkey with all her might to make him keep up
with "her man's" bearers.
These worthies mounted the hill quietly enough, but broke into a trot
on the level ground. Giles groaned, but Marks only laughed. Kate
banged the donkey, running along beside it: the baby woke,—he was a
long-suffering infant, but there are limits to the patience of any
baby, and he howled: the crowd shouted and ran: and in this fashion did
Giles Brent return to the home he had left thirty years before.
* * * * *
Bob Brent, not a whit better dressed or less dirty than the rest, was,
however, a kind-hearted being, and he remembered Giles, and how he
had cried when Giles ran away. He was standing now at the door of his
abode, surrounded by his numerous family—a big, cross-looking woman,
his wife; ten children, ranging from Jenny, aged fifteen, to a baby; a
lean, noisy, and inquisitive pig, and a few hens.
There was an enclosed space before the door, with a shed on one side
where Bob worked at his father's trade when he could get anything to
do. Into this enclosure the crowd was rushing, until Kate, in her
distress, attempting to drive the donkey through, got her cart stuck
in the opening where no gate was, and thereby shut out the rest. For
stones being plenty, the wall was high, and mortar being presumably
scarce, it was not safe to climb.
"And be this my brother Giles?—You're welcome, Giles—I think he's dead,
poor fellow. Jane, would you have know'd him? 'I' wouldn't."
"I wasn't born when he ran off," said Jane—"at least I don't remember
it. Here's his missus."
"And what we're to do for them, I'm blest if I know!" added Bob,
helplessly.
"Oh," cried Kate, hurrying up to him, "let us in for this one
night—just this one. Giles is beat—dead beat, but he'll be himself
to-morrow. Do, if you have a heart in you, send these people away, and
let me see to Giles."
"Bless you, woman! They won't go for me," said Bob meekly.
"They'll go for me," said Ben the blacksmith. "Get out, every one
of you. Clear out, now." With one mighty tug at the poor donkey, he
dragged the cart through by main force; a wheel indeed came off, but
still the gap was free. Then he charged among the people and drove them
out, helter-skelter, came back to Kate, and said—"The two shillings.—I
can mend the cart, if you like, to-morrow."
He departed, and cross-looking Jane seemed suddenly to awake from a
trance.
"Come along in," she said. "There's a spark of fire, and we'll give him
some hot spirits-and-water, 'twill bring him to. Get in, Bob; don't be
standing about with your mouth wide-open—here, hold the baby. You," she
continued to her children, "just make yourselves scarce; don't let me
see one of you for the next two hours, 'cept Jenny. You stay, Jenny, I
want you."
The young Brents went off; Giles was lifted into the house, and the
donkey was put into the shed for the night. Poor John Donkey! Let us
hope that he could eat wood-shavings, for he certainly got nothing else
that unlucky night.
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