THE COTTAGE NEAR THE MINER'S ROAD.
KATE BRENT "had it in her heart," to use her own favourite expression,
to contrive some way for Giles to travel, so that they might set out
next day to return to "decent places and decent people." But poor Giles
had caught a chill, and was far too ill to think of moving: indeed for
some days Kate watched him, wondering sadly if she would return with
only her baby, to the nearest town.
No doctor was to be had, except Ben Marks, who often boasted that
he was the seventh son of a seventh son, and therefore "a doctor by
nature." Ben came to see the sick man, and prescribed "spirits" to keep
up his strength. Kate did not like giving her husband so much spirits,
experience having taught her that it is easier to begin drinking than
to leave off again, but she was too timid to set herself against what
every one else thought. And it must be confessed that Giles took much
more kindly to this medicine than to any other that could have been
ordered.
And he recovered!—And as Marks proudly said, "What more could any
doctor have done for him?"
In about three weeks Giles was on his feet again, and by that time it
was summer, and the wild place was at its best. Quantities of ferns and
wild flowers made it beautiful, and the air was sweet, healthful, and
invigorating, when one got away from the village street. Giles said
that his breathing was already better; the baby was growing apace, and
looking rosy and well.
So when Giles announced in his masterful way that he had made up his
mind to stay, Kate made but a faint effort to persuade him to change
his mind. But she was very sorry, for she was really half afraid of the
people.
One thing that influenced Giles very much was that he found himself
quite a great man here. Discharged soldiers were very plentiful in
most places just then, and curious to say, not very popular, but here
he reigned alone. And whereas in his regiment he had been considered
rather a dull fellow, and was often the butt of his comrades, here,
his long-winded stories, his very superficial knowledge of foreign
countries, and above all, his Waterloo medal, made him quite a
personage. And Giles enjoyed all this, and fondly believed that it
would last for ever. His pension too was much respected; he was the
only man in Blackmead who had an income; and though I need not say it
was very small, still it existed, and he had not to work for it.
"So you're going to live here?" Jane Brent said to her sister-in-law,
as the two women sat in the wretched stone hut, each nursing her baby.
Jane was a singularly forbidding young woman to look at, big and
awkward, with a swarthy skin (unless the darkness of it meant dirt,
which was a question Kate often asked herself), and a most uncommon
scowl. To judge by her face, she was a woman to be feared; yet really,
beyond "smacking" her noisy children pretty freely, and generally when
they least deserved it, she did no great damage, and, as she once said
to Kate, "poor brats, that was all she could do for them."
Bob Brent was not exactly a fool, but he was not exactly a wise man
either, and must have been a most provoking husband. But the worst Jane
ever did, was to bid him shut his mouth; it seemed as if she could
stand all the other signs and tokens of his folly, but that his trick
of standing silent with his mouth wide-open, got upon her nerves; yet
nerves were things that poor Jane knew nothing about.
"Ay, so I hear you mean to stay," she went on after a pause. "Well, and
where d'ye mean to live? Giles is the eldest no doubt, but he's been
thirty years away, and Bob ain't going to turn out for him. And there's
not room for us all here: fifteen of us!—And I can't go on asking the
neighbours to take some of us in much longer."
"Oh, Jane, we never thought of such a thing. Giles knows that the house
is yours—and you've been more than kind. He was saying only last night
that we'll have to build a house—houses he says are easy built, there's
such a plenty of stones."
"Yes, indeed," Jane assented, "and no plenty of much else. How do you
mean to live? Is the money he gets from the Duke enough to keep you
comfortable all the year round?"
The opinion prevailed in Blackmead that Giles's pension was a personal
mark of esteem from his late commanding officer.
"No," Kate said, "not real comfortable, as my man has a right to
expect. But he has plans: Giles has a head on his shoulders. He means
to have a bit of garden land—I suppose we may fence in a bit?—He
thought so, because 'twas so when he was a boy."
"'Tis so; you may take as much as you like. Bob has a big garden, as
you may see, and some fields up by the Fever-pits. Only for them we'd
go hungry oftener than we do."
"Giles won't be able for more than a garden, even with my help. When
our little Christopher grows up, indeed—" and here Kate, looking down
at her child, fell into a meditation on the future deeds of the small
being.
"Christopher!—Is that the brat's name? Why, woman, what made you give
him such a mouthful of a name?"
"We look to call him Christie, you know. It was in my heart to call
him Christopher because the name means 'Strong for God,' or something
like that. The lady I was in service with once, told her children a
story about it—I have forgot the story. But all my babies have been so
weakly, I did hope the name might bring luck."
"See what 'tis to be a scholar!" said Jane, much impressed. "I dare say
now you can read?"
"Yes, I can. But, Jane, my man has a plan I have not told you of yet.
We got a present of a little money when he was discharged—from his old
officers, such as lived to come back from Waterloo. And when we got to
a town called Bradstone, Giles bought the donkey and cart. And when he
is strong enough, he means to go regular to Bradstone and Grassley, and
buy things to sell here; also to take messages and buy things for the
folk here, if they like to employ him."
Jane scowled fiercely.
"I wish," she said, "that my Bob had wit enough to think of plans. We
might all starve before he'd have a plan in his poor old head. But I
don't think this plan will do. Except Ben Marks, none of us have any
money, so how can we be buying things?—And he goes to Bradstone or
Grassley for himself. He's not a Blackmead man, you know, but learned
a trade down yonder, and I'd give my eyes to know what makes him stay
here."
"Giles said he didn't remember the name of Marks," said Kate.
"No—he's here about ten years, more or less. But look here, Kate, I'll
tell you something. There's a cottage up just at the turn to the mines,
a little bit up the hills there. It belonged to my people, and they're
all dead, and no one would live there since. But it was a well-built
cottage, for I think my gran'fer was a mason once. And you could move
in at once, for you'd be as well off as here, and you'd mend it up
before winter."
"Oh, is there really? I do long to be—out of your way," cried Kate,
just checking herself in time, having been about to say, "in a place
that I can keep clean."
And perhaps Jane knew that, for she uttered a short, cold laugh, rather
like a bark. Then she arose, and laying her baby on the bed, she opened
the door and looked out.
"Bob! I see you, Bob—no use bobbing down your head. And I don't
want water this time—yes there you are with your mouth wide-open as
usual—shut it, do. Come here—I want to speak to you."
She went forward to meet him at the gate; he had actually put up a
rickety gate to keep John Donkey in the enclosure. Jane whispered to
him for some time, Bob looking very sheepish and unwilling.
"I couldn't do it, Jane. If anything came of it, I'd be to blame."
"Do as I tell you," she said, "for if we don't get 'em out of this,
we'll be eaten out of house and home. And I'm tired of seeing Kate
looking at the dirt as if it would eat her. Where is Giles?"
"Out yon, with me."
"Well then," said Jane, raising her voice, "Giles! Come here, please.
Here's Bob will show you the way to my grannie's cottage, up yonder;
Kate thinks it will suit her and you."
"She means, Giles," said Kate, coming out, "that she has told me of
this cottage, and that perhaps it would do for us. Could you get so
far, do you think?"
"Ay, surely. My knee is a good bit better. Come away, my lass; come,
Bob."
The cottage was some way off, and out of sight, owing to some low
rocks. Kate liked it all the better for that. It consisted of but one
room, but it was a large room, compared to those in the village; there
was a chimney, a little yard in front, and at the back a garden-plot,
the stone fencing of which was all there, though it had almost entirely
fallen down. At the back of the garden (the house faced towards the
village) the hill rose sharply, and to the right could still be traced
the rough road which led to the mines.
"I like this," said Kate, looking about her. "I could get it very nice,
and so quiet, Giles."
"Yes, and not too far neither. I think I like it too."
"You won't like it," said Bob. "Come down, and we'll build for you
close to us. Don't stay here."
"Why not?"
"Jane 'll be angry—but—I wouldn't live here not to be King of
England!"—And then Bob opened his mouth so surprisingly, that Kate felt
afraid he would never be able to close it again.
"Why not?" said Giles again.
"Ghosts," said Bob.
"What ghosts, Bob? I know the fever-pits are up yonder, but I think
'them' ghosts must be worn out by now."
"Maybe—I don't know about that. These is new ghosts. 'Twas after you
ran away."
"Well, go on, Bob. What was after I went away?"
"That the big old mine fell in."
"Well—but it was given up before my time—I remember that."
"It was," Bob admitted with a sigh—the trouble of all this remembering
and talking was almost too much for him. "But old Parry and some more
took it into their heads, one hard winter, to go looking for any coal
that might be left. And they got some. No doubt about it."
"Get 'on,' Bob," cried Giles, when again the narrative ceased, and Bob
stood goggling his eyes at him, with wide-open mouth.
"They got some. No doubt. But one day, a lot were in the mine. There
came a noise like thunder, only worse. The mine had fallen in. Every
mortal was killed; at least I hope so, for they were surely buried; not
one ever seen again."
Bob ceased again, but after a moment or so he said loudly, "I would
not live here myself to be King of England, and Jane may say what she
likes. I've told you all."
Giles turned and looked up towards the mines. Some attempt had been
made to level a road, and to produce a sloping ascent; which followed
the form of the valley, climbing gradually up to the mines from a spot
not far from where he now stood. But stones and earth had fallen here
and there on the road, and in other places the road itself had slipped
down into the valley; it was still to be traced by the eye, but looked
as wild and rough as its surroundings.
The face of the hill, nearly precipitous, was covered with ferns,
grass, and tufts of ling and heather not yet in bloom. Long wreaths of
wild roses and ivy hung down over the black openings cut in the face of
the hill, from each of which a river of stones seemed to have flowed:
really, these stones had been thrown out as the work went on, large
stones and small together forming these curious-looking cascades, which
reached from the opening to the level of the road, and sometimes far
beyond.
These cascades had been bare and grey and ragged when Giles saw them
in his boyhood; now they had settled down into comparative smoothness,
and the exquisite greenery of the mountain was gradually encroaching on
them. Ferns waved above them. Briars flung strong thorny rods across
them, binding them down and covering them with lovely pink-and-white
dog-roses. Blackberry briars too: enormous blackberries ripened there
every autumn, and no one gathered them, for the people would not go
near the mines on any account. Ghosts were at least as plenty as
blackberries, according to their belief.
Fearful tales were told of the ghosts that had been seen there, and
one poor woman had been killed by falling into the valley from the
miner's road, where she had gone to pick up sticks: of course it was
said that she had been trying to escape from some terrible sight. Since
that time, now twenty years ago or more, not all the beauty of the
flowers, nor the mingling of grey rock, dark earth, and green ferns;
the harebells, the heather, the ling, all in their season; no, nor even
the blackberries, could tempt the children from the cottages below to
climb the Mine hill. There were plenty of flowers and blackberries to
be had, without seeing ghosts.
"Bob, did you ever see one, yourself?" asked Giles.
And Bob shivered at the very idea.
"No! I take precious good care I don't!"
"Them that built this house, did they live here after the mine fell in?"
"They wer' mostly dead. There was just Jane and her grannie, an old,
old woman. She shut door and window soon as the dusk fell, and if Jane
stayed out late, she had to stay down in the village all night. Grannie
wouldn't open, I promise you. She was a fearful old woman."
By which he meant that she was afraid, not that she inspired fear.
"Giles," whispered Kate, "that's all foolish talk. God will take care
of us. It would be very quiet here, and we could move in at once and
get it in order by degrees. They want us to go, I can see."
"Bob, was the mine ever cleared, and the dead buried?"
"No; the mine buried 'em, I tell you."
"Ah well! It's not likely a ghost can walk that's buried deep in a
mine. Anyhow, I'm not afraid, and neither is Kate. I've not faced Irish
croppies and French frogs to be scared by ghosts. Get some sticks
together, Kate, to light a fire. I'll fetch John Donkey with the sticks
of furniture and some turf: you'll let me have some, Bob, till I can
get some myself and pay you back."
For here, where once coal was found, the people now burned turf, or
peat, cut from the mountainside some way off. With dried heather mixed
with it, this made a tolerable fire, though Ben Marks of course had to
get coal for his forge.
Before night, the flitting was accomplished. The rough stone walls were
thick; the roof, formed of long slabs of stone, was almost water-tight;
and as it was easy to get lime, Giles soon had plenty of mortar, and
plastered the one large room which formed the original building, making
it very warm and snug. Kate whitewashed it, and took a great pride in
keeping her walls as white as snow.
To build a second room, Giles required help, but this was easily got
as he could pay for it, and half the men spent their time in idleness.
Their little gardens and fields could not occupy them long, and with
their very simple style of gardening and farming, did not occupy them
two days in the week, except at harvest-time. Some of them had cows and
others had goats. But these fed on the sweet mountain grass all the
summer, and were half-starved all the winter, as all the owners did
for them was to drive them in, morning and evening, to be milked. The
driving in was generally done by the children, and the driving out the
creatures did for themselves, running off in all haste up the track
that led to the Brents' cottage, and thence to their feeding-grounds.
Giles built a second room, and a shed for his donkey, cow, and hens.
Kate understood the management of a cow, and was never without milk.
They restored the fence of the garden and the little front-yard; and
then they considered themselves satisfactorily settled for the rest of
their lives.
It never seemed to strike them that it was a pity that there was no
school for the boy. Giles had "no learning" himself, and did not care
about it; Kate, who could both read and write, and who was in a very
dim and ignorant way a God-fearing woman, had unfortunately no habit of
looking forward, but was content to let the future take care of itself.
Giles was getting stronger, and her babies having all died while under
a year old, the poor soul never thought about little Christopher except
as a baby. It was very sad that the fact that there was no Church,
nor any religious teaching within reach, made no difference to either
husband or wife: I mean, had no influence on their plans. For alas! the
absence of all religious privileges, all religious teaching, could not
fail to make a sad difference to all concerned.
When his house and garden was in tolerable order, Giles, who was now
much stronger, and free from pain in the stiff knee, began to see
what could be done about his plan of setting up as a kind of carrier,
or hawker; a little of both, indeed. He began to make regular weekly
journeys to Grassley, and set up a trade in a very small way.
Kate went with him once, to lay in a store of wool for knitting
stockings, comforters, mittens, and vests, which Giles could always
sell in Grassley: some things, indeed, sold in Blackmead, or were given
in exchange for things that Kate wanted. She saved up her earnings,
and once again made the journey to Grassley to purchase a "skep" of
bees, for in her girlhood she had helped her mother in the task of
bee-keeping. Heather honey is always good, and Kate made a good deal of
money by her bees.
So for a time they lived in tolerable comfort. If Giles did not make
a fortune by his business, he made something, and the occupation was
good for him. He always left Blackmead on Tuesday, and returned on
Wednesday. And as he was perfectly honest, and kept sober while "on
duty," as he said himself, he gave great satisfaction to all who were
able to employ him. But alas! he did not keep sober on the other
five days of the week. He would work in his garden in the morning,
but in the afternoon he might generally be seen at the dirty little
public-house, or with Ben Marks in the forge; and wherever he was, you
might be sure that he was drinking ale, if nothing stronger. Not very
much, for he could not afford it, but enough to make him more stupid in
the evening than in the morning: silent, and sleepy, and only able to
limp home and go to bed.
When summer and autumn had passed away, and the severe cold began to be
felt, the roads were often impassable for John Donkey and his cart; and
so Giles had more time for sitting with his admiring friends, laying
down the law, and telling long stories over and over again. But his
popularity began to fail. There was a great deal of miserable want in
the place, and certainly Giles could not have done much to help the
sufferers, but, he did nothing.
The people very soon discovered that he had no idea of helping any one.
Even his brother was refused "just a small loan to tide over the hard
weather." Giles said that he had only enough to live on, with the very
little a poor disabled soldier could earn; and that if Bob had worked
and made his family work, during the summer, half as hard as Kate and
he had worked, they would not be wanting loans now.
Perhaps this was true, but it was none the less a very selfish
disposition which made Giles thoroughly enjoy the comparative comfort
of his home, and his sufficient food, and never give a thought to the
very real privations of his neighbours.
"We paid Bob and Jane well for their kindness when we first came,"
Giles said, "and we paid the others when they worked for us; and they
just wasted the money!—And as to sharing the turf with them, Kate, I
won't hear of it, so say no more. You and I cut that turf, and Bob
could turn out six strong, to cut for himself, and yet he didn't get in
half enough. Why are you and the boy to freeze by and by, that they may
have fire without working for it?"
Kate, poor woman, was so entirely wrapped up in her husband and child,
that she never dreamed of disputing these moral remarks, though they
did not make her quite easy in her mind. But little Christie grew and
flourished, and Giles seemed quite sure that he was right; and they
were an idle, unthrifty set, for sure. So she stayed at home, not
to see the suffering that she could not help pitying, and could not
relieve. Giles stayed at home too a good deal.
But it is easy to imagine that the Brents ceased to be popular; and
indeed, after a time, their only friend was Ben Marks, who was better
off than the rest, and even more selfish than Giles himself. Moreover,
he was more intelligent than the others, and Giles's stories of
Ireland, where he had served in '98; of the lines of Torres Vedras, the
battles and sieges in Spain, and finally of Waterloo, were interesting
to him even when no longer new, and he was never tired of asking
questions.
About a year after the Brents came to the village, Marks married.
The bride was not a Blackmead girl, but a young gipsy—one of a small
caravanful that he fell in with at Grassley. A handsome, black-eyed
girl—and Ben was far from kind to her.
She only lived a short time, and when she died, Ben brought the only
child, a baby-girl, to Kate Brent, and begged her to rear it, as it
was the little creature's only chance. As Marks could pay for the
service, Giles made no objection, and so little dark-eyed Hessie shared
everything with blue-eyed Christie, just two years her senior.
The children were as unlike each other as could well be. Christie had
the pink-and-white complexion that goes with red hair, and the bluest
of blue eyes, also a curly mop of reddish-brown hair; while Hessie was
very dark, and had hair and eyes as nearly black as possible.
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