TURF AND COAL.
NOTHING very particular happened for a long time. Kate worked away,
and kept things going as well as she could. But bad habits grew upon
poor Giles, and after some years, he practically gave up his carrying
business, though he always said he meant to go as usual when he felt
able for it. After this, Kate herself made the journey to Grassley when
she had eggs, honey, or anything else to dispose of, and Giles went
only when he had to apply for his pension.
Giles had had a rather severe illness one winter, but the effects wore
off, and there really was nothing to prevent his renewing his little
trade when the warm weather came again. But nothing grows on people
more rapidly than selfishness, if indulged in. And Giles, finding that
Kate could manage without his help, declared himself too weak for
anything but a little light work in the garden, and teaching Christie
to weed and dig. For some few summers he helped in cutting turf, but
finding that Christie could drive John Donkey, and help his mother a
little in the cutting, he found himself too weak for that, too.
Poor Kate, being one of those weak, uncomplaining women who believe
all that is said to them by one they love, and who will work till they
drop, toiled away without a murmur. But work as she might, she could
not get as much turf as when Giles helped her. So when winter came—and
it was an unusually severe winter—she tried to husband her fuel, and
Giles grumbled, and even said that she must have been lazy in summer.
"No indeed, Giles," she said, "nor Christie neither; we did all we
could. But it was not as when you could work, my poor man. Sit in the
corner away from the door, dear, and let me wrap my shawl round you—so.
'Tis hard for you to be cold, I know. I'll put on a bit more."
"Ay, lass, do. And here, Christie, run you away to the Red Dog and get
me sixpence-worth of gin: here's the sixpence. Give him the bottle,
Kate."
Kate sighed, but got the bottle. Christie, throwing aside the basket he
was mending, took up his hat to go.
"Would you mind, Giles, if I went instead of Christie?"
Giles turned the matter over in his mind. In some ways it would be
better, for once Christie had stopped to play with Hessie Marks, who
lived at home with her father now. And once, a boy had hit Christie and
broken the bottle. But then if Kate went, she would want her shawl—not
that she would ask for it, but he could hardly let her go without, as
the north wind was sweeping along the valley, bringing with it little
showers of fine, dry snow.
"No, no," he said, "let Christie go. He'll be quicker than you, my
lass. Now, Christie, run every step of the way. Jam the cork tight, and
make haste, for 'tis my belief I am in for another attack on my chest
if I don't quickly have summat to warm me."
Christie, now a fine lad, tall and strong for his years, took the
bottle and was ready to start, when his mother, opening the door,
looked out and said—
"'Tis fine just now, and I haven't been paid by Ben Marks for the
stockings I knit him, so I may as well go and get the money, for I want
it. I'll not be long."
Snatching the bottle from the boy, she drew the small kerchief she wore
up over her head, and was gone before either husband or son could speak.
"She's going without the money!" cried Christie, running to the door.
"Halt there!" said Giles. "Don't open that door again, unless you want
to give me my death. Your mother will be getting money from Ben Marks.
Give me the sixpence. The foolish woman, she's run off without her
shawl. Women are mighty inconsiderate. Christie, throw on another turf.
There's no sense in freezing now to save for another time, because we
may not have such cold again."
"Mother won't be pleased," said Christie. "Couldn't we wait till she
comes back?"
"Do as I bid you, Christie. The articles of war is clear against
argufying or answering back your superior officer; and I'm your
superior officer, likewise hers; so do as I say. Yes—now that's
something like a fire. But turf, after all, is but a peggling kind of
fuel, no great pleasure in burning it. Not like coal, as blazes and
crackles so pleasant, as if it enjoyed itself. Ah, Christie, if I'd
realized that the mines here were done for, I would hardly have come
back to Blackmead. Why, let me see—you might be earning good money now
if the mines were working. I did, when I was no older than you be."
"Tell me about the mines, father," said Christie, gleefully.
It was not often that Giles was conversational at home, and Christie,
seating himself on a three-legged stool close to his knee, prepared
to make the most of the opportunity. As to Giles, he kept talking to
keep from thinking of poor Kate, in her worn dress and little woollen
kerchief, facing the wind that was howling round the house.
"Was it hard work, father?"
"Ay was it. My father was one who let none of his family eat the bread
of idleness. 'Twas in mine No. 2, not the one as fell in, that I
worked. It was the best of them, I believe, though that's not saying
'twas good, for I believe the owners lost heaps of money on them. I
didn't much mind working my spell, but I did think it hard to be made
get water from the stream for old Auntie Betty, the moment I got home."
"Who was Auntie Betty, father?"
"My father's sister; she was a cross old thing. She lived with him
'cause my mother was dead."
"And she made you draw the water alone? Mother and me do it together."
"Ay, ay. Your mother's another sort altogether from Aunt Betty. I
wouldn't do it at last, and father beat me, and I ran away."
"Where to, father?—And was it pleasant?" asked the boy, highly
interested.
Giles began to remember that perhaps the joys of running away were
better kept in the background, lest Christie might some day think of
enjoying them in his turn. His answer was—
"Christie, I have given you a touch of the rod once in a way, but I
never did beat you as father beat me."
Christie looked puzzled for a moment. Then his face cleared, and he put
his hand on his father's knee.
"You're very good to me, daddy, and I love you. I would never think to
run away. And there's mother too."
"Of course you wouldn't run away!—What put 'that' into your head,
child?" said Giles, much put out by his son's quickness. "Father nearly
broke every bone in my body before I ever thought of such a thing. And
you'll be your mother's only hope when I go off; and remember this,
Christie,—a man can't live for ever with a Waterloo bullet in his knee."
Christie thought a bit, and then asked—
"Do men ever live for ever, father?"
"Not they, but they live quite long enough. Your mother's a long time
away. I doubt I'm getting weak for the want of that gin. Ah me! When I
was a boy, there used to be plenty of coal here to keep one warm. We
never used turf then except for kindling. 'Twasn't good coal, but 'twas
better than turf. Ay—and when it was brought to the mouth of the mine,
and along the road, bits would be dropped here and there, and the women
would come and gather 'em up. And what was dropped in the workings may
be there still for all I know. Pity, now, we couldn't get it."
"But the big mine's all filled up, father. The top fell in, and there's
a hollow in the hill, that sometimes is full of water, just over it."
"Ay, ay, but there was three or four openings. There might even
be . . . I declare, some day I'll go and see."
"Do, father, and take me with you! Oh, do!"
"Yes, but not just now; and mind me, boy, you're not to go alone.
Promise me that."
Christie promised readily. Though his parents kept him quite apart from
the other boys, letting Hessie Marks come up the valley to play with
him, but encouraging no one else—still Christie had heard about the
ghosts and had no wish to defy them alone, though he would go anywhere
with his father.
"But when shall we go, father?"
"When I get strong," Giles answered.
Very soon after this remark, Kate came in, blue with cold, and scarcely
able to open her half-frozen hand to put the bottle on the table.
"Well, now, Kate!—To think you'd run off without shawl or bonnet! Ah,
dear me, but women are inconsiderate! Get me a cup, Christie. Sit close
by the fire, Kate, and warm yourself. Here, lass—I must give you a
little drop of this to bring you to."
He held out the cup, but Kate, being a woman, and inconsiderate, would
take none of the contents.
"'Twas for you I brought it, Giles, dear man!—It will do you good. And
we'll have a better fire to-morrow. Ben Marks has a good store of coal,
and he's promised to sell me a bag now and then. I'll have to knit all
day to pay him."
"Teach me to knit," said Giles, now in high good temper; "'twould be
nice quiet work for me, Kate."
"'Twould look well, then, to see a soldier as has a Waterloo medal, and
a pension moreover, knitting stockings!" cried Kate, with a laugh. "No,
my dear man, Christie and me will manage somehow, and, come summer,
maybe you'll be stronger, and then we'll have a good store of turf."
"Or, maybe, I'll be under the sod, Kate. A man can't live for ever
with a bullet in his knee, and another in his box that ran through his
lungs. Don't cry, old lass—you're a good lass. There! I do feel better
now, and I'll go to bed. Best to go while I'm warm."
Kate bought more than one bag of coals from Ben Marks that winter, and
very hard she found it to pay for them. Of course she had to stint in
other things—but she contrived that the stress should fall principally
on herself—to keep up good fires for her "poor good man."
When the turf season came round, Giles found strength enough to go out
with his wife and son, and once again they had a respectable stack of
peats in the yard. Turf to burn and potatoes to eat, Giles contrived to
secure that year, but he did very little more, and Kate found it hard
to pay her way.
Christie, playing on the mountain slopes with little Hessie, seldom had
a new garment now. Kate patched and darned, and cut up things of her
own, to make him warm; and although the boy throve on his hard fare,
and little heeded the shabbiness of his clothing, his poor patient
mother was gradually worn out.
It is time now to speak more particularly of Hessie Marks, Christie's
only friend and constant companion, whom he loved with all the strength
of a very loving heart. Whether she loved him or not, it was not easy
to know. She loved to rule, and she ruled him most completely; and
she found no other child in Blackmead as ready to give her her own
way. She was a most lovely child, her brown skin smooth and soft, her
checks touched with deep crimson, her lips as red as coral, her hair
raven-black, her eyes dark, long shaped, and brilliant, with long black
lashes. Christie thought her the most beautiful and precious thing in
the world, and even her rough, selfish father was fond and proud of the
pretty creature.
But he was not careful of her, as Christie's mother was of him. He
liked her to be with Christie, but he took no trouble to keep her from
playing with all the Blackmead children; and he kept her living at
home, though he knew that she should have been safer and happier at the
Brents' cottage. I do not suppose poor Hessie was naturally worse than
others, but the truth is that she was an extremely naughty imp; and
Christie little knew what an active part she took in the evil doings
she reported to him as being perpetrated by "those 'bad' boys" in the
village.
In truth, the poor child seemed to live two lives—one, not a whit
better than that of the untaught herd of children who were a very real
pest in the village, the other innocent enough, playing about with
Christie and listening to his stories about the mines and father's
great doings as a soldier, making friends with every bird and beast,
and delighting specially in the flowers.
A favourite resort of hers—Christie was not so fond of it—was what
every one called the Fever-pit, though it was really not a pit, but
an immense irregularly shaped mound, on the slope of the mountain,
much higher than the village, and at the back of the Brents' cottage.
Here, tradition said, the victims of the terrible fever which had laid
Blackmead waste, had all been buried: the last funeral being that of
the devoted clergyman who had worked among his stricken flock until
himself struck down. The very site of the church in which this good
man had ministered was now forgotten. The mound was the boundary, on
one side, of a field belonging to Bob Brent, and on this mount grew
the most beautiful wild roses, the reddest poppies, and the greenest
fern to be found anywhere. Hessie loved going there; Christie objected
to "jumping about on the poor dead folk," but he had to do as Hessie
wished.
One day the pair were very busy gathering poppies and making garlands
for the decoration of Hessie's small person: she was already crowned
with a wreath of the brilliant red flower, neatly tied to a long
fern-frond; Christie sat on the top of the mound, industriously making
more wreaths for her neck, her waist, her arms, and anywhere else that
a wreath could go. He worked away, while she looked on and gave her
orders.
"Not so thick, Christie. Don't crowd them so. That will be long enough,
I think."
"Get some of the blue things out of Uncle Bob's barley. Mind now, don't
go in on the crop, or we sha'n't be allowed to play here."
"As if I'd mind Bob Brent's talking!" Hessie cried. "But I won't have
any blue. I don't fancy them with the red. We'll come again to-morrow,
and I'll have blue garlands."
"To-morrow I can't come, Hessie. Mother must drive to Grassley with her
honey, and I must stay with father."
"What for? Daddy Giles could go himself if he liked, or do without you
at home. He's just lazy!—that's what people say."
Christie got very red. "People tell lies, then, and when I'm big
enough, I'll thrash 'em. Tell them so, Hessie. And indeed you oughtn't
to let folk talk so to you about father, who's so good to you always."
"Well, I hit Jem Brent, your cousin, right in the eye for saying it,
and I tried to hit them all," said Hessie, who had a very decided
talent for fiction.
But Christie believed, as she expected.
"You did right, Hessie. I'll remember that to Jem Brent."
"Don't be silly; you're not half his size, Christie."
"But I'm growing, and he will grow no more, most likely. Oh, I'll come
up with him, and then you'll see. But, Hessie, what were you doing with
Jem Brent and all that lot? They're not—"
"Well there now!—They come about the forge and begin talking—that's
all," said Hessie.
Her last exploit in the village had been to help Jem Brent to rob the
Widow Kirby of some eggs. The widow kept a little shop—perhaps the
smallest thing in the shop line ever known: she had a few eggs for
sale. Jane Brent's hens were not laying, and Jem, her son, desired
eggs. He wanted a small and active child to help him, and found Hessie
more than willing to oblige him. He put her in through a very small
window, and she handed the eggs to him. And Jem had, in the course of
conversation, given his opinion about his uncle's laziness, but if
Hessie hit him in the eye, he took it in a meeker fashion than was
natural to him.
"That's enough now, Christie. I'll put them on now, and you'll see how
pretty they'll look. Bother them, they don't last any time!—Some of
these are withery already. When I'm a woman, I'll have real flowers,
not weeds like these."
"When you're a woman, you won't care for dressing up in garlands,
Hessie; you'll have something else to do."
"I won't do it then," remarked Hessie, twisting about to see the effect
of a wreath that hung down her scanty skirt at the back.
"Oh, yes, you will. You know you're to be my wife."
"Oh, yes—but you may do all the work," was the reply.
Christie shook his head.
"You'll be wiser then, like mother," said he.
At this, Hessie laughed derisively.
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