A HARD STRUGGLE.
THE small stock of provisions which had been in Kate's possession when
her great affliction fell upon her, was fast vanishing. The garden gave
them something, and so did the hens, but bread they had none, and the
oatmeal was running low. Christie wondered whether his mother perceived
the state of affairs. After a while he spoke to her about it.
"Mother, have you any money?—Shall I get some flour for you?"
"Money—flour? Oh, Christie, never mind; we must find 'him' first."
"But soon there'll be no oatmeal. What shall we do then?"
"I don't know, dear. My poor good man would have known what to do."
After several unsuccessful attempts, Christie perceived that he must
act for himself. The poor fellow had been kept so strictly hitherto by
both father and mother (by the latter, for his own sake, to keep him
from bad company), that it was really an addition to his suffering that
there was no one to give him orders.
However, he roused himself from his grief, and set to work. Had he
been in any place where work was to be had, he would have done well,
for he was very industrious, and clever in many handiworks. He could
make and mend baskets, he could manage bees as well as his mother
did, and he had some skill as a gardener. But Christie knew no place
save Blackmead, which he had never left since his mother carried him
up the steep road on her back, a little red-faced baby. His only idea
was to do the best he could in garden and house; to get some turf; to
coax mother to knit again; he never dreamed of asking for help, or of
leaving Blackmead.
He worked away—worked early and late. The landlord of the Red Dog
had lately set up a cart and a stubby little pony to draw it, in the
hope of succeeding to poor Giles Brent's little business; and to him
Christie was obliged to confide the sale of his honey and his knitted
goods. And somehow they did not bring in as much as he expected; the
landlord said that prices were bad that year.
And Kate, once always busy, did not now work steadily at her knitting.
She often let it fall from her hands, and sat staring before her, doing
nothing.
Hessie came pretty often, and her presence seemed to brighten up poor
Kate's wits; she would knit away and let the child talk to her.
One day, when winter had just set in, Hessie ran in at about twelve
o'clock, when Christie was just getting what he called his dinner.
"Christie, Christie, make haste and come with me. Father's dismissed
Billy Kirby, and if you offer for the place, I'm sure he'll take you.
'Tis the bellows, you know—not hard work, and three shillings a week."
In these days of high wages, few will understand what three shillings a
week meant to Christie! He jumped up.
"'Tis very kind of you to let me know, Hessie. Will you stay here till
I come back? Oh, never mind my dinner; if I delay some one else may
offer."
"Yes, or Billy may come back as he did before. Let's run, Christie;
I'll go with you. Father will listen to me."
It did not occur to either of them to look at the affair from Billy
Kirby's point of view. Yet Billy was the son of a widow too, but it
must be confessed that he was a very lazy son.
The pair ran all the way, and found Ben Marks smoking his pipe at the
wide, low door of his tumbledown forge. He had no one to blow the
bellows for him, and was not perhaps very sorry to be idle. Ben could
work hard, but he much preferred to be idle.
"Here, father, I've brought you a new boy, and a much better boy than
Billy Kirby, or Tommy Perkins, or any of them."
"Yes, Ben, if you'll take me, I'll work hard for you," said Christie,
eagerly.
Marks took his pipe from his mouth and abused Billy Kirby, swearing
at him heartily for some minutes. Christie made out that his eldest
cousin, Robert Brent, had left some tools to be mended, and that by
Billy's running off, the fire had gone out, and the work come to a
standstill.
Christie whipped off his ragged jacket and began lighting the fire; he
had it lighted before Marks was quite done with Billy Kirby. When at
last he saw what the boy had done, he said—
"'Tis one thing to be too idle and another to be poor and busy. I
haven't hired you yet. And I didn't mean to light up again to-day."
"Father wanted a play, like Billy," said Hessie, laughing.
"However, as the fire's alight—" and here he thrust a bar of iron into
the fire—"I may as well do Robert's tools. But I've not hired you,
mind."
"But you will, father?" said Hessie.
"I'm expecting Billy's mother every moment, to beg me to take him back."
"Then you'd better hire Christie at once, and see what she'll look like
when you tell her," cried Hessie, dancing about. "I tell you this,
if Billy comes back, I'll scratch his eyes out. I hate him; I want
Christie."
Ben laughed, and presently took a shilling out of his pocket and
presented it to Christie.
"There you are, boy," said he. "I dare say 'tis the best thing I can
do: Billy's a lazy young rascal."
So Christie blew the bellows, and the big hammer clanged away. Hessie
stood by the door, looking out. At the sound of the hammer, a couple of
boys came up.
"Who's blowing?" said one of them.
"Not you," said Hessie, "nor yet Billy Kirby. A better than both of you
put together; and father's hired him for good."
The boys departed, and Hessie ran after them.
"Are you going to tell Billy?" she inquired. "Oh then, I'll go with
you, for I do want to see his face when he hears it."
Whether it was that Billy's platter face failed to do justice to his
feelings; or, that he did not greatly regret the loss of his place;
or, again, that his face was masked by a crust of dirt and coal-ashes,
certain it is that Hessie was disappointed. She turned to go home, but
Billy called after her,—
"Just tell Christie Brent to look out for himself on his way home,
that's all."
"How do you know that ''tis' Christie?" she called back to him.
"Saw you fetchin' him," was the answer.
Hessie ran home, and searched about the house for a stout stick which
her father had used while he was still weak after his illness. This
she carried to the forge, where she found Christie putting on his
jacket, the tools being all mended in a rough way. Ben could do good
blacksmith's work when he liked, but—he seldom liked.
"Are you going, Christie?"
"He's going," said Ben, "I'll do no more work to-day. Not if the king
wanted his crown mended. Come to-morrow, about ten, boy. I've not much
to do—no use getting up too early."
"Here's a stick, Christie; take it with you, and if you meet Billy
Kirby, crack his head for him before he can give you any talk."
"I don't want a stick, Hessie. Poor father taught me how to use my
fists, so I do hope that Billy 'll be civil, for I don't want to hurt
him. Thank you, Ben, for hiring me, the money 'll be a grand help."
"Your father taught you, did you say? Well! He was a man. I'd give a
deal to know what became of him. But I have a notion, too."
"Have you? Tell me what 'tis, and maybe I may get mother to give up
searching."
"Does she keep on still? Why, poor soul, her brain must be turned.
Well—once on a time heard, from a gipsy man that was cousin to Hessie's
mother, that in some boggy place they were passing over, a fine tall
lad seemed to stick in the mud, and he began calling out for help, and
they laughed, thinking he was only making fun. But at last they saw it
was no fun, and they went back, and he had sunk over the waist, and the
ground began sucking at them too, and before they could get a rope, the
lad was gone, clean and completely gone!—Not so much as a mark left in
the black mud, or slush, or whatever you may call it. Now, that's what
happened to poor old Giles, you take my word for it—there, where the
cattle drink."
"I don't know," Christie said, the tears in his eyes. "Why don't the
cattle sink?—And where's his crutch?—Would that sink too?"
Ben was highly displeased at hearing his theory questioned, and that by
his own hired boy. He merely said—
"That's what happened, take my word for it."
And when Christie had time to think, he was more inclined to agree. It
seemed the only solution of the difficulty.
But it was not on the way home that he reconsidered the matter. For he
had not gone twenty yards when he was suddenly surrounded by a mob of
boys of all sorts and sizes, apparently all in a passion.
"You, Christie Brent, that comes turning folks out of their place, stop
a moment," said Billy Kirby, coming close to him.
"I didn't turn you out, Billy. You went off of yourself."
Here Billy, relying on his superior size and weight, forgot himself
so far as to give his enemy a slap on the face with his open hand,
knowing no better. In another moment, Billy lay on his back; he had a
singing in his ears, and a dazzle in his eyes, and being on the ground,
he—stayed there.
"Get out of my way," said Christie, quietly. "I don't want to fight."
Curious to say, neither did they. They looked at prostrate Billy, and
at Christie's clenched fists, and felt much calmer than before. But a
boy who was well behind the others called out—
"Old Nick flew off with your father, Christie Brent."
In less time than I can tell it in, Christie was among them. Right
and left he struck: some fell, some struck at him awkwardly, some ran
away—all yelled, when a big rough voice called out—
"Stop that, you young fools, or I'll make you dance to another tune. I
won't have my hired boy set on—" and there was Ben Marks, with Hessie
half hid behind him.
"Get up, Billy Kirby," and Ben gave him a kick, but Billy did not move.
The boys had all fled, save Billy.
Christie came up, flushed and excited.
"Get up, Billy," said he. "I know you're not really hurt."
Billy still lay motionless.
Hessie stooped over him: Billy uttered a piercing yell, scrambled up,
and fled.
"I stuck a pin in him," said Hessie, dancing for glee, "a big pin! I
left it in him—just to make him a bit lively."
Christie was not again annoyed by Billy, nor did any of the boys molest
him as he came and went. But they had never liked him, always saying
that he thought himself too good for "their" company; and they disliked
him more now.
Sometimes Hessie coaxed him to stay for a game of play when his work
was done, and then the boy was shocked at the language he heard the
others use, and at the idle, mischievous, dishonest tricks that they
were always playing. He spoke his mind more than once, and he did all
he could to get Hessie to give up all friendship with them, but Hessie
would not do this, and was indeed very angry with him.
"You won't play with me yourself now, Christie, and you want me to
quarrel with every one else," she said.
Indeed, Christie had little time for play in these days. He had
sometimes six hours' work each day for Marks, sometimes less, for Ben
never worked if he could find an excuse for being idle. But the garden,
and the bees, and the turf, and the care of his mother, whose mind
seemed to get weaker every day, kept Christie hard at work from morning
till night. Even in the winter, he found plenty to do, for the days
were short, and he could not afford candles; and when the long days
came again, the amount of work he contrived to get through was simply
amazing.
All this did not tend to make him popular. His constant industry was a
silent reproach to the rest; and though he now held his tongue and kept
aloof, they knew what he thought of them. To a great extent, he lost
his influence over Hessie Marks. The boy was not to blame for this, for
he had to care for his helpless mother; but it was a pity, for Hessie
would have companions of some kind, and those she had now were very bad
ones.
During that summer the Brents got on somehow. The potatoes were
planted, the bees seen to; as long as there was a glimmer of light
Christie used it for knitting, and when Kate saw him at work she would
do a little too. But getting turf was the great difficulty; for though
he could get a great deal done at home, he seldom had a day to himself,
and by the time he reached the turf-cutting, it was generally time to
think of going home again.
"I must take some of my wages in coal," thought he.
But alas! coal was dear that year, and Ben laid in but a scant supply.
And when the cold weather came, and Christie made his request, Ben
refused to let him have any. Christie tried to speak of his mother, but
Ben swore at him, and threatened to dismiss him if he said another word
about the matter.
If the truth must be told, Ben would not have been sorry to be rid
of the boy; in common with his neighbours, he did not like him. Poor
Christie's life was a reproach to him, as well as to others, and his
quiet, silent ways, Ben thought, showed that he despised his master.
Perhaps, indeed, Christie did despise him; he certainly felt surprised
when Ben told him to let the fire out, as he meant to work no more,
when a job was perhaps half done. Then, too, although the lazy, selfish
fellow would take no trouble to keep his pretty Bessie out of bad
company, he felt angry that Christie was no longer ready to take her
off his hands, and provide innocent amusement for her.
Before December was over, Christie's little store of turf was gone!
He used it sparingly too; but Kate, poor soul, once so patient, so
uncomplaining, was now so sadly changed that if Giles had come back,
he would have been sorely amazed. She was chilly, and would watch her
opportunity and pile on a big fire; or if prevented, would sit down
and cry. And when she did that, Christie got reckless! The turf was
piled up with eager hands, and—poor Christie! he even broke up John
Donkey's cart, and burned it too! He went to his aunt and begged hard
for a little turf—not as a gift, he would pay for it. But Jane had not
too much for herself, and her sons would not let her part with a single
turf, saying they remembered well when Giles had refused to lend them
any.
One day,—it was an idle day at the forge, and it was now February, and
bitterly cold,—Christie was driven nearly wild by his poor mother's
complaints. The only fuel he now had was dry ling and heath, and such
gorse as he could contrive to cut. It was impossible to cut turf,
even if wet turf was of much use, for the ground was frozen. Kate was
sitting shivering by the fire, such as it was, and crying weakly, poor
soul; and he could do nothing, for he had wrapped her up in everything
he could lay hands on, and still she was cold. He took the old
bill-hook with which he cut the gorse, and went out in despair at last.
Of all things, gorse is about the hardest to cut, as it is fibrous, and
very hard (of course I mean thick stems, such as he wanted), and he had
already cut all the good-sized pieces that grew near the cottage. He
looked round hopelessly, and at last said—
"Ghosts or no ghosts, I'll go up the Miner's Road!" And then he
hesitated, and looked again, thinking—"I see heaps of big bushes there,
for no one ever goes near it. I may even find some wood under the big
thorn-trees. Jem says there certainly are ghosts, and his mother saw
them when she lived there. 'We' never saw any; and if I do now, I can't
help it. I 'must' get fuel."
So up the Miner's Road he took his way, for the first time since he was
a child of four or five, and having wandered in that direction, had
been soundly whipped by his father for so doing. Not, as he thought, on
account of the ghosts, but Giles feared that the child might get into
one of the old mines and be lost.
Christie went up the rough ascent bravely, and was rewarded for so
doing; for he found a lot of dry wood under the hawthorns, broken off
in many a storm. These he cut up into short pieces, collecting every
morsel with jealous care; and in searching about he found a little
black stone. It had rolled—oh, how many years ago!—into a sheltered
hole, and when he picked it up, he thought it was a piece of coal.
All at once his poor lost father's talk about the coal that used to be
dropped from the trollies that brought it down the hill, came back to
his memory, and he stood there a long time with the bit of stone in
his hand, thinking. Then he pulled a piece of cord out of his pocket,
and tied up his sticks; gathered a lot of the withered heather that
grew in the crevices of the grey rocks, and laid this treasure on the
sticks. This done, he began to scramble up higher—till he found himself
unexpectedly at the wide, low opening of the nearest mine.
Here he stood again, thinking. What had he ever heard about the mines?
He had often had a talk, long ago, with old Luke Martin, who had been a
miner till disabled by an accident, and who used to come to the cottage
sometimes to see Giles. He remembered that Luke told him that this, the
lowest mine, had never been worth anything, and had been abandoned for
those that lay beyond it.
Stooping to look in under the curtain of ivy, briars, and brambles that
hung over the hole, he fancied that he saw a pale gleam of daylight far
within,—that is, if the strange appearance were not a ghost! Christie
took a hasty step in flight, but stopped with a laugh, and went up
the road still further. Road indeed was now no name for it: it more
resembled the bed of a stream, or a roughly-made flight of shallow
stone steps; the original surface of the road was completely gone.
He reached a higher opening, over which the ivy hung very thickly; he
stooped and looked in. Dark everywhere! He crept in under the curtain
and tried to make out what kind of place he was in; but save the very
entrance, he could see nothing. So he crept out, clambered down the
grey cascade of stones at which he had looked so often from below, and
set out for home.
He built up a fine fire. Kate crept nearer, and looked up at him with
a faint smile. With a beating heart, he drew the bit of black stone
from his pocket, and laid it among the burning wood. At first he was
disappointed, for it lay there just as any stone might do. It had
been too long exposed to the weather to burn well—but it did burn,
after a time. Christie watched it; it smoked, then the flames licked
it greedily, then it moved a little, and a crackle—a very tiny little
crackle—came from it, and very soon it was all red. It was certainly
coal. Father had been quite right. And if there was any coal left
in the old workings, Christie determined to have it, "ghosts or no
ghosts," as he said himself.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]