GILES'S CRUTCH.
HESSIE MARKS was quite prepared to forgive Christie next day, and even
to go again to the mines with him. Indeed, she perfectly longed to go.
And when the day passed, and he said not a word to her about their
adventure, she became exceedingly angry. He looked so very grave and
sad, too, that she took it into her feather-pate that he had been so
badly frightened that he would never go again; and she wanted to go,
and knew that she had not the courage to go by herself.
When she saw him actually shutting up the forge and preparing to go
home, she felt obliged to go a few steps with him in order to let him
know her opinion of him.
"I suppose," said she, "you don't want my company this evening?"
"No," said Christie, "I'm bound to say I don't."
"If I was a boy, I wouldn't be a coward!" she remarked impressively.
"If I was a girl, I wouldn't cuff and scratch folk," answered Christie,
who wanted only to get rid of her.
"Take that," said the little vixen, springing at him, and dealing him a
sounding box on the ear. "I saved your life, you ugly lump, and this is
all my thanks for it."
"You did indeed, Hessie—I know you did. But be careful—don't talk about
it here."
"And you never mean to try again?"
"Oh—I don't say that." And Christie nodded and left her.
The idea that he would go without her fortunately did not enter her
head. And as she went home with her nose in the air at once, she failed
to see him go into Widow Kirby's shop, where he bought another candle.
When Christie got home, he searched about for some rags to make tinder
of, and made a small supply. Then he got out poor John Donkey's harness
and fastened it all together, so as to form one long strap, to which
he carefully knotted the rope he had used as reins. Going out into
the shed, he passed this over a beam and tried if it would bear his
weight. Then he looked about for a long wooden peg, sometimes used for
tethering old John or the cow; finally, he possessed himself of his
father's hammer. Having packed his basket, he proceeded to make his
mother as comfortable as he could; and now he was ready to set off.
Poor Kate!—When he kissed her, she little knew how likely it was that
he might never come back to her again; for what would have happened had
he carried out his present plan, I should not like to prophesy. His
idea was, to drive the peg into the ground, fasten the harness to it,
and descend into the hole, if it proved deep, with the assistance of
the rope thus secured. And the whole affair, leather and rope alike,
was very old.
On the way up, he kept behind the trees and bushes, stooping so as
to be hidden by the big stones piled beside the road, when there was
nothing else to conceal him, for he did not want Hessie to follow
him, and he knew that she had the eyes of a hawk. He reached the mine
without adventure, entered quickly, lighted his candle, fastened the
cord to the ivy, and set forward, slowly and cautiously, but without
any hesitation. Soon he saw the hole: wide, ragged, black, and on the
edge lay his missing candle. He picked it up, put the ball of cord
into his pocket, and standing on the jagged brink, raised his light to
examine the interior of the hole.
Alas! There was no scrambling down. Hessie had been right, the hole was
nearly full of water—so nearly full that he wondered how he had failed
to touch it when he stretched his arm down.
Another curious thing caught his attention. The ground was damp. It had
not been damp the day before. Christie was thoroughly puzzled; long
afterwards the whole mystery was explained to him. The whole hill,
hereabouts, was honeycombed with caves, and although the opening by
which he had entered was made by the miners, they had soon penetrated
into this small cavern, with the deep water-hole in it. And sometimes
the water rose, though never much higher than the top of the hole;
sometimes it sank, so as to be nearly out of sight, and this seemed
to the original discoverers, as it seemed to Christie, very much more
wonderful than it really was. For the fact was, that the overflow was
occasioned by the melting of the snow in the hills, or by the abundance
of rain.
And now, as his eyes grew accustomed to the lights and shadows,
Christie saw another thing that had escaped Hessie. The cavern was
wider than the passage, and wider than the water-hole, so that one
could pass round the hole to where the heap that he had fancied was
coal, lay. By this time, in the wonder and interest of his position,
his thoughts had passed away from his idea about his father; and he
went round the hole, and found, in good truth, a little heap of coal.
Not perhaps more than a stone in weight, but a wonderful prize for him.
He gathered it up carefully into his basket, wondering how long it had
lain there, why it had been left, and why no one had ever looked in
before and seen it.
He made no further search, for he could scarcely have carried more down
that rough and difficult road, with the other things in his basket;
besides, his candle was getting short, and he did not want to light the
second. At the other side of the hole he stopped, to take a last look
in.
The water had fallen a little more, and—there was something in it.
With a smothered cry, the lad set down his basket, and put the candle
down beside the hole. He took the rope, and making a loop on it, began
to try to get hold of whatever this black object was. His first efforts
failed; his hands shook, and his attempts were hurried. His candle was
nearly done, but he lighted the other, and steadying his nerves by a
silent prayer for help, he began to try again.
With pale face and frightened eyes, he tried again and again; and at
last, the loop caught. Christie stopped again to wipe the cold moisture
from his face, and to draw a deep breath. Then he pulled; there was a
moment's resistance,—and then—on the rough ground beside him lay his
father's trusty old crutch.
The boy threw himself down beside it, and wept aloud.
"Oh, father, poor father!—then I was right. You came here to get the
coal,—you saw the heap as I did, but there was no one to pull you back!
Oh, dear father!—to think you're down there in the black water, not
even buried like Uncle Bob."
How long he lay thus Christie did not know, but he very fortunately
happened to look up presently, and he saw that his second candle was
all but burnt out. He sprang up, seized his basket and the crutch, and
ran out. It was very dark, and he hurried home, lest his mother should
get frightened. He put the crutch in the shed, and carried the basket
with the coal into the house.
He need not have feared for his mother; for she was sitting by the
fire, and only said that it was getting cold. He put on a few of his
precious bits of coal; in a few moments there was a gay, crackling
sound, and a flame soon leaped up, making the room quite light. Kate
laughed aloud and said—
"That will please Giles when he comes home. Giles loves a coal fire."
And neither she, nor even Christie, ever knew that those lumps of coal
had been collected by poor Giles himself!
You must remember that Giles had once worked in that mine, and so he
was aware of the pool. He had passed it safely, and gone some way down
the working or gallery in which he had worked as a boy, and down which
Christie had only taken a hurried look. Giles had a small lantern with
him—for which Christie had searched more than once since then; he had
found a few pieces of coal lying here and there, and had gathered them
into a heap, meaning to bring Christie with a basket next day. The
stifling feel of the air had warned him to turn back, for he had hoped
to examine more thoroughly; and he was leaving the place, when some big
white object, probably an owl, flew past him with a wild cry, almost
touching him. Giles unconsciously stepped back—
"Father won't come back," said poor Christie, his lips quivering.
"Not to-night. He and John Donkey will get back to-morrow."
"No, mother. Listen, dear mother. Father can never come back, because—"
"He 'will,'" interrupted Kate, half angrily. "He's my dear good man—I
won't have you say that."
"Well, it's of no use," the boy said. "I 'can't' tell her, nor she
couldn't understand."
From that day Kate never spoke again of going to the Water to
search—never seemed unhappy or anxious. Always, Giles and John Donkey
would get back to-morrow.
Christie found it a great relief, and did not know that it plainly
showed that her mind was utterly gone.
At all events, she never could be told of the finding of the crutch.
Christie wondered if he ought to tell any one else—Aunt Jane or Ben
Marks. But he knew what would happen if he did so. All Blackmead would
visit the mine; the people would perhaps insist on an attempt to
find poor Giles's body; and from that Christie shrank with a perfect
horror. Moreover, they would insist upon enlightening poor Kate, and he
believed that the very sight of that well-known crutch would kill her;
last, but not least, any chance of his getting any more coal for her
would utterly vanish.
For all these reasons, Christie made up his mind to keep his secret. At
first this was a dreadful burden to him, and he often felt that he must
tell Hessie, at least. But after a time, it would have required a great
effort to speak of it at all.
So, one morning, very early, Christie buried the poor old crutch in the
garden. He could see by the jagged, roughened look of the end of it,
that it had been jammed in between two stones, and the iron ferule was
probably sticking there still, for it was freshly wrenched off.
Into that mine he felt that he could never go again, and indeed this
was very fortunate, for it would have been in every way dangerous,
particularly as he would have carried a naked light.
But after a few days, when he had a little recovered from the shock,
he examined the lower one. Now this mine had more than one opening,
because it lay under a sharp slope of the hill, and the coal here had
been very near the surface, though not quite near enough to be dug
out with a trowel, as I have known it to be done in another part of
Yorkshire.
The mine too was not quite dark; there were several cracks in the roof
through which he could see the green of the heather, or of a fern.
Being thus ventilated, it was perfectly free from foul air; bats, owls,
and even foxes haunted it, but nothing that could injure the boy, or
frighten him for more than a passing moment. It had been the first coal
discovered, and the better veins had been reached before this was quite
worked out; so here Christie found what seemed to him an abundance
of coal, though he found the work very hard. It was not first-rate
coal, but it was very precious to him for his mother's sake; and the
fact that there was very little of it did not matter to Christie, as
things turned out. He had all the comfort of believing that he had an
inexhaustible supply, and it outlasted his need of it.
One evening in summer, Christie was at his usual work in the old mine,
laboriously, with spade and hammer and an old axe, digging out or
chipping off bits of coal, some large and some small. The vein had
grown smaller and smaller as he followed it up, and in fact he was very
near to the end of it. It had dipped a little, and he had had to dig
a trench of about two feet deep to reach it. In this trench he stood
hammering in a wooden wedge between two pieces of coal, so as either to
break or dislodge them, when suddenly something sprang on his back, and
a voice—a dreadful hollow, roaring voice—cried in his ear—
"I'm a ghost! I've got you at last!"
"That's Hessie," he said, laughing. "I knew these few days that you
were watching me."
Hessie pulled his hair well for him.
"You nasty, unkind boy," she said, "to be coming here and getting heaps
of coal, and never to tell me. And I like coming here so much."
"Well, you see, I'm mortal afraid of my secret being found out; and
though I know you won't tell, yet if you were always coming here with
me, folk would begin to wonder what you were at; maybe even might
follow you."
"They may follow me as much as they like, I mean to come often. Upon
my word, any one would think you owned the mines. Any one has as much
right to the coal as you have, and father 'll like some, I know. You've
been very unkind to me lately, not seeming to care that I wasn't
friends with you, and I won't be friends now. Just dig and hammer away
while you have it all to yourself, and I advise you to keep out of the
way of other folks when they know what a grab-all you are; for they 'll
be apt to give you what you deserve."
Christie went on hammering for a few minutes, then scrambled out of the
trench and put on his jacket.
"Hessie," he said; "I 'have' cared that you are not friends, but I've
had so much on my mind that I had no heart to fight it out with you.
What has turned you against me, Hessie?"
"Just your own mean ways," she answered promptly.
"I'm 'not' mean. I'm only a boy, and I've got to support my mother,
who's getting every day less able to do for herself. And she's never
happy without a blazing fire—ay, even now, this hot weather. You don't
know what 'tis to have that fire always on my mind. I'm saying all this
just to try and put myself right with you, Hessie, if I'm not just the
same that I used to be. I've heavy troubles; heavier than you know of.
I'm not saying it for fear of your telling folks of me, because I know
you won't do that. I know your bark's worse than your bite."
"I'll tell father to-night," she said saucily.
"Not you. I'm not afraid of you."
"I believe you're not afraid of anything," she said, admiringly. "I
thought I'd scare the wits out of you, pretending to be a ghost. I
wonder how many of the other boys would come up here alone, day after
day,—but I needn't wonder, because I know they'd rather be flogged than
come halfway. Did you ever go to the mine with the hole again?"
"Once."
"Is there no coal there?"
"I don't know. There's enough here for me. See, I have enough now to
fill the basket twice. I'll carry half down now, and come for the rest
to-morrow evening. Only for this coal, mother would have died of that
last snow. Come, let us go down."
They went quite amicably together to the cottage.
"Come in and see my mother. When I've put on the pot of stirabout, I'll
go a bit up the moor with you, and show you the cunningest nest you
ever saw, full of little wee birds—wrens, I think."
This was an offer sure to be accepted, for Hessie loved the little
birds dearly.
Kate took no notice of her. Christie got the pot ready and set it on
the fire; he put the stick into her passive hand, and said—
"Won't you stir for me, mother?" and waited to see that she began to do
so.
"That's all right now," he said; "come along, Hessie."
The nest was worth seeing. Christie had passed it many a time before he
became aware of its existence, though it was on a level with his head,
and quite close to him as he went up for his cow. There was a rock on
one side of the path worn by his feet, and it was thickly coated with
moss. One day Mrs. Wren was rash enough to pop in through her tiny
doorway under his very eyes, and he, of course, examined the place. He
found that the birds had pushed a little patch of the moss out from the
rock so as to form a kind of pocket, which they had lined softly, and
in which they were rearing a thriving family of nine little half-naked
things, each no bigger than a humble-bee.
Hessie was greatly delighted, and so far mollified that she said to
Christie—
"Well, good-bye. I shan't tell any one about the coal; make your mind
easy."
"My mind is not uneasy," he said, laughing. "Good-bye, Hessie. This
has been like the pleasant old days, hasn't it? Don't you just wish we
could be small children always?"
"No," said Hessie, vigorously. "I want to be big enough to give your
cousin Jenny Brent a right good shaking. She thinks to get father to
marry her, and I won't have it. I hate her like poison."
"No, you don't. 'Tis not right to hate any one."
"Can't help that; I do hate her, and she's as ugly as the—"
"Hush!" the boy said, putting his hands over his ears. "Hessie, it do
hurt me when you say bad words."
"Oh, get out of that," the girl said angrily. "I shall talk just as I
like. Good-night."
It was but a short time after this that Jane Brent came to see Kate,
which she had quite given up doing for a long time; for, as she said,
it was no pleasure to her and no good to poor Kate, and the boy
took right good care of her. Christie was out, and she walked in,
complaining of the heat, to find Kate sitting close to a good fire.
Jane tried to get her sister-in-law to talk, but without success.
"Ah, you poor soul!" she said. "You was ever soft. My man was better to
me than yours to you, yet I didn't fret myself silly for him, though I
miss him a deal more than I expected. Dear heart, her hands are cold,
and she wasting, as one may say, before a fire fit for winter. Such a
waste of fuel! Bless me! 'Tis coal too, I declare! Where does the boy
get it? Takes part of his wages in coal, I suppose. Don't you find
yourself a deal too hot, Kate?"
This question seemed to rouse Kate.
"'Tis cold," she said, "very cold, and Giles loves a coal fire. Giles
and John Donkey will get home to-morrow."
"'Tis just lamentable," said Jane, with a frown that would have
frightened a stranger, it was so fierce. "The best man that ever
lived isn't worth losing your wits for, but then, it was the way she
lost him. 'Tis a comfort to know my poor Bob lies decent in a proper
churchyard."
Finding herself getting dismal, Jane went home.
"Jenny," said she to her eldest girl, "I do declare it would be the
death of me if I had to be much with poor Kate up there."
"Why do you go at all, if you don't like it?" asked Jenny.
"A body must be neighbourly; and I'll tell you one thing—I have
thirteen children," said Jane, impressively, "and Kate has but one.
Yet, suppose I was wandering in my wits, and not able to do a thing for
myself, would you, all thirteen of you together, keep me as Christie
keeps his mother? I will not say that the place is as particular as
when she was about; but 'tis wonderful clean—far more so than this; and
a mug of milk beside her, and a grand fire, and—"
"A fire, mother! Is it to-day? Why, 'tis roasting hot."
"Kate's always cold, poor soul; and he has a 'nice' fire—a 'coal' fire,
mind you; and a little basket of coals and sticks ready to her hand."
"Why, how does he get coal?"
"He must get Marks to pay him partly in coal. Jenny, mind this, now,
don't mention this to Marks at all. Indeed, 'twould be far better if
you kept at home and not go running after Marks, for he's a bad fellow,
and he led Hessie's mother the life of a dog, as I well remember. But
about Christie,—don't speak about the coal to Marks. If it is so, that
the boy does take a few lumps of coal, 'tis for his mother, and it
won't be for long, for Kate's a dying woman."
Jenny made no reply. She was now a grown-up woman, and she had made up
her mind to marry Ben Marks, who was very much better off than any one
else in Blackmead. Indeed, why he stayed in Blackmead was a mystery
to the few who thought about it; but the truth is, that Ben had a
history, and not a particularly creditable one, and for reasons of his
own preferred solitude. I say solitude, for he kept himself somewhat
apart from the rest, and even when he joined them never seemed to be
one of them. Giles Brent had been the only person whose company Ben
sought; and every one prophesied that Jenny would "make nothing by her
endeavours"; and very little progress had she made, as yet, but she was
persevering.
Late that evening Jenny went to the village, and presently found
herself passing the forge. Christie had gone home, of course, and
Hessie had gone with him. Marks was in the forge smoking, and Jenny
went up to the broad, low, unglazed window, and began a conversation.
That is, she began to talk, and Ben looked at her in a sulky way, and
wished she would leave him to smoke in peace. Jenny tried many subjects
without getting an articulate answer. At last she seated herself on the
window-ledge and looked at the fire, where a few cinders were still
alight.
"You must burn a pretty lot of coal here, Ben?"
Ben grunted.
"It must cost a lot of money."
No answer. Jenny was in despair. Hessie was generally at home when she
"happened" to pass the forge, and Hessie made fun of her, and was very
much in the way. It was too bad that Ben should be in such a sulky mood
on this one lucky day when Hessie was absent. Poor foolish Jenny had
little idea that Ben only talked to her to tease Hessie, and sharpen
her tongue for Jenny's benefit.
"You're none too civil to-night, Ben Marks; and yet I came partly to do
you a service. I'll keep it to myself, though; for small thanks shall I
get from any one. But it do seem unneighbourly to go without a word of
warning. You're a man that would not like to be cheated."
Ben took the pipe from his lips and turned towards her.
"Who's cheating me?" he said.
Jenny pursed up her lips and nodded her head many times.
"You won't tell any one 'twas me told you, Ben?"
"You've told me nothing," growled Ben.
"But I will; and mother would be angry if it came to her ears. She'll
say 'he's' my cousin, and 'you're' nothing to me. But—you see, I do
think a heap of you, Ben."
"Christie Brent's not cheating me. He's a fool, and a conceited
jackass; but he's honest, or I'd have rid myself of him long ago."
"He's honest, is he?" said Jenny, with a laugh.
"The only honest boy of all I've had in Blackmead; your brother Jem
being one."
"Well, Ben, you keep the key of your yard, where you keep the coal, in
your own pocket from this time; and then maybe 'honest' Christie will
burn turf like the rest of us."
Marks stared at her; then walked to the door and opened it.
"Where are you going?" asked Jenny.
"To see for myself."
"Well—but mind, you're not to tell. Go up as if by accident. He does
not take his pay in coal, then?"
"No. I'll not mention you."
Ben strode along, with Jenny half running beside him, till they reached
her home. Here they parted, without a word from Ben, who did not even
nod his head when she said good-night.
Christie and Hessie were coming down the hill as Ben reached the
cottage. He stood at the gate waiting for them.
"Why, father, what brings you here? We've been to see the nest I told
you of, again."
Ben made no answer, but walked on to the house. They followed. Ben
looked at the fire.
Kate half rose from her seat, saying—
"Is it Giles?"
"No, ma'am, 'tis me, Ben Marks. Christie Brent, there's your week's
wages. I don't want you any more. If you weren't poor old Giles's son,
I'd give you a flogging you wouldn't forget in a month."
"What for?—What is wrong?" said Christie. "There's nothing that I can't
make plain in a moment."
"Oh, 'tis plain enough!—Come, Hessie. Mind now, you're to drop him this
moment. You're never to speak to Christie Brent again. Nice ways you
learn of him. Get home, you monkey."
Christie knew, by the way in which Ben looked at the fire, that in some
way the coal was the cause of anger. But he thought that Hessie had let
the secret escape her, and that Ben was angry because he had not been
offered a share. He never perceived that Ben was accusing him of theft.
Neither did Hessie, who, seeing that her father was very angry, ran off
home at full speed. Ben followed her more slowly. Christie sat down in
silence, and brave as he was, he was nearly in despair.
Marks tramped home, and at once called Hessie to him.
"Girl," he said, "did you know of this?"
"Yes, I did. Christie asked me to keep it secret."
"Well then, I'm just going to give you a proper beating. You ungrateful
little brat! Gets your own way in all things, and then lets your father
be robbed under your very eyes."
He took up a stick as he spoke.
Hessie was terrified, for he had never struck her before.
"Robbed!" she cried. "Does the old mines belong to you? I didn't know
it! I didn't, father. Oh, don't beat me! Christie never knew it either."
"The old mines!—What are you talking about?"
"Why, I do believe you thought he took the coal out of the yard here?"
"So he does—and you've helped him."
"He got it in the old mines, father, he did indeed. I'll tell you all
about it if you only won't beat me."
The girl's face was full of terror. Ben flung away the stick; and she,
with tears and sobs, told the whole story, as far as she knew it.
"And you won't tell his secret, father?—For every one would go and get
what they could, and leave none for Christie to get for poor Mammie
Kate. Besides, they might be angry."
"So they would!—Young covetous, all for himself. Why on earth didn't
the young fool tell me this story himself?"
"He would, if he had known what you meant. Why, I thought you knew
where he got the coal, and that you were angry because he didn't share
with you; and, I'm sure, so did he."
"Oh, I see. A pair of fools you were."
"But, father, may I run back and tell Christie how it really is, and
that he may come to the forge to-morrow?"
"No. If he comes to me to-morrow, I'll forgive him."
"What for, father?" said Hessie.
"Being a fool," Ben answered, with a laugh. "If he's too proud to do
that, he may stay away. Boys are plenty, and I don't care for him."
"Who told you that Christie had coal?" Hessie asked next.
"Never mind."
"If I guess, will you tell me?"
"No, I will not. Guess, Hessie."
"'Twas Jenny Brent, then!—I know it was. It was just like her. I
suppose she went prying in the cottage while Christie was out, and saw
the fire. Then she thought she had a fine story for you, to make you
talk to her. Oh, that's Jenny."
Ben roared with laughter, but would not answer.
Hessie soon went up to her little room over the kitchen, but instead of
going to bed, she waited till her father was asleep, and then ran like
a deer up the valley to the lonely cottage. She went to the window of
the bedroom, and tapped at it.
"Christie, Christie, come here for a moment."
"Coming," said Christie.
And in a few moments, he joined her at the door. There was a bright
moon, and she could see that he looked grave and—angry, she called it.
"So," said he, "you didn't keep my secret."
Hessie stood silent before him.
"Well, well," he said, "I'm sure you didn't mean it, Hessie."
"Christie, I despise you!" was her answer. "I didn't tell your secret.
Father thought you were stealing his coal, and that I was helping you;
and he took a stick to beat me, but I found out his mistake, and then
I had to tell him how you really got the coal. And if you come to him
and tell him about the mines to-morrow, he'll take you back, and if
you don't come, he'll get another boy, and I don't care now which you
do, so settle that for yourself. I slipped out when he was asleep, to
come and tell you this, for he would not let me do it when I asked
him. And 'you' were thinking this of me. I've done with you, Christie.
Never look at me nor speak to me any more. You may tumble into the
water-hole, or starve, or get lost like your father, and I shan't care.
I've just done with you. I despise you; and that's my last word."
She flew down the path, and Christie after her.
But she was fleet of foot, and he was very tired, so he gave up the
chase.
"I'll talk to her to-morrow. Poor Hessie, 'twas a shame to think it
of her. But as to working for Ben Marks any more, 'that' I won't! To
think me a thief! He may blow his old bellows himself if he likes, for
I shan't."
Full of indignation, he went back to bed.
Hessie reached home safely, and cried herself to sleep.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]