LEFT ALONE.
BUT the morning light brought wiser counsel to poor young Christie,
and he set out for the forge at his usual hour. On his way, he met his
cousin Jenny.
"Where are you going, Christie?"
"To my work, I hope."
"Ben Marks seemed in a rage with you yesterday, Christie. I saw him
going up to your place, and I thought he seemed displeased. What was it
all about?"
"I expect," said Christie, "some one had been making mischief; and if
'twas you, Jenny, you might be ashamed of yourself. I never did you any
harm."
"Me!" cried Jenny, lifting up the voice of injured innocence. "How
should 'I' know whether you burn coal or peat?"
"I don't know how you knew it," Christie said with an unwilling laugh,
"but 'twas you, that's plain enough. Ah, well, you've done me a
mischief, whatever way it ends. Is there any use in asking you not to
talk about it to any one else?"
"I won't, Christie, if you won't tell mother what—what you think I did."
"Very well—that's a bargain. But I can't help wondering at you. I never
did you any harm, and I'm very sure mother never did."
Jenny went home, and I really think she was a little ashamed of
herself, but it did not last long.
Christie hurried on to the forge; Ben was lounging in the window.
"Ben," said the boy, "did you mean yesterday that you thought I stole
your coal? I did not. I got it up yonder; and if you look at this bit
I've brought, you'll see that it's not the same kind of coal at all."
Ben examined the coal.
"That's true," he said, "'tis none of my coal. Hessie told me about
it too. Well—I suppose you must stay at your work, then. For poor old
Giles's sake, I must put up with you."
"What have I done, that you should say that?"
"Nothing. 'Tis yourself, not your doings, that I dislike."
Christie reddened angrily, but the thought of his mother kept him
silent. With a sigh, he said quietly—
"You keep me for father's sake, and I stay for my mother's. And I must
ask one thing, Ben. While mother lives, will you keep my secret about
the coal?"
"I don't mean to say a word about it. But how you ever had the courage
to go into them mines, knowing what is said of them, I can't think.
And 'tis not a right kind of courage. I do believe the devil himself
must help you. And mind now, Hessie's to go there no more. I forbid it
altogether."
"Very well, I'll never take her. But she knows the way as well as I do."
"I'll settle that: light the fire now."
All that day Christie watched for a word with Hessie, and failed to
secure it.
Hessie hardly came near the forge, and when she did come, behaved as if
she did not see him at all. From that time she avoided him—never came
up to the cottage, never looked at him nor spoke to him.
So matters went on for a few weeks. Christie was straining every nerve
to get in a little store of coal, lest his secret, now no longer in his
own keeping, should leak out. This he feared; the misfortune that was
drawing nearer every day he never foresaw. For very soon he would dig
out the very last lump of coal; had he known this, he would indeed have
been in despair.
Now Jenny Brent, not knowing exactly what had happened on the evening
that Marks went up to the cottage, thought it prudent to keep out of
his way for a time. But after a time, she ventured again to the forge,
having seen Christie pass on his way home.
He was later than usual: for seeing Hessie playing a kind of hockey
with a herd of noisy girls and rough lads, he had joined the game when
he left work, hoping to get a few words with her. He did not succeed in
this, and after a while went home.
Ben Marks had been taking a good deal of beer during the day, and was
stupidly talkative, when Jenny came peeping in through the wide window.
She was in full possession of her senses, and wanted greatly to know
how Christie had appeased his master. And under the circumstances, it
is not surprising that she soon did know. She was still at the window
when Hessie ran up.
"What brings you here?" the girl said to her.
"Why, Hessie, I just happened to be passing, and got into a talk with
your father. And so Christie has been finding heaps of coal in the old
mines, and you helping him!"
"Father, you've been and told her."
"Why shouldn't he tell me? No one will touch you, because you're 'his'
daughter, but my word, Christie will hear of it. The little miser,—just
like his father, who wouldn't give his own brother a sod of peat."
"Jenny, don't tell," Hessie said eagerly; "he's your own cousin,—don't
get him into mischief."
Jenny only laughed and walked off.
Ben could have silenced her, but he had fallen asleep, and Hessie could
not rouse him.
Next morning, Christie, coming down to his work, was met by a rabble of
men and big boys, who attacked him savagely, with shouts of, "You young
rascal! Getting all the coal for yourself, and never giving one of us a
chance. We'll teach you to be neighbourly."
In a moment, the lad was knocked down, and blows and kicks rained upon
him as he lay on the ground.
But Hessie had been watching, and now she actually drove her father
into going to the rescue, by the sheer force of her indignation.
"You must, father; he'll be killed, and 'twas you told his secret. You
'must' go, father—you must, you must."
And he had to go. By this time, there were so many engaged in the fray
that even the formidable blacksmith had some difficulty in rescuing
poor Christie. Ben lost his temper, struck right and left with a heavy
stick which Hessie had thrust into his hand, at last got hold of
Christie, and dragged him to his feet.
Poor Christie!—he was a lamentable object. He had a terrible cut on the
head, his clothes were rent to tatters, his hat gone, and one arm hung
powerless by his side. Ben made a rush through the crowd, pulling the
boy with him. He reached the forge, where he possessed himself of an
iron bar, with which he promised to brain any one who came too near.
The few who had followed ran off, and Ben proceeded to examine Christie.
"There's no bones broke," he said, "and you've got what you deserve,
to my mind. You'll do no work for a day or two—so go home. I'll see if
Hessie has a bit of rag to tie up your head."
Hessie had some rag, and came with it to the forge.
"Was it you brought help?" Christie said, trying to collect his senses.
"Maybe 'twas I told your secret," said Hessie, with a toss of her black
mop of hair. "You're a nice sight for poor Mammie Kate—you, the good
boy, that never gets into mischief."
Christie was really not quite himself yet, but at his mother's name, he
started and said—
"I was going to ask if I might stop away to-day. Mother seems poorly.
She took a weak turn in the night."
"The neighbours have given you a holiday," said Ben. "You'll not work
with that arm for some time, though 'tis only a blow on the elbow. Go
home, and if you never come back, I shan't fret."
"They'll set on him again," whispered Hessie. "Go a bit of the way with
him, father, while I light the fire; and I'll blow for you when you
come back."
Ben nodded, and followed Christie, who limped along, hardly knowing
what he was about. No one molested them.
But at the corner of Jane Brent's cottage stood Jenny, in a wonderful
state of curiosity. It was so seldom that anything exciting took place
in Blackmead, and Jenny had an uncomfortably active mind.
"Laws, Christie! What's been done to you?" she cried shrilly.
And at the sound of her voice, her mother came to the door of the
cottage.
"'Tis your doing, Jenny," said the boy slowly. "You'll be sorry for it
yet." And he passed on.
"Jenny Brent," said Ben, "I've a notion that you were up at the forge
yesterday evening?"
"I was, Ben. Do tell me—"
"Wait a bit, young woman. I think you got that story about the coal out
of me, I being not quite sober."
"Well, Ben—but he deserved it."
"Very like, very like. But he's your cousin, and his mother's dying,
and moreover I don't choose to be made a tool of. You don't come to the
forge any more, Jenny. I don't want you there. I can do without you;
and if you come, I'll let Hessie have a stick, and go at you."
Ben turned to go home, and Jenny, beginning to cry, wheeled round
to enter the house, when suddenly she found herself in her mother's
clutches.
"I'll give you reason to cry," Jane said furiously. "All this mischief
is your doing, and I bid you never to mention it."
Having given her daughter a hearty shaking, Jane armed herself with a
singularly blunt pair of scissors, and with these she docked Jenny's
hair, of which the girl was very vain. Jenny was helpless and dizzy,
and before she could be certain as to what her mother was at, her head
was cropped like that of a convict. After this, she was desired to go
to bed, and there she was kept all day, without food. It was not often
that Jane administered justice, but when she did, she never tempered
it with mercy. Jenny was too frightened even to complain; and when
the others came home, they one and all shouted with laughter at her
appearance.
"Jenny, you're a beauty now, and no mistake!" said Jem.
"She's a sneak, and one that has no natural feeling," said her mother.
"She hasn't got all that's owing to her yet. And a disgrace, besides.
Ben Marks told her in my hearing to come near the forge no more, on
account of her conduct. Isn't that a nice thing, boys?"
It was very late that evening when Christie, pale and weak, with his
head tied up and his left arm quite useless, came to his aunt's door.
"Aunt Jane, come to mother; she's very bad. And my arm won't do a
thing. I can't so much as lift her."
"Did she get a fright, do you think, to see you like that?"
"No, she didn't notice. Oh, come quick, please."
Jane went with him, and stayed until, towards morning, poor Kate passed
quietly away.
Christie stood by his mother's side to the last. Then he went out into
the kitchen, and sat down, with his head on the little table.
"Oh, mother, how could you go and leave me alone? But she's better off.
I wouldn't ask to keep her. Only I do wish I was dead too, for—I've
lost everything."
"The poor child!" muttered Jane.
She dragged his bed out into the kitchen, and arranged it comfortably.
"Now look here, Christie," she said, in a threatening, bullying voice,
"you go to bed this minute. I'll stay till morning. Don't you fret
about a coffin, my boys shall make one for you. Landlord will lend his
pony, and we'll bury the poor soul decent."
"I'll work it out in the fields," Christie said faintly. "Yes, I'll go
to bed; for I'm dead beat—dead beat."
He was asleep in a few minutes, and Jane sat over the fire, scowling
heavily, and crying a little sometimes—for in spite of herself she was
fond of poor gentle Kate.
Robert and Jem obeyed their mother for once, and made a coffin; when it
was ready, they carried it up to the cottage.
Christie thanked them, and they told him that their mother was coming
up to help them.
"And how's your arm, Christie?"
"'Tis better. I began to think Ben was wrong, and that 'twas broken,
but he was right. I shall be all right in a day or two."
"And get back to the forge?" asked Jem.
"No. I'm not going back, except just till Ben gets some one else. I had
sooner starve. I did it for—her sake, but Ben has said things I can't
forget."
"You 'will' starve, Christie. You'd better stay."
"Why should I starve? There's the garden, and the cow, and the hens,
and the bees. Anyhow I'd sooner starve than—Here's Aunt Jane."
"And our Jenny. Well, Jenny, you are a show."
"Let her be, boys," said the mother, who by this time was sorry enough
for what she had done.
Christie never seemed to notice the girl, but watched with misty eyes
while they placed his mother in her poor coffin. Robert was about to
nail it down, when Christie cried suddenly—
"Stop!—Wait one minute."
He went out, and they waited wondering. Nor was their wonder lessened
when Christie returned, carrying a long stick. He came up to the
coffin. It was his father's old crutch—they all knew that in a moment.
"I took it up this morning, for I knew she'd like to have it," the boy
said, as he laid it gently in the coffin.
They looked at each other; they were puzzled, but not being very quick,
they did not see at once how very extraordinary it was that Christie
should have that crutch in his possession.
"Poor mother! She never knew—she couldn't have understood. But I know
she'd like to have it."
Kate Brent was carried down to the churchyard in Grassley next day,
Robert and Jem going with Christie, who indeed could hardly have walked
so far without their help. They came back in the cart, and Christie got
back to his desolate home early. Being very tired, he slept soundly,
and felt far less stiff next day. He went down to the village at his
usual time, and no one molested him; in the heaviness of his heart, he
had forgotten to be afraid.
Ben was not in the forge. Christie opened the door, lighted the fire,
and set everything in order.
Presently Ben appeared.
"You here!" said he. "I didn't think you'd be able to work yet."
"I think I can. My arm is better, and it is my left arm, you see. How
soon could you suit yourself with another boy, Ben? I'll work for you
till you get one."
Ben looked rather surprised.
"What's the meaning of that?" he asked.
"I don't want to work for you any longer."
"It is only for your father's sake that I kept you so long."
"It was only for my mother's sake I stayed," Christie answered, quickly.
"You'll starve, you know."
"I don't intend to. I've served you honestly; I've worked hard for
you. I'd serve you at the same wages still; only I cannot bring myself
to put up with the way you speak to me. If I was a dog, you might be
civiller."
"This is the thanks I get for taking you—"
"There's no thanks needed, either way," interrupted Christie. "You paid
me to do work, and I did it; and I did more work than any boy you ever
had, since I can remember. So we're quits, Ben. I only held on for her
sake."
In a day or two, as Ben did not seem to be looking out for a boy,
Christie reminded him that he wished to leave.
Ben had rather hoped that, having eased his mind by speaking out, the
boy would settle down again, particularly as he took care to be civil
to him. Now that Christie refused to stay, Ben began to contrast him
favourably with Billy Kirby and Co., and to wish to keep him; moreover,
he actually liked him better since he had shown a "spunk of spirit."
Meekness was a virtue not much appreciated at Blackmead.
Hessie, too, who had cried heartily for "Mammie Kate," fully expected
that Christie would come and make up their quarrel, and that then he
would remain with her father. But days passed and Christie did not go
to her, so she got angry, and pretended not to see him when they met by
accident.
"I'll have one by the day after to-morrow," Ben said in reply to
Christie's reminder. "It won't kill you to wait till then."
That evening he went to the Kirbys' to see if Billy could be had for
the present. Billy was at home, and consented to give the forge another
trial.
"Now that Christie's no longer your boy, I suppose you won't come out
at us, if we hoot him a bit?" inquired the industrious youth, yawning
widely.
"Not I," said Ben; "I hate the fellow."
So next evening, when, with his last wages in his pocket, Christie
was going home, he was set on by a little tribe of small boys, headed
by big Billy Kirby, armed with a stout stick. Billy had every reason,
presently, to wish that he had left that stick at home; for Christie,
taking no notice of the smaller boys, fell upon Billy—took the stick
from him, and gave him a very satisfactory thrashing with it. In fact
Billy could not begin work next day.
Poor, poor Christie!—as he walked on that evening towards home, he felt
very bitter and very wretched.
"Why am I to be run after as if I was a mad dog?" he muttered. "I've
never hurt one of them, only Billy, and he began it. I've been honest.
I speak the truth. I don't swear. I've worked hard for mother. I've
said my prayers always, and read a bit of Bible at times. There's
Billy—never would help his mother, not so much as to drive home her
goat for her. There's Jem Brent never does a stroke of work since Uncle
Bob died, except in harvest. There's Jack Lucas knocked his mother down
and leathered his sister; and they all swear, and lie, and steal, and
fight half the day. I don't understand it,—I don't! Seems to me I might
as well be wicked.—Well, I may starve, no doubt, but I'll ask none of
them for so much as a mouthful of stirabout. I've done with them. I'll
never go into the village again; just keep to myself and starve, if I
must."
That night, as he sat eating his supper of potatoes and milk, his Aunt
Jane surprised him by walking in. She looked more frowning and savage
than usual,—which indeed only meant that she had a task before her
which she did not enjoy.
"Well, Christie, so you've given up your place."
"Yes; I couldn't stay."
"You can't stay here alone, child."
"I can. And I will."
Jane looked curiously at him.
The boy was changed somehow, and spoke in a changed tone.
"I do hear you've half killed Billy Kirby."
"I gave him no more than he deserved."
"Christie, 'tis not natural for a lad like you to want to live here
alone; that's what they say."
"I don't care what they say. I'll trouble no one. If I ask you, Aunt
Jane, to do something for me, I'll pay by work. I'm a good gardener,
better than your boys, and I'll keep your garden going as it used to be
when poor Uncle Bob worked it, if you'll pay me in oatmeal and salt.
Give me what you think fair; I'll make it do."
"I'd do more than that for you, if—" Then in a different tone, and
looking at him in a strange, half-frightened way, she said, "Christie,
tell me,—how did you get your father's crutch?"
Christie started and shuddered.
"I can't tell you that," he said. "I never told mother; I tried once,
but I saw 'twould kill her. Don't ask me,—don't make me speak of it—I
never can sleep when I have to think of it."
Jane stared at him.
"Christie," she said, "we was slow to put it together so as to see the
meaning of it,—but this is how it is: and I stood up for you when the
rest thought the worst of you. I said you'd always been a good boy, and
that I was sure, from your ways with your mother, that you knew nothing
of it, however you came by the crutch. For, as they say, Giles had the
crutch with him that day. There was the marks in the mud, you know.
Perhaps, though, he had two?"
"No, only one that ever I saw. I'm—stupid, I suppose, for I don't take
your meaning."
"Well—see here. Your father had the crutch the day he disappeared, and
now you have it! And yet you helped to search for him as if you'd seen
him no later than Kate did, poor soul. And—well, you 'are' stupid,
Christie; but yet, I don't think you did it."
"Did what?"
"Made away with him—with your father."
Christie burst into a wild laugh, which had as much anger as anything
else in it. When he could speak, he said—
"Let them think what they like. I was up the mountain all that day with
Hessie Marks, getting turf. Hessie knows that. I left him there with
mother, and he worked in the garden after I went. You can ask Hessie,
if you like."
"But the crutch, boy. Did you find it down by the Water when you were
searching with Kate, and hide it from her?"
"They may think that, or anything else they like. I'll never tell any
one a word about it—never. Any fool can see that I had nothing to say
to poor father's death, and the rest is my own affair. As sure as I
stand here, I'll never tell another word."
With this, Jane had to be contented, or at least to go home; for
Christie, till lately so docile, was not to be persuaded now.
"They all hate me for nothing; I never hurt one of them. They may think
what they like about it. I've come to hate them, and I don't care what
they think. Hessie knows I was all that day with her; and besides, I
was a little fellow then, and—and loved father well. I never will tell
how I got the crutch."
Jane told her sons and daughter that Christie had been all that day
with Hessie Marks, getting turf. She also said that it was her belief
that he found the crutch near the Water, and kept it from his mother,
out of kindness. But they made her confess that Christie had not said
this, and so they persisted in thinking his possession of the crutch a
very suspicious circumstance.
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