FLIGHT.
SOME time passed away quietly enough after this visit from Jane Brent
to the cottage. Several things combined to make a kind of pause among
the Blackmead people before they further molested Christie. This they
were very well inclined to do, opportunity permitting; for the boy had
been kept so much apart, and had been brought up so differently from
their system, that he had never been popular at any time. The anger
about the coal was very great. Of late, too, Christie had become more
disliked than before; his endeavours to keep Hessie Marks from playing
with the rough boys and screaming girls of the village was resented
both by the boys and girls themselves, and by their parents. Hessie had
added to this feeling by repeating what Christie said to her, which she
sometimes did when annoyed with him herself. Then, he had contrived to
remain in Ben Marks' employment quite six times as long as any other
boy had ever done; this was another offence. They missed the excitement
of wondering how long the new boy would stay, and who would be the
next. There was much monotony in seeing Christie coming regularly to
his work for so long a time.
Had the boy come down into the village, he would certainly have been
set upon and ill-used. But it was not so tempting to go up to the
lonely cottage, from which Giles had disappeared so strangely, and
where Kate had died so recently, in order to ill-use their son.
Moreover, some cautious folks hinted that whatever Ben Marks might
have said to Billy Kirby in a moment of anger, he might resent the
ill-treatment of his old friend's son. And the very handsome thrashing
which Christie had bestowed upon Billy had made a difference in the
general opinion concerning his probable behaviour. Giles had been a
soldier, mind you!—and though no one had ever seen him with a weapon
of any kind in his possession, yet it was so very likely that his old
sword or bayonet (pronounced "bagnet") was stowed away safely in the
cottage. The lad who had "turned so savage" on Billy Kirby was capable
of using the sword or "bagnet,"—they had but dim ideas as to the
equipment of a British soldier.
Lastly, Jane Brent had, to a certain extent, taken him under her
protection, and Jane was a formidable-looking foe, and had sons who
sometimes attended to her wishes.
But if they did not act, they talked; and there was great talk about
getting coal, and of forcing Christie to show them the best places and
the best way of working. But the weather was warm now; perhaps the
bitter pinch of cold might give them courage, or make the ghosts keep
quiet. So in spite of all the talk, no one ventured up to the mines.
Thus, as I have said, there was a pause. And Christie lived alone in
his cottage, seeing after the garden, and the bees, and the cow, and
spending long hours alone on the hillside. It was an unwholesome life
for any one; particularly unwholesome for a mere boy, who had just lost
his mother, and had been unkindly treated by his neighbours. He had
no one to care for now, nothing to do but to provide for his own few
wants, and to brood over his misfortunes.
And he did brood over them. His father's dreadful death, his mother's
long sufferings, Hessie's desertion, Ben Marks' unkindness, and finally
the suspicions his cousins had entertained about him. He sometimes
read the Bible, as he had done of old to his mother; not, as of old,
to choose out some comforting words of cheer and hope, but to spell
through the threatenings in the Old Testament, and take a kind of
pleasure in imagining that all these woes would fall on his enemies.
And his enemies were every one, except Aunt Jane and Hessie. Poor
Christie!—he could understand but little of his one book, and except
to read, he had learned nothing. Kate had taught him that much. He had
always been a gentle and quiet boy, but there were very bitter and evil
thoughts in his mind now. Even Hessie had deserted him; well—he would
just forget that he had ever been fond of her.
I wonder what would have become of Christie if this state of things had
lasted long. Perhaps in time he might have remembered that his father
had run away and become a soldier, and bethought himself of following
that example. Just now he was too much stunned by his sorrow to think
of it. Had he stayed there till winter, he might easily have died of
hardship and privation. But a change was coming.
For some time the young Brents obeyed their mother, and said nothing
about Giles's crutch, and Christie's refusal to account for his
possession of it. Jenny was afraid of being laughed at for her cropped
head, and kept at home, and the young men were not great talkers. But
Jenny hated poor Christie in a very lively manner, as she laid the
blame of her cropped head upon his innocent shoulders. As soon as her
head was sufficiently clothed with short curls to look respectable,
Jenny began to feel, as it were, restored to society. And she at once
confided to all and sundry the whole story of the crutch being produced
by Christie, and laid in his mother's coffin, and all the surmises and
suspicions that had arisen in their minds.
At first this story was received as an amusing fiction, Jenny being by
no means famed for accuracy. But it was listened to, and repeated, and
finally half believed. The young Brents were questioned, and did not
deny the story; they added, indeed, that Christie had been with Hessie
Marks all the day on which Giles disappeared, but it was plain that,
for some reason, they were not satisfied by that statement. Every one
in Blackmead was talking about Giles's crutch now, and a few really
believed in Christie's guilt.
Still, they were so ignorant and so lawless that no idea of having
the matter properly inquired into ever entered their heads; and all
would most likely have ended in talk, but that just then Billy Kirby
gave up his place with Marks, declaring that since Christie Brent half
murdered him with a big stick, his bones seemed to have no strength in
them. To prove this true, he took to limping about with a stick, and
complained perpetually of the most dreadful pains and aches. There was
nothing ailing him, I may observe, but laziness. Ben Marks insisted on
his working as Christie had worked, and Billy did not like it. But his
mother believed him, or said she did; and she went about asking how
many people Christie Brent was to be allowed to murder, before anything
was done to teach him better?
Ben Marks heard all that was being said, and knew very well that it was
all nonsense. He thought it a good opportunity for getting Christie
back; a little experience of Billy had made him value the hard-working
boy more highly. He went up to the cottage, found Christie working in
the garden, and offered to take him back. Christie, looking at him with
a face so sullen that Ben hardly knew it, replied—
"I will 'not' go back to you. I'll starve first."
"Christie," said Ben, "don't you be a fool. You can't live here. You're
not safe either, for the folk yonder hate you. Now if you're working
with me, I'll protect you."
"If I was starving this moment, I wouldn't take a crust from you, nor
your protection either. I'll protect myself. Now you'd better go, for
I'm about opening a hive, and you'll get stung."
Ben still stood by the wall, arguing the matter. Christie got an old
box, and having passed a string under a hive, proceeded to turn it
upside down, placing it in the box, and lifting out some honeycomb. The
laces made a frightful commotion, buzzing round him, and behaving as if
they would sting him to death, but they did not sting him.
After a while, however, they became aware of Ben Marks, and not being
gifted with much common sense, they felt that it would be a relief to
sting him. Ben got two or three bad stings, and fled, pursued to some
distance by a little cloud of bees. He went home in an awful passion,
and cursing Christie with great heartiness. Christie laughed when he
saw him run; and if poor Kate had heard that laugh, she would never
have known it for his.
It was early in August now, and there was a moon. Christie had eaten
his evening meal, and sat in the window to use the last lingering
daylight in reading; for he somehow felt as if his mother might be
vexed unless he daily read a few verses. He was spelling out the
chapter about Korah, Dathan, and Abiram, and picturing the scene as
occurring in Blackmead, when he heard a light flying footstep, and in a
moment the door opened, and Hessie Marks ran in.
She was but half dressed; her feet were bare, her hair streaming over
her shoulders, her eyes blazing with excitement and fear.
"Christie, are you here? I see you now!"
She flew towards him, and flung her arms round his neck.
"Hold me, Christie. I've run so fast—I can hardly stand."
Christie placed her on the seat under the window. "Has the earth opened
and swallowed them alive?" he said, while the girl panted for breath.
"What do you mean?"
"It will one day," Christie said triumphantly, "swallow every one of
them, it will!—but you'll escape, Hessie. They're too cruel and wicked
to come to any better end."
Hessie shivered; she did not like her old comrade in his new character
of a prophet.
"There's no time for talking nonsense, Christie. I've come to warn
you—to save you;—for I 'do' love you, Christie, though I've been bad to
you. And you must run away, like your father, only you must never come
back. Run—run off this moment, for I'm afraid I hadn't much of a start."
"Who's coming?" said Christie.
"Every one! They say you killed your father, and nearly killed Billy
Kirby, and that you have something wrong about you, because ghosts
don't scare you and bees don't sting you—and a lot more nonsense. And
father won't protect you—he even locked me up to keep me from warning
you. He took away my shoes and my frock. And, Christie, they'll kill
you! They want to make you confess—something about Daddy Giles's
crutch; I couldn't understand what. But you'll be killed, if you're
here when they come."
"And you crept out, and came to warn me. Hessie, that goes warm to my
heart. Oh, if you had only not deserted me, I should never have been
so miserable. But now, what will become of you if I run off? They'd be
angry with you. Let them kill me—I'm none so keen to live. Go home,
Hessie, and tell them if you meet them that I—"
"Don't be a fool," interrupted Hessie, "I can get home easy, and no one
will ever know I was here. If you don't run this very moment, I'll just
stay here too, and they'll kill us both. I will, Christie."
She sprang up, and began rummaging the old box, in which she knew
he kept his few clothes. She tied up a shirt or two, and some other
things, in a handkerchief. Christie, after a moment's thought, got the
little box with his father's medal and precious bullet in it, and put
it into the bundle, also his little old Bible.
"That's right, Christie—you mean to go! You must go up to the
turf-holes, there's good places to hide there,—rocks and bushes,
plenty. Then you can steal away down the village when 'tis dark."
Christie went into the inner room and brought out a thin old shawl,
once pale blue, but now, from many washings, dingy white. He wrapped it
round Hessie, saying—
"You're cold, dear. I need not come down into the village at all, but
get right down the side of the mountain. I've little heart to go, but
when you want to save me, I will go, and—"
Hessie put her hand over his lips. Her quick ears had caught a sound.
"They're coming!" she whispered. "Go, Christie—never fear for me. I'll
run up the Miner's Road and get down by the Water. I know I can—I have
done it before."
She dragged him to the door and shut it softly when they were both out.
She kissed him, and then shook him, to rouse him up, as he was gazing
sadly round on the familiar scene.
"Go!" she said, pointing up the track. "Be off at once—good-bye,
Christie, good-bye."
Christie kissed her hastily, and took to his heels.
Hessie, as she had planned, ran up the Miner's Road, but not very far.
She could not resist the temptation to hide behind some bushes, to see,
first if her father were present; secondly, what they would all do when
they found that their victim was not there.
Presently they came. To Hessie, there seemed to be quite a
crowd,—really, there were about twenty men and boys, a few children,
and a sprinkling of women—Widow Kirby being one.
They called Christie to come out, and waited for some time, seeming
afraid to go near the door. But the widow went and opened it, and then
several of them ran in, shouting to the rest that he was not to be
found. Then they held a noisy consultation. Ben Marks was not there,
which rejoiced his daughter for many reasons. He would probably have
divined that the boy would take to the open hillside rather than go up
to the mines, which she perceived was the general idea.
The consultation ended in a movement that Hessie never expected. She
felt quite sure that not one of them would venture up the Miner's
Road in the pale uncertain moonlight, and at such a likely hour for
ghosts. She did not know what the sense of numbers and excitement, to
say nothing of the fear that Ben Marks would laugh at them, would do.
Before she could believe that they meant to come, they were coming; and
in silent terror, the girl turned and fled.
She kept sufficiently in advance not to be seen, but when she reached
the place where she had meant to descend, she knew that she had not
time; they would come up too soon and must see her. She flew on, up the
broken, sheltered path—she came upon the first opening. Should she run
in? No, they would search it, for it was easy of access. She would run
on, and perhaps while they were all in this mine, she might be able to
creep back and escape.
But she forgot that none of them knew the place as well as she did. In
the dim light, they missed the opening, and when Hessie reached the
mine with the water-hole in it, they were still after her.
"They'll throw me into the pool," the girl thought with a sick feeling
of horror, "and father will never know. Oh, I am so frightened! But
I've one chance left! I'll frighten them."
She climbed up carefully and silently, and darted in under the ivy.
Up came the leaders of the rabble.
"Ay—here's the opening. He's hiding in here; wait a moment for the
rest."
But they did not wait for all. When a few more had come up, they
clambered up the stone cascade—stopped to strike a light, and set fire
to a great piece of dry gorse, to light them. They stooped under the
ivy—they entered. Three of them were inside—four, five.
Then a white figure came into the passage, appearing very far off in
the uncertain, wavering light. It advanced, noiseless and slow; then
it paused, and uttered a moaning cry that froze their very hearts with
fear. Poor Hessie!—It was well for her that she had nearly lost her
voice from fear, for a good loud roar, such as she meant to raise,
would not have sounded half so ghostly.
Out they rushed!—They yelled, "The ghosts, the ghosts!"—They fell upon
those who impeded their flight—They fought and screamed, until all had
rolled, scrambled, or jumped back into the road. Then with wild cries,
they ran as hard as they could, and those who were still coming up
were borne away in the general rout; I must confess they made no great
resistance.
Poor Hessie!—She laughed and cried and glanced behind to make sure that
nothing of a really ghostly nature was following her.
"It was the white shawl that did it," she said to herself; "poor
Christie—only for Mammie Kate's shawl, they'd have known me."
She stole out cautiously; the coast was clear—and going quietly down by
the short cut to the Water, she reached home safely, some time before
the valiant men of Blackmead arrived in the village.
Hessie never confessed to her father that she had contrived to warn
Christie in spite of him, but Ben knew very well that she had. Indeed
the girl was lame for weeks from a cut on her foot, for which she
failed to account satisfactorily. But he held his tongue, and was
rather glad on the whole.
And the other Brents took possession of the cow and the hens at once,
and by degrees of almost everything else in the house. And the bees
filled their hives to overflowing, and had a jolly winter of it. The
garden ran wild, the cottage utterly lost its air of homely comfort,
and looked desolate and grim. The three who had come up the road to
Blackmead on that wild windy day, now fourteen years ago, were gone.
Giles and his faithful Kate were dead, and Christie was seen no more,
nor did any one know what had become of him.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]