THE MANTLE OF MANHOOD
Months passed, and Robert still worked on the pithead. Much of the
novelty had passed, and he was accustomed to the noise and clamor,
though he never lost the feeling that he was working with, or, indeed,
was part of, some giant monster, imprisoned and harnessed, it is true,
but capable of titanic labors and fall of unexpectedness. It was
ever-present, implacable and sinister, yet so long as its fetters held,
easily controlled.
The warm weather had come, and the lure of the moors called to him at
his work. Away out over there--somewhere--there were strange wonders
awaiting him. He watched the trains, long, fast, and so
inevitable-looking, rushing across the moor about a mile and a half from
where he worked, and often, he thought that perhaps some day one of
those flying monsters would bear him away from Lowwood across the moors
into the Big City. What was a city like? And the sea? How big would it
be? It was a staggering thought to imagine a stretch of water that ended
on the sky-line--no land to be seen on the other side! What a wonderful
world it must be!
But a touch of bitterness was creeping into his character, and for this
his mother's teaching was responsible. Nellie was always jealous of the
welfare of the working class, and was ever vigilant as to its interests.
She did not know how matters could be rectified, but she did know that
she and her like suffered unnecessarily.
"There's no reason," she would say, "for decent folk bein' in poverty.
Look at the conditions that puir folk live in!"
"Hoot ay! Nellie, but we canna' help it," a neighbor would reply. "It's
no' for us to be better."
"What way is it no'?" she would demand indignantly. "Do you think we
couldna' be better folk if we had no poverty?"
"Ay, but the like o' us ken no better, an' it wadna' do if we had mair.
We micht waste it," and the tone of resignation always maddened her to
greater wrath.
"There's mair wasted on fancy fal-lals among the gentry than wad keep
many a braw family goin'. Look at the hooses we live in; the gentry
wadna' keep their dogs in them. The auld Earl has better stables for his
horses than the hooses puir folk live in!"
"That's maybe a' richt, Nellie, but you maun mind that we're no' gentry.
We havena' been brocht up to anything else. Somebody has got to work,
an' we canna' help it," and the fatalistic resignation but added fuel to
her anger.
"Ay, we could help it fine, if we'd only try it. It's no' richt that
folk should hae to slave a' their days, an' be always in hardships,
while ither folk who work nane hae the best o' everything. I want a
decent hoose to live in; I want to see my man hae some leisure, an' my
weans hae a chance in life for something better than just work and
trouble," and her voice quivering with anger at the wrongs inflicted
upon her, she would rattle away on her favorite topic.
"There you go again. You are aye herp, herpin' at the big folk, or aboot
the union. I wonder you never turn tired, woman," the reply would come,
for sometimes these women were unable to understand her at all.
"I'll never turn tired o' that," she would reply. "If only the men wad
keep thegither an' no' be divided, they'd soon let the big folk see wha'
was the maist importance to the country. Do you think onybody ever made
a lot o' money by their ain work? My man an' your man hae wrocht hard a'
their days. They've never wasted ony o' their hard-earned money, an' yet
they hae naething."
"No, because it takes it a' to keep us," would be the reply, as if that
were a conclusive answer, difficult to counter.
"Well, how do ye think other folk mak' a fortune? Do ye think they work
harder than your man does? No! It's because our men work so hard that
other folk get it aff their labor. Do they live a better life than your
man or mine? They waste mair in yae day, whiles, than wad keep your
family or mine for a whole year. Is it because they are honester than
us? No. You ken fine your man or yoursel' wadna' hae the name o'
stealin'. But they steal every day o' their lives, only they ca' it
business. That's the difference. It's business wi' them, but it wad be
dishonest on oor pairt. Awa', woman! It's disgraceful to think aboot.
Naebody should eat wha disna work, an' I dinna care wha hears me say
it," and the flashing eyes and the indignant voice gave token of her
righteous wrath.
"That's a' richt, Nellie, but it has aye been, an' I doot it'll aye be.
We just canna help it," would come the reply.
"I tell you it's everybody's duty to work for better times. We've no
richt to allow the things that gang on. There's nae guid in poverty and
disease an' ill-health, an' we should a' try to change it; and we could
if only you'd get some sense into your held, an' no' stand and speak as
if you felt that God meant it."
"Ay, Nellie, that's a' richt, but it's the Lord's will, an' we maun put
up wi' it."
At this juncture Mrs. Sinclair's patience would become exhausted, and
she would flare up, while the neighbor would suddenly break off the
discussion and go off home.
Her children were taught that it was a disgrace not to resent a wrong,
and Robert, though only a boy, was always sturdily standing up against
the things he considered wrong at the pit-head.
Robert dreamed and built his future castles. There was great work ahead
to do. He never mentioned his longings and visions to anyone, yet
Mysie's sweet, shy face was creeping into them always, and already he
was conscious of something in her that thrilled him. He was awkward, and
his speech did not come readily, in her presence. Whole days he dreamed,
only waking up to find it was "knocking-off" time. There was an hour's
break in the middle of the day, and then he wandered out on the moor.
Its silence soothed him, and he would lie and dream among the rough
yellow grass and the hard tough heather, bathing his soul in the
brooding quietness of it all.
He was now twelve years of age, and longing to get at work down the pit.
It was for him the advent of manhood, and represented the beginning of
his real work.
One night in the late summer, after the pit had knocked off and the
"day-shift" was returning home, he and Mysie were walking as usual
behind the women. He had meant to tell her the great news all day, but
somehow she was so different now, and besides a man should always keep
something to himself as long as possible. It showed strength, he
thought.
"I'm goin' doon the pit the morn, Mysie," he said, now that he had come
to the point of telling her, and speaking as casually as he could.
"Oh, are you?" said Mysie, and stopped, disappointingly, and remained
silent.
"Ay. I'm twelve now, you ken, an' I can get into the pit," feeling a bit
nettled that she was silent in the face of such a happening.
"Oh!" and again Mysie stopped.
"My faither has got a place a week syne that'll fit John an' him an' me.
The three o' us are a' goin' to work thegither. If he could have gotten
yin sooner, I'd hae been doon a month syne. But he's aye been waitin' to
get a place that wad suit us a'," he said, volunteering this information
to see if it would loosen her tongue to express the regret he wanted her
to speak.
But again Mysie did not answer. She only hung her head and did not look
up with any interest in his news.
"It's aboot time I was in the pit now, ye ken. You used to get doon the
pit at ten. My faither was in it when he was nine, but you're no'
allowed to gang doon now till you are twelve year auld. I'm going to
draw aff my faither and John," and he was feeling more and more
exasperated at her continued silence.
Yet still Mysie did not speak, and merely nodded to this further
enlightenment.
"I've never telt onybody except yoursel'," he said, hurt at her seeming
want of interest, and feeling that what he was going to say was less
manly than he intended it to be. Indeed he was aware that it was
decidedly childish of him to say it, but, like many wiser and older, he
could not keep his dignity, and took pleasure in hurting her; for there
is a pleasure sometimes in hurting a loved one, because they are loved,
and will not speak the things one wants them to say, which if said might
add to one's vanity and sense of importance. "So ye'll just be by
yoursel' the morn, unless they put Dicky Tamson owre aside you," he
added viciously.
"I dinna want Dicky Tamson aside me," she said with some heat, and a
hint of anxiety in her voice, which pleased him a little. "He's an
impudent thing," and again she relapsed into silence, just when he
thought his pleasure was going to be complete.
"Oh, they'll maybe put Aggie Lowrieson on your side o' the table," he
volunteered, glad that at last she had shown some feeling.
"They can keep Aggie Lowrieson too," she said shortly. "I dinna' want
her. I'll get on fine mysel'," and she said no more.
He talked of his new venture all the way home, and he felt more and more
hurt because she did not reply as eagerly and volubly as he wished.
"It'll be great goin' doon the pit," he said, again feeling that he was
going to be priggish. "Pickin' stanes is a' guid enough for a laddie for
a wee while, an' for women, but you're the better to gang into the pit
when you're the age. You get mair money for it. Of course, it's hard
work, but I'll be earnin' as much as twa shillin's a day in the pit, and
that'll be twelve shillin's a week."
But Mysie could not be drawn to look at his rosy prospects, and still
kept silent, so that the last few hundred yards were covered in silence.
At the end of the row where they always parted, he could not resist
adding a thrust to his usual "good-night."
"Guid nicht then, Mysie. I thocht may be ye'd be vexed, seem' that
Dickie Tamson can torment you as muckle as he likes now." And so he
went home feeling that Mysie didn't care much.
But Mysie had a sore heart that night. She knew only too well that Dick
Tamson would torment her, and would be egged on by the other women to
kiss and tease her, and they would laugh at it all. Robert had always
been her champion, and kept Dick, who was a mischievous boy, at a
distance. She was sorry that Robert was going down the pit, and it
seemed to her that she'd rather go to service now. The harsh clamor and
the dirty disagreeable work were bearable before, but it would not be
the same with Robert away. She knew that she would miss him very much.
She thought long of it when she lay down in her bed that night. He had
no right to think that she was not vexed, and she cried quietly beneath
the blankets.
"Here's Mysie greetin'," cried her little brother, who lay beside her.
"Mither, Mysie's greetin'."
"What's wrang wi' her?" called the mother anxiously from the other bed.
"I dinna' ken," answered the boy, "she'll no' tell me."
"What is't that's wrang with you, Mysie?" again called the mother more
sharply.
"I've a sore tooth," she answered, glad to get any excuse, and lying
with promptitude.
"Well, hap the blankets owre your head," the mother advised, "and it'll
soon be better. Dinna' greet, like a woman."
But Mysie still continued to cry softly, choking back the sobs, and
keeping her face to the wall, so as not to disturb the other sleeper
beside her--cried for a long hour, until exhaustion overcame her, and at
last she fell asleep, her last thought being that Robert had no right to
misjudge her so.
Robert, on the other hand, as is the prerogative of the man, soon forgot
all about his disappointment at Mysie's seeming want of interest in his
affairs, and was busy with his preparations for the next day.
He had a lamp to buy, for Lowwood was an open-light pit, and was soon
busy on the instructions of his father learning the art of "putting in a
wick" to the exact thickness, testing his tea flask, and doing all the
little things that count in preparing for the first descent into a coal
mine. He was very much excited over it all, and babbled all the evening,
asking questions regarding the work he would be called upon to do, and
generally boring his father with his talk.
But his father understood it all, and was patient with him, answering
his enquiries and advising him on many things, until latterly he pleaded
for a "wink o' peace," and told the boy "for any sake" to be quiet.
Geordie Sinclair knew that this enthusiasm would soon evaporate. Only
too well he knew the stages of disappointment which the boy would
experience, and for this reason he was kindly with him.
He was now looking forward with better prospects. Robert was the second
boy now started, and already matters were somewhat easier; but he
shuddered to think of the lot of the man who was battling away unaided,
with four or five children to support, and depending on a meager three
and sixpence or four shillings of a daily wage to keep the house
together. For himself the prospect was now better, and in looking back
he realized what a terrible time it had been--especially for his wife;
for hers was the more difficult task in laying out the scanty wages he
earned.
It never had seemed to strike him with such force before, even when
matters were at their worst, what it had meant to her; and as he looked
at her, sitting knitting at the opposite side of the fire, he was filled
with compassion for her, and a new beauty seemed to be upon her lined
face, and in the firm set of her mouth.
Thus he sat reviewing all the terrible struggle, when she had slaved to
keep him and the children, during the time he was injured, and a pang
shot through, as the conviction came to him, that perhaps he had not
been as helpful as he might have been to her, when a little praise even
might have made it easier for her.
Impulsively he rose to his feet and crossed to where she sat, taking her
in his arms and kissing her.
"Losh, Geordie, what's wrong with you!" she enquired, looking up with a
pleased sparkle in her eyes, for he was usually very undemonstrative.
"Oh, just this, Nellie," he said with embarrassment in every feature of
his face, "I've been thinking over things, and I feel that I havena'
given you encouragement as I should have done, for all that you have
done for me and the bairns."
"You fair took my breath away," said Nellie with a pleased little laugh;
then, as she looked at his glowing face, something came into her throat,
and the tears started.
"There now, lassie," he said, again gathering her into his arms, and
kissing her tenderly, "it's all past now, my lass, and you'll get it
easier from this time forth. God knows, Nellie, you are worth all that I
can ever do for you to help," and the happy tears fell from her eyes, as
she patted his rough, hairy cheek, and fondled him again, as she had
done in their courting days.
"I'll wash the floor for you, lass," he said impulsively, almost beside
himself with happiness, as he realized that this little act of his had
made them both so happy. "You've been in the washing tub all day, and I
ken you'll be scrubbin' on the floor first thing in the morning, as soon
as we are away to the pit. But I'll do it for you the nicht. The bairns
are all in bed, and I'll no' be long. You sit an' tak' a rest," and he
was off for the pail and a scrubbing brush, and was back at the fireside
pouring water from the kettle before his wife realized it.
"Oh, never mind, Geordie," she said remonstratingly, "I'll do it myself
in the morning. You've had your own work to do in the pit, an' you need
all the rest you can get."
"No," he said decisively. "You sit doon, lass. I'll no' be lang. Just
you sing a bit sang to me, just as you used to sing, Nellie, an' I'll
wash out the floor," and he was soon on his knees, scrubbing away as if
it were a daily occurrence with him. And Nellie, pleased and happy
beyond expression, sat in the big chair by the fireside and sang his
favorite ballad, "Kirkconnel Lea."
Oh, that I were where Helen lies,
For nicht and day on me she cries,
Oh, that I were where Helen lies
On fair Kirkconnel Lea.
Oh, Helen fair, beyond compare,
I'll mak' a garland o' your hair
Shall bind my heart for evermair
Until the day I dee.
And Nellie Sinclair never in all her life sang that song so well as she
did that night; and she never sang it again. Robert, who was lying in
the room, heard her glorious voice, and marveled at the complete mastery
she showed over the plaintive old tune. It was as if her very soul
reveled in it, as the notes rose and fell; and it stirred the boy into
tremendous emotional excitement, as the tragedy was unfolded in the
beautiful words and the sadness of the old tune.
It was a memorable night of quiet happiness for all, and there was so
much of tragedy lying behind it unseen and unknown. But so often are the
sweetest moments of life followed by its sadness and its sorrow.