Mag’s Story
“Long ago, aye, very long ago, it seems now, there was a girl with a
temper so bad that no one could stand her ways.”
“Oh, lass,” interrupted her father, “don’t ye say that. Let me begin
the story for thee.”
Then the old man took it up in the dialect of the miners, which to the
readers of this would hardly seem like English, and for their benefit
must be put into plainer language.
“Yes, there was a girl,” he began, “an’ the handsomest one ever I
saw. Maybe she had somewhat of a temper, but no one could look into
her face and think a bit blame for what she said. An’ what a voice she
had! There was not a linnet could sing like her, an’ when all went
straight she was singing all the time. There was no one to look after
this girl, poor lammie, for the mother of her died before she had sense
to miss her, an’ left her to the care of a foolish old father, who had
small enough knowledge of the proper way to bring up a little lass.
He took her down into the mine with him sometimes, but it wasn’t to
her taste--the darkness fretted her, she wanted more liberty. If there
had been a school at the place it would have been the making of her,
for she had a quick mind, an’ it was a great worry to the father that
she couldn’t be put to something fitting for a little lass; but he was
near daft with the advising of one an’ another. One’s wife would be for
having her sent to town to be put to a trade; another’s wife was for
having her sent to learn service with some great lord’s housekeeper;
an’ there wasn’t a man’s wife of them all but had some plan to drive
him crazy with, an’ not one of them telling of a way that had a
possibility in it, or that the girl took a liking to, for she’d fly out
at all the ones that came advising. Not that she was a bad lass, if you
took her fair, but wilful-like, an’, maybe, too quick with her tongue
when she took a turn; but that was more the father’s fault, who had
never taught her the right ways for a little lass.”
Philip did not find the story as interesting yet as some of the more
exciting ones his grandfather told sometimes, of the three or four
years he had been at sea when he ran away from home; but he listened
patiently for what was to come, glancing anxiously at his mother, who
still knelt in front of the fire, with her head bent low on her breast
and her hands clasped in front of her. Philip had never seen her cry
before, but now, to his surprise, great tears gathered in her mournful
eyes, and once he was sure he heard a stifled sob; but the story began
to grow more interesting then, and in listening he forgot to watch her.
“Ay, she was a rare lassie!” pursued the old man; “an’ when she was but
just at her growth, an’ not half come to her strength, she saved the
lives of two of the best men in the mines.”
“Oh, grandfather, how did she do that?” interrupted Philip.
“I can’t be telling ye the whole of it, because one story inside of
another spoils the both to the taste; but I’ll give ye a notion of how
it was,” resumed the old man.
“There was a side shaft in those days to a vein that isn’t worked
now; an’ being the nighest to some of their houses the men used to go
up and down on it, though the superintendent was sayin’ all he could
against their using it, because there wasn’t a very safe way of running
it. There was a hand-windlass to the top to work the bucket, an’ a
snubbing-post near to give the rope a turn ’round so a man could hold
it back.
“Well, the lass used to come every night to watch the men getting out
of that shaft, ’cause she knew the foolish father of her would be
coming up wearying to see if his bairn that had to be left alone the
day through was all safe. So one night she stood watching the first
load of night-men going down to the mine, knowing that when the bucket
came up the father’d be in it; an’ she watched the men’s faces, going
down into the dark, turning up to look at her, an’ one of ’em throwing
a joke at her for being like a boy bairn more than a lassie. Poor
thing, with only a great rough father, an’ no one to show her the ways
of women folks, what shame was it of hers? When they went down from
the sight of her, she turns to the man at the rope, an’ what does she
see? Just the rope paying itself out an’ no one to hold it back, an’
him grinding his chin into the earth in a fit. She looks quick to see
if there is help coming, but never a man was in sight, an’ the rope
slipping away. Then she knew the danger they were in, for the old shaft
went far deeper than the gallery the rope left them at, an’ when the
end of it ran out the bucket would drop down where the water had broken
in long ago and forced them to give up the lower drift.
“She hadn’t much time to spare when the loss of a minute would mean
death to the men. So what does she do then, do you think, this lassie
that had none of the soft ways of a girl bairn? Why, just gives the
rope a turn around her waist, an’ then braces her two feet against a
stone an’ pulls against the roller, an’ waits for the jerk. An’ there
was the men down below not knowing but what Michael held the rope
the same as ever, getting off the bucket all safe, an’ the lassie’s
own father an’ the other men climbing in an’ giving the signal to be
fetched up, not knowing that the heft of ’em was dragging on the body
of the poor lass, who was past feeling then, for she had fainted into a
dead swoon. That’s the way the new men found her when they came to the
shaft to take their turn at going down, an’ her dragged up against the
post an’ held there by the weight of the bucket hanging, an’ Michael
lying by groaning an’ gripping the ground still.”
“Oh, grandfather! did it kill her?” gasped Phil.
“Better if it had--better if it had!” groaned Mag, raising her bent
head, but not turning around.
Grandfather wiped his eyes and cleared his throat once or twice, as if
he found the recollection of that time overwhelming; then, after two or
three long whiffs at his pipe to keep it from quite going out, began
again in a tremulous voice, which grew steadier as he went on.
“I can’t say as ’twould ’a’ been better for her if she had,” said he,
apparently heeding Mag’s words more than Philip’s question; “happen
it might ha’ saved her worse trouble, but it wasn’t to be. She was
mangled though, an’ parson came over when he heard of it, bringing the
town doctor with him, an’ they found a deal of the ribs crushed and
one shoulder put out of joint; an’ the wives of the men she saved an’
the mothers of them nursed and cared for her, an’ there’s not a man
in the mine to this day, nor a woman belonging to him, that wouldn’t
stand up for her against the world, an’ well they might. But the best
is to come: the papers got the story of it, an’ the greatest gentry in
the land got to know of what the little lass did for the men; an’ the
Queen, God save her, sent her a gold medal. ‘For the Saving of Human
Life’ was writ on to it, an’ some great society sent her another in a
velvet case.
“An’ now, Maggie, woman,” said he coaxingly to his daughter, “up and
tell the lad who was the little lassie, an’ let him hear no more about
her.”
“Nay,” said the woman, rising and turning around with her eyes dry and
glistening now, “it’s all to be told; if ye cannot tell it, I must.”
“Save us all, woman dear,” said the old man, rising and patting his
daughter soothingly on the arm; “don’t get into such a wax. If the
little lad must hear the whole story through, why then he must, an’
who can tell it him better nor me? But there’s no need for his hearing
more.”
“Yes, father, you can tell it if you will, but ye must tell it all,
an’ keep nothing back, or I shall have to tell it myself; for I am
determined that my child shall know just what a wicked temper can bring
one to, if it’s let to go on and get the mastery.”
As Mag said this she turned wearily to the little stand where her
basket of clothes for mending stood, and seated herself by it, but not
to sew. Pushing the candle and work away from her, she put her folded
arms upon the table and dropped her head upon them, turning her face
away from the others.
Philip had become much interested in the story of the heroic girl
who had risked so much to save the miners, and he was anxious to hear
more about her; but the old man seemed in no hurry to go on with the
story. He knocked the ashes out of his pipe, refilled it, took an
unnecessarily long time in lighting it, and made various delays, till
at last an uneasy movement of his daughter made him start off on it at
last.
“Well, this lass as I’m telling of,” he began, turning to Phil, “this
brave one that the whole of the men was willing to lay down their
lives for, got all over her hurts and bruises, and was ’round on her
feet again as well as ever. They was feared, they was, both doctor an’
parson, that the spine of her back had gotten a bending that would
never get out of it; but no fear for her--when she left her bed (an’ it
was all the broken bones could do to keep her in it at all) she was as
straight as a Maypole, an’ there couldn’t have been a face more bonny
than hers, an’ it grew bonnier every day till it was more trouble than
ever to me--to the father, I mean--to know a way to look after one that
was like a young queen for beauty.
“She had no liking those times for going down into the mines, or, for
that matter, for work of any kind. There was many an honest lad among
the workmen that fair doated on the sight of her, but she had no care
for one of them; an’ her father was content to have it so, for he was
proud of his handsome daughter, an’ secretly he was believing in his
heart that there was none quite good enough to be a husband for her.
“Well, just about the time I’m telling ye of there began to be strange
stories floating around among the women-folks, about a grand young man
who wore fine clothes an’ seemed to have nothing better to do than to
hang around the cottage and keep the girl I’m telling ye of from doing
her house-work.
“It would have been all right enough most probably, an’ spared a world
of trouble to all concerned, if she had only been quite honest and
spoken out to her father, telling him about her friend an’ that he
meant all fair an’ square by her. But girls is odd an’ shy in their
ways sometimes, an’ maybe this girl was afraid her old father would
be angry, an’ rough perhaps with the young man, so she said never a
word; an’ then one day when the old man came home from his work rather
earlier than usual an’ not feeling extra good-humored as it happened,
there was the young man just as the neighbors had said, a-sitting quite
at home in the cottage, painting away on a bit of cloth stretched on a
frame, an’ it took only half an eye to see that it was a picture of
the girl he was making. Well, then there was a great row, the old man
accusing his daughter of deceiving him, an’ calling the young man some
rather unhandsome names; but I must say he kept his temper very well
until the girl began to cry an’ her father said something foolish about
young gentlemen making love to simple village girls an’ breaking their
hearts for their own amusement. At that the young painter turned very
white, an’ quick as a flash he walked straight over to the girl an’
putting his arm around her waist he said, ‘Don’t cry, dear, an’ listen
to me, for in your father’s presence I ask you to become my wife as
soon as the minister can say the words.’
“An’ so they were married, these two, an’ now, my girl, you must tell
the rest. I know it is hard for you to do it, but I cannot bring my
tongue to it.”