CHAPTER III - The Reverend Harold Barholm
When the Reverend Paul entered the parlor at the Rectory, he found that his friend had arrived before him. Mr. Barholm, his wife and Anice, with their guest, formed a group around the fire, and Grace saw at a glance that Derrick had unconsciously fallen into the place of the centre figure. He was talking and the others were listening—Mr. Barholm in his usual restless fashion, Mrs. Barholm with evident interest, Anice leaning forward on her ottoman, listening eagerly.
“Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Barholm, when the servant announced the visitor, “this is fortunate. Here is Grace. Glad to see you, Grace. Take a seat We are talking about an uncommonly interesting case. I dare say you know the young woman.”
Anice looked up.
“We are talking about Joan Lowrie,” she said. “Mr. Derrick is telling us about her.”
“Most interesting affair—from beginning to end,” continued the Rector, briskly. “Something must be done for the young woman. We must go and see her,—I will go and see her myself.”
He had caught fire at once, in his usual inconsequent, self-secure style. Ecclesiastical patronage would certainly set this young woman right at once. There was no doubt of that. And who was so well qualified to bestow it as himself?
“Yes, yes! I will go myself,” he said. “That kind of people is easily managed, when once one understands them. There really is some good in them, after all. You see, Grace, it is as I have told you—only understand them, and make them understand you, and the rest is easy.”
Derrick glanced from father to daughter. The clear eyes of the girl rested on the man with a curious expression.
“Do you think,” she said quickly, “that they like us to go and see them in that sort of way, papa? Do you think it is wise to remind them that we know more than they do, and that if they want to learn they must learn from us, just because we have been more fortunate? It really seems to me that the rebellious ones would ask themselves what right we had to be more fortunate.”
“My dear,” returned the Rector, somewhat testily—he was not partial to the interposition of obstacles even in suggestion—“My dear, if you had been brought into contact with these people as closely as I have, or even as Grace has, you would learn that they are not prone to regard things from a metaphysical stand-point. Metaphysics are not in their line. They are more apt to look upon life as a matter of bread and bacon than as a problem.”
A shadow fell upon Anice's face, and before the visit ended, Derrick had observed its presence more than once. It was always her father who summoned it, he noticed. And yet it was evident enough that she was fond of the man, and in no ordinary degree, and that the affection was mutual. As he was contented with himself, so Barholm was contented with his domestic relations. He was fond of his wife, and fond of his daughter, as much, perhaps, through his appreciation of his own good taste in wedding such a wife, and becoming the father of such a daughter, as through his appreciation of their peculiar charms. He was proud of them and indulgent to them. They reflected a credit on him of which he felt himself wholly deserving.
“They are very fond of him,” remarked Grace afterward to his friend; “which shows that there must be a great deal of virtue in the man. Indeed there is a great deal of virtue in him. You yourself, Derrick, must have observed a certain kindliness and—and open generosity,” with a wistful sound in his voice.
There was always this wistful appeal in the young man's tone when he spoke of his clerical master—a certain anxiety to make the best of him, and refrain from any suspicion of condemnation. Derrick was always reminded by it of the shadow on Anice's face.
“I want to tell you something,” Miss Barholm said this evening to Grace at parting. “I do not think I am afraid of Riggan at all. I think I shall like it all the better because it is so new. Everything is so earnest and energetic, that it is a little bracing—like the atmosphere. Perhaps—when the time comes—I could do something to help you with that girl. I shall try at any rate.” She held out her hand to him with a smile, and the Reverend Paul went home feeling not a little comforted and encouraged.
The Rector stood with his back to the fire, his portly person expressing intense satisfaction.
“You will remind me about that young woman in the morning, Anice,” he said. “I should like to attend to the matter myself. Singular that Grace should not have mentioned her before. It really seems to me, you know, that now and then Grace is a little deficient in interest, or energy.”
“Surely not interest, my dear,” suggested Mrs. Barholm, gently.
“Well, well,” conceded the Rector, “perhaps not interest, but energy or—or appreciation. I should have seen such a fine creature's superiority, and mentioned it at once. She must be a fine creature. A young woman of that kind should be encouraged. I will go and see her in the morning—if it were not so late I would go now. Really, she ought to be told that she has exhibited a very excellent spirit, and that people approve of it. I wonder what sort of a household servant she would make if she were properly trained?”
“That would not do at all,” put in Anice, decisively. “From the pit's mouth to the kitchen would not be a natural transition.”
“Well, well, as usual, perhaps you are right. There is plenty of time to think of it, however. We can judge better when we have seen her.”
He did not need reminding in the morning. He was as full of vague plans for Joan Lowrie when he arose as he had been when he went to bed. He came down to the charming breakfast-room in the most sanguine of moods. But then his moods usually were sanguine. It was scarcely to be wondered at. Fortune had treated him with great suavity from his earliest years. Wellborn, comfortably trained, healthy and easy-natured, the world had always turned its pleasant side to him. As a young man, he had been a strong, handsome fellow, whose convenient patrimony had placed him beyond the possibility of entire dependence upon his profession. When a curate he had been well enough paid and without private responsibilities; when he married he was lucky enough to win a woman who added to his comfort; in fact, life had gone smoothly with him for so long that he had no reason to suspect Fate of any intention to treat him ill-naturedly. It was far more likely that she would reserve her scurvy tricks for some one else.
Even Riggan had not perplexed him at all. Its difficulties were not such as would be likely to disturb him greatly. One found ignorance, and vice, and discomfort among the lower classes always; there was the same thing to contend against in the agricultural as in the mining districts. And the Rectory was substantial and comfortable, even picturesque. The house was roomy, the garden large and capable of improvement; there were trees in abundance, ivy on the walls, and Anice would do the rest. The breakfast-room looked specially encouraging this morning. Anice, in a pretty pale blue gown, and with a few crocuses at her throat, awaited his coming behind the handsomest of silver and porcelain, reading his favorite newspaper the while. Her little pot of emigrant violets exhaled a faint, spring-like odor from their sunny place at the window; there was a vase of crocuses, snow-drops and ivy leaves in the centre of the table; there was sunshine outside and comfort in. The Rector had a good appetite and an unimpaired digestion. Anice rose when he entered, and touched the bell.
“Mamma's headache will keep her upstairs for a while,” she said. “She told me we were not to wait for her.” And then she brought him his newspaper and kissed him dutifully.
“Very glad to see you home again, I am sure, my dear,” remarked the Rector. “I have really missed you very much. What excellent coffee this is!—another cup, if you please.” And, after a pause,
“I think really, you know,” he proceeded, “that you will not find the place unpleasant, after all. For my part, I think it is well enough—for such a place; one cannot expect Belgravian polish in Lancashire miners, and certainly one does not meet with it; but it is well to make the best of things. I get along myself reasonably well with the people. I do not encounter the difficulties Grace complains of.”
“Does he complain?” asked Anice; “I did not think he exactly complained.”
“Grace is too easily discouraged,” answered the Rector in off-handed explanation. “And he is apt to make blunders. He speaks of, and to, these people as if they were of the same fibre as himself. He does not take hold of things. He is deficient in courage. He means well, but he is not good at reading character. That other young fellow now—Derrick, the engineer—would do twice as well in his place. What do you think of that young fellow, by the way, my dear?”
“I like him,” said Anice. “He will help Mr. Grace often.”
“Grace needs a support of some kind,” returned Mr. Barholm, frowning slightly, “and he does not seem to rely very much upon me—not so much as I would wish. I don't quite understand him at times; the fact is, it has struck me once or twice, that he preferred to take his own path, instead of following mine.”
“Papa,” commented Anice, “I scarcely think he is to blame for that. I am sure it is always best, that conscientious, thinking people—and Mr. Grace is a thinking man—should have paths of their own.”
Mr. Barholm pushed his hair from his forehead. His own obstinacy confronted him sometimes through Anice in a finer, more baffling form.
“Grace is a young man, my dear,” he said, “and—and not a very strong-minded one.”
“I cannot believe that is true,” said Anice. “I do not think we can blame his mind. It is his body that is not strong. Mr. Grace himself has more power than you and mamma and myself all put together.”
One of Alice's peculiarities was a certain pretty sententiousness, which, but for its innate refinement, and its sincerity, might have impressed people as being a fault. When she pushed her opposition in that steady, innocent way, Mr. Barholm always took refuge behind an inner consciousness which “knew better,” and was fully satisfied on the point of its own knowledge.
When breakfast was over, he rose from the table with the air of a man who had business on hand. Anice rose too, and followed him to the hearth.
“You are going out, I suppose,” she said.
“I am going to see Joan Lowrie,” he said complacently. “And I have several calls to make besides. Shall I tell the young woman that you will call on her?”
Anice looked down at the foot she had placed on the shining rim of the steel fender.
“Joan Lowrie?” she said reflectively.
“Certainly, my dear. I should think it would please the girl to feel that we are interested in her.”
“I should scarcely think—from what Mr. Grace and his friend say—that she is the kind of a girl to be reached in that way,” said Anice.
The Rector shrugged his shoulders.
“My dear,” he answered, “if we are always to depend upon what Grace says, we shall often find ourselves in a dilemma. If you are going to wait until these collier young women call on you after the manner of polite society, I am afraid you will have time to lose interest in them and their affairs.”
He had no scruples of his own on the subject of his errand. He felt very comfortable as usual, as he wended his way through the village toward Lowrie's cottage, on the Knoll Road. He did not ask himself what he should say to the collier young woman, and her unhappy charge. Orthodox phrases with various distinct flavors—the flavor of encouragement, the flavor of reproof, the flavor of consolation,—were always ready with the man; he never found it necessary to prepare them beforehand. The flavor of approval was to be Joan's portion this morning; the flavor of rebuke her companion's. He passed down the street with ecclesiastical dignity, bestowing a curt, but not unamiable word of recognition here and there. Unkempt, dirty-faced children, playing hop-scotch or marbles on the flag pavement, looked up at him with a species of awe, not un-mingled with secret resentment; women lounging on door-steps, holding babies on their hips, stared in critical sullenness as he went by.
“Theer's th' owd parson,” commented one sharp-tongued matron. “Hoo's goin' to teach some one summat, I warrant What th' owd lad dunnot know is na worth knowin'. Eh! hoo's a graidely foo', that hoo is. Our Tommy, if tha dost na let Jane Ann be, tha'lt be gettin' a hidin'.”
Unprepossessing as most of the colliers' homes were, Lowrie's cottage was a trifle less inviting than the majority. It stood upon the roadside, an ugly little bare place, with a look of stubborn desolation, its only redeeming feature a certain rough cleanliness. The same cleanliness reigned inside, Barholm observed when he entered; and yet on the whole there was a stamp upon it which made it a place scarcely to be approved of. Before the low fire sat a girl with a child on her knee, and this girl, hearing the visitor's footsteps, got up hurriedly, and met him with a half abashed, half frightened look on her pale face.
“Lowrie is na here, an' neyther is Joan,” she said, without waiting for him to speak. “Both on 'em's at th' pit. Theer's no one here but me,” and she held the baby over her shoulder, as if she would like to have hidden it.
Mr. Barholm walked in serenely, sure that he ought to be welcome, if he were not.
“At the pit, are they?” he answered. “Dear me! I might have remembered that they would be at this time. Well, well; I will take a seat, my girl, and talk to you a little. I suppose you know me, the minister at the church—Mr. Barholm?”
Liz, a slender slip of a creature, large-eyed, and woe-begone, stood up before him, staring at him irresolutely as he seated himself.
“I—I dunnot know nobody much now,” she stammered. “I—I've been away fro' Riggan sin' afore yo' comn—if yo're th' new parson,” and then she colored nervously and became fearfully conscious of her miserable little burden, “I've heerd Joan speak o' th' young parson,” she faltered.
Her visitor looked at her gravely. What a helpless, childish creature she was, with her pretty face, and her baby, and her characterless, frightened way. She was only one of many—poor Liz, ignorant, emotional, weak, easily led, ready to err, unable to bear the consequences of error, not strong enough to be resolutely wicked, not strong enough to be anything in particular, but that which her surroundings made her. If she had been well-born and well brought up, she would have been a pretty, insipid girl, who needed to be taken care of; as it was, she had “gone wrong.” The excellent Rector of St. Michael's felt that she must be awakened.
“You are the girl Elizabeth?” he said.
“I'm 'Lizabeth Barnes,” she answered, pulling at the hem of her child's small gown, “but folks nivver calls me nowt but Liz.”
Her visitor pointed to a chair considerately. “Sit down,” he said, “I want to talk to you.”
Liz obeyed him; but her pretty, weak face told its own story of distaste and hysterical shrinking. She let the baby lie upon her lap; her fingers were busy plaiting up folds of the little gown.
“I dunnot want to be talked to,” she whimpered. “I dunnot know as talk can do folk as is i' trouble any good—an' th' trouble's bad enow wi'out talk.”
“We must remember whence the trouble comes,” answered the minister, “and if the root lies in ourselves, and springs from our own sin, we must bear our cross meekly, and carry our sorrows and iniquities to the fountain head. We must ask for grace, and—and sanctification of spirit.”
“I dunnot know nowt about th' fountain head,” sobbed Liz aggrieved. “I amna religious an' I canna see as such loike helps foak. No Methody nivver did nowt for me when I war i' trouble an' want Joan Lowrie is na a Methody.”
“If you mean that the young woman is in an unawakened condition, I am sorry to hear it,” with increased gravity of demeanor. “Without the redeeming blood how are we to find peace? If you had clung to the Cross you would have been spared all this sin and shame. You must know, my girl, that this,” with a motion toward the frail creature on her knee, “is a very terrible thing.”
Liz burst into piteous sobs—crying like an abused child:
“I know it's hard enow,” she cried; “I canna get work neyther at th' pit nor at th' factories, as long as I mun drag it about, an' I ha' not got a place to lay my head, on'y this. If it wur na for Joan, I might starve, and the choild too. But I'm noan so bad as yo'd mak' out. I—I wur very fond o' him—I wur, an' I thowt he wur fond o' me, an' he wur a gentleman too. He were no laboring-man, an' he wur kind to me, until he got tired. Them sort allus gets tired o' yo' i' time, Joan says. I wish I'd ha' towd Joan at first, an' axed her what to do.”
Barholm passed his hand through his hair uneasily. This shallow, inconsequent creature baffled him. Her shame, her grief, her misery, were all mere straws eddying on the pool of her discomfort. It was not her sin that crushed her, it was the consequence of it; hers was not a sorrow, it was a petulant unhappiness. If her lot had been prosperous outwardly, she would have felt no inward pang.
It became more evident to him than ever that something must be done, and he applied himself to his task of reform to the best of his ability. But he exhausted his repertory of sonorous phrases in vain. His grave exhortations only called forth fresh tears, and a new element of resentment; and, to crown all, his visit terminated with a discouragement of which his philosophy had never dreamed.
In the midst of his most eloquent reproof, a shadow darkened the threshold, and as Liz looked up with the explanation—“Joan!” a young woman, in pit girl guise, came in, her hat pushed off her forehead, her throat bare, her fustian jacket hanging over her arm. She glanced from one to the other questioningly, knitting her brows slightly at the sight of Liz's tears. In answer to her glance Liz spoke querulously.
“It's th' parson, Joan,” she said. “He comn to talk like th' rest on 'em an' he maks me out too ill to burn.”
Just at that moment the child set up a fretful cry and Joan crossed the room and took it up in her arms.
“Yo've feart th' choild betwixt yo',” she said, “if yo've managed to do nowt else.”
“I felt it my duty as Rector of the parish,” explained Barholm somewhat curtly, “I felt it my duty as Rector of the parish, to endeavor to bring your friend to a proper sense of her position.”
Joan turned toward him.
“Has tha done it?” she asked.
The Reverend Harold felt his enthusiasm concerning the young woman dying out.
“I—I—” he stammered.
Joan interrupted him.
“Dost tha see as tha has done her any good?” she demanded. “I dunnot mysen.”
“I have endeavored to the best of my ability to improve her mental condition,” the minister replied.
“I thowt as much,” said Joan; “I mak' no doubt tha'st done thy best, neyther. Happen tha'st gi'en her what comfort tha had to spare, but if yo'd been wiser than yo' are, yo'd ha' let her alone. I'll warrant theer is na a parson 'twixt here an' Lunnon, that could na ha' towd her that she's a sinner an' has shame to bear; but happen theer is na a parson 'twixt here an' Lunnon as she could na ha' towd that much to, hersen. Howivver, as tha has said thy say, happen it 'll do yo' fur this toime, an' yo' can let her be for a while.”
Mr. Barholm was unusually silent during dinner that evening, and as he sat over his wine, his dissatisfaction rose to the surface, as it invariably did.
“I am rather disturbed this evening, Anice,” he said.
Anice looked up questioningly.
“Why?” she asked.
“I went to see Joan Lowrie this morning,” he answered hesitatingly, “and I am very much disappointed in her. I scarcely think, after all, that I would advise you to take her in hand. She is not an amiable young woman. In fact there is a positive touch of the vixen about her.”
CHAPTER IV - “Love Me, Love My Dog”
Mr. Barholm had fallen into the habit of turning to Anice for it, when he required information concerning people and things. In her desultory pilgrimages, Anice saw all that he missed, and heard much that he was deaf to. The rough, hard-faced men and boisterous girls who passed to and from their work at the mine, drew her to the window whenever they made their appearance. She longed to know something definite of them—to get a little nearer to their unprepossessing life. Sometimes the men and women, passing, caught glimpses of her, and, asking each other who she was, decided upon her relationship to the family.
“Hoo's th' owd parson's lass,” somebody said. “Hoo's noan so bad lookin' neyther, if hoo was na sich a bit o' a thing.”
The people who had regarded Mr. Barholm with a spice of disfavor, still could not look with ill-nature upon this pretty girl. The slatternly women nudged each other as she passed, and the playing children stared after their usual fashion; but even the hardest-natured matron could find nothing more condemnatory to say than, “Hoo's noan Lancashire, that's plain as th' nose on a body's face;” or, “Theer is na much on her, at ony rate. Hoo's a bit of a weakly-like lass wi'out much blood i' her.”
Now and then Anice caught the sound of their words, but she was used to being commented upon. She had learned that people whose lives have a great deal of hard, common discomfort and struggle, acquire a tendency to depreciation almost as a second nature. It is easier to bear one's own misfortunes, than to bear the good-fortune of better-used people. That is the insult added by Fate to injury.
Riggan was a crooked, rambling, cross-grained little place. From the one wide street with its jumble of old, tumble-down shops, and glaring new ones, branched out narrow, up-hill or down-hill thoroughfares, edged by colliers' houses, with an occasional tiny provision shop, where bread and bacon were ranged alongside potatoes and flabby cabbages; ornithological specimens made of pale sweet cake, and adorned with startling black currant eyes, rested unsteadily against the window-pane, a sore temptation to the juvenile populace.
It was in one of these side streets that Anice met with her first adventure.
Turning the corner, she heard the sharp yelp of a dog among a group of children, followed almost immediately by a ringing of loud, angry, boyish voices, a sound of blows and cries, and a violent scuffle. Anice paused for a few seconds, looking over the heads of the excited little crowd, and then made her way to it, and in a minute was in the heart of it. The two boys who were the principal figures, were fighting frantically, scuffling, kicking, biting, and laying on vigorous blows, with not unscientific fists. Now and then a fierce, red, boyish face was to be seen, and then the rough head ducked and the fight waxed fiercer and hotter, while the dog—a small, shrewd sharp-nosed terrier—barked at the combatants' heels, snapping at one pair, but not at the other, and plainly enjoying the excitement.
“Boys!” cried Anice. “What's the matter?”
“They're feighten,” remarked a philosophical young by-stander, with placid interest,—“an' Jud Bates'll win.”
It was so astonishing a thing that any outsider should think of interfering, and there was something so decided in the girlish voice addressing them, that almost at the moment the combatants fell back, panting heavily, breathing vengeance in true boy fashion, and evidently resenting the unexpected intrusion.
“What is it all about?” demanded the girl. “Tell me.”
The crowd gathered close around her to stare, the terrier sat down breathless, his red tongue hanging out, his tail beating the ground. One of the boys was his master, it was plain at a glance, and, as a natural consequence, the dog had felt it his duty to assist to the full extent of his powers. But the other boy was the first to speak.
“Why could na he let me a-be then?” he asked irately. “I was na doin' owt t' him.”
“Yea, tha was,” retorted his opponent, a sturdy, ragged, ten-year-old.
“Nay, I was na.”
“Yea, tha was.”
“Well,” said Anice, “what was he doing?”
“Aye,” cried the first youngster, “tha tell her if tha con. Who hit th' first punse?” excitedly doubling his fist again. “I didna.”
“Nay, tha didna, but tha did summat else. Tha punsed at Nib wi' thy clog, an' hit him aside o' th' yed, an' then I punsed thee, an' I'd do it agen fur—”
“Wait a minute,” said Anice, holding up her little gloved hand. “Who is Nib?”
“Nib's my dog,” surlily. “An' them as punses him, has getten to punse me.”
Anice bent down and patted the small animal.
“He seems a very nice dog,” she said. “What did you kick him for?”
Nib's master was somewhat mollified. A person who could appreciate the virtues of “th' best tarrier i' Riggan,” could not be regarded wholly with contempt, or even indifference.
“He kicked him fur nowt,” he answered. “He's allus at uther him or me. He bust my kite, an' he cribbed my marvels, didn't he?” appealing to the by-standers.
“Aye, he did. I seed him crib th' marvels mysen. He wur mad 'cos Jud wur winnen, and then he kicked Nib.”
Jud bent down to pat Nib himself, not without a touch of pride in his manifold injuries, and the readiness with which they were attested.
“Aye,” he said, “an' I did na set on him at first neyther. I nivver set on him till he punsed Nib. He may bust my kite, an' steal my marvels, an' he may ca' me ill names, but he shanna kick Nib. So theer!”
It was evident that Nib's enemy was the transgressor. He was grievously in the minority. Nobody seemed to side with him, and everybody seemed ready—when once the tongues were loosed—to say a word for Jud and “th' best tarrier i'Riggan.” For a few minutes Anice could scarcely make herself heard.
“You are a good boy to take care of your dog,” she said to Jud—“and though fighting is not a good thing, perhaps if I had been a boy,” gravely deciding against moral suasion in one rapid glance at the enemy—“perhaps if I had been a boy, I would have fought myself. You are a coward,” she added, with incisive scorn to the other lad, who slinked sulkily out of sight.
“Owd Sammy Craddock,” lounging at his window, clay pipe in hand, watched Anice as she walked away, and gave vent to his feelings in a shrewd chuckle.
“Eh! eh!” he commented; “so that's th' owd parson's lass, is it? Wall, hoo may be o' th' same mate, but hoo is na o' th' same grain, I'll warrant. Hoo's a rare un, hoo is, fur a wench.”
“Owd Sammy's” amused chuckles, and exclamations of “Eh! hoo's a rare un—that hoo is—fur a wench,” at last drew his wife's attention. The good woman pounced upon him sharply.
“Tha'rt an owd yommer-head,” she said. “What art tha ramblin' about now? Who is it as is siccan a rare un?”
Owd Sammy burst into a fresh chuckle, rubbing his knees with both hands.
“Why,” said he, “I'll warrant tha could na guess i' tha tried, but I'll gi'e thee a try. Who dost tha think wur out i' th' street just now i' th' thick of a foight among th' lads? I know thou'st nivver guess.”
“Nay, happen I canna, an' I dunnot know as I care so much, neyther,” testily.
“Why,” slapping his knee, “th' owd parson's lass. A little wench not much higher nor thy waist, an' wi' a bit o' a face loike skim-milk, but steady and full o' pluck as an owd un.”
“Nay now, tha dost na say so? What wor she doin' an' how did she come theer? Tha mun ha' been dreamin'!”
“Nowt o' th' soart. I seed her as plain as I see thee an' heerd ivvery word she said. Tha shouldst ha' seen her! Hoo med as if hoo'd lived wi' lads aw her days. Jud Bates and that young marplot o' Thorme's wur feightin about Nib—at it tooth and nail—an' th' lass sees 'em, an' marches into th' thick, an' sets 'em to reets. Yo' should ha' seen her! An' hoo tells Jud as he's a good lad to tak' care o' his dog, an' hoo does na know but what hoo'd fowt hersen i' his place, an' hoo ca's Jack Thorme a coward, an' turns her back on him, an' ends up wi' tellin' Jud to bring th' tarrier to th' Rectory to see her.”
“Well,” exclaimed Mrs. Craddock, “did yo' iwer hear th' loike!”
“I wish th' owd parson had seed her,” chuckled her spouse irreverently. “That soart is na i' his loine. He'd a waved his stick as if he'd been king and council i' one, an' rated 'em fro' th' top round o' th' ladder. He canna get down fro' his perch. Th' owd lad'll stick theer till he gets a bit too heavy, an' then he'll coom down wi' a crash, ladder an' aw'—but th' lass is a different mak'.”
Sammy being an oracle among his associates, new-comers usually passed through his hands, and were condemned, or approved, by him. His pipe, and his criticisms upon society in general, provided him with occupation. Too old to fight and work, he was too shrewd to be ignored. Where he could not make himself felt, he could make himself heard. Accordingly, when he condescended to inform a select and confidential audience that the “owd parson's lass was a rare un, lass as she was”—(the masculine opinion of Riggan on the subject of the weaker sex was a rather disparaging one)—the chances of the Rector's daughter began, so to speak, to “look up.” If Sammy Craddock found virtue in the new-comer, it was possible such virtue might exist, at least in a negative form,—and open enmity was rendered unnecessary, and even impolitic. A faint interest began to be awakened. When Anice passed through the streets, the slatternly, baby-laden women looked at her curiously, and in a manner not absolutely unfriendly. She might not be so bad after all, if she did have “Lunnon ways,” and was smiled upon by Fortune. At any rate, she differed from the parson himself, which was in her favor.
CHAPTER V - Outside the Hedge
Deeply as Anice was interested in Joan, she left her to herself. She did not go to see her, and still more wisely, she managed to hush in her father any awakening tendency toward parochial visits. But from Grace and Fergus Derrick she heard much of her, and through Grace she contrived to convey work and help to Liz, and encouragement to her protectress. From what source the assistance came, Joan did not know, and she was not prone to ask questions.
“If she asks, tell her it is from a girl like herself,” Anice had said, and Joan had accepted the explanation.
In a very short time from the date of their first acquaintance, Fergus Derrick's position in the Barholm household had become established. He was the man to make friends and keep them. Mrs. Barholm grew fond of him; the Rector regarded him as an acquisition to their circle, and Anice was his firm friend. So, being free to come and go, he came and went, and found his unceremonious visits pleasant enough. On his arrival at Riggan, he had not anticipated meeting with any such opportunities of enjoyment. He had come to do hard work, and had expected a hard life, softened by few social graces. The work of opening the new mines was a heavy one, and was rendered additionally heavy and dangerous by unforeseen circumstances. A load of responsibility rested upon his shoulders, to which at times he felt himself barely equal, and which men of less tough fibre would have been glad to shift upon others. Naturally, his daily cares made his hours of relaxation all the more pleasant. Mrs. Barholm's influence upon him was a gentle and soothing one, and in Anice he found a subtle inspiration. She seemed to understand his trials by instinct, and even the minutiae of his work made themselves curiously clear to her. As to the people who were under his control, she was never tired of hearing of them, and of studying their quaint, rough ways. To please her he stored up many a characteristic incident, and it was through him that she heard most frequently of Joan. She did not even see Joan for fully two months after her arrival in Riggan, and then it was Joan who came to her.
As the weather became more spring-like she was oftener out in the garden. She found a great deal to do among the flower-beds and shrubbery, and as this had always been considered her department, she took the management of affairs wholly into her own hands. The old place, which had been rather neglected in the time of the previous inhabitant, began to bloom out into fragrant luxuriance, and passing Rigganites regarded it with admiring eyes. The colliers who had noticed her at the window in the colder weather, seeing her so frequently from a nearer point of view, felt themselves on more familiar terms. Some of them even took a sort of liking to her, and gave her an uncouth greeting as they went by; and, more than once, one or another of them had paused to ask for a flower or two, and had received them with a curious bashful awe, when they had been passed over the holly hedge.
Having gone out one evening after dinner to gather flowers for the house, Anice, standing before a high lilac bush, and pulling its pale purple tassels, became suddenly conscious that some one was watching her—some one standing upon the roadside behind the holly hedge. She did not know that as she stopped here and there to fill her basket, she had been singing to herself in a low tone. Her voice had attracted the passer-by.
This passer-by—a tall pit girl with a handsome, resolute face—stood behind the dark green hedge, and watched her. Perhaps to this girl, weary with her day's labor, grimed with coal-dust, it was not unlike standing outside paradise. Early in the year as it was, there were flowers enough in the beds, and among the shrubs, to make the spring air fresh with a faint, sweet odor. But here too was Anice in her soft white merino dress, with her basket of flowers, with the blue bells at her belt, and her half audible song. She struck Joan Lowrie with a new sense of beauty and purity. As she watched her she grew discontented—restless—sore at heart. She could not have told why, but she felt a certain anger against herself. She had had a hard day. Things had gone wrong at the pit's mouth; things had gone wrong at home. It was hard for her strong nature to bear with Liz's weakness. Her path was never smooth, but to-day it had been at its roughest. The little song fell upon her ear with strong pathos.
“She's inside o' th' hedge,” she said to herself in a dull voice. “I'm outside, theer's th' difference. It a'most looks loike the hedge went aw' around an' she'd been born among th' flowers, and theer's no way out for her—no more than theer's a way in fur me.”
Then it was that Anice turned round and saw her. Their eyes met, and, singularly enough, Anice's first thought was that this was Joan. Derrick's description made her sure. There were not two such women in Riggan. She made her decision in a moment. She stepped across the grass to the hedge with a ready smile.
“You were looking at my flowers,” she said. “Will you have some?”
Joan hesitated.
“I often give them to people,” said Anice, taking a handful from the basket and offering them to her across the holly. “When the men come home from the mines they often ask me for two or three, and I think they like them even better than I do—though that is saying a great deal.”
Joan held out her hand, and took the flowers, holding them awkwardly, but with tenderness.
“Oh, thank yo',” she said. “It's kind o' yo' to gi' 'em away.”
“It's a pleasure to me,” said Anice, picking out a delicate pink hyacinth. “Here's a hyacinth.” Then as Joan took it their eyes met. “Are you Joan Lowrie?” asked the girl.
Joan lifted her head.
“Aye,” she answered, “I'm Joan Lowrie.”
“Ah,” said Anice, “then I am very glad.”
They stood on the same level from that moment. Something as indescribable as all else in her manner, had done for Anice just what she had simply and seriously desired to do. Proud and stubborn as her nature was, Joan was subdued. The girl's air and speech were like her song. She stood inside the hedge still, in her white dress, among the flowers, looking just as much as if she had been born there as ever, but some fine part of her had crossed the boundary.
“Ah! then I am glad of that,” she said.
“Yo' are very good to say as much,” she answered, “but I dunnot know as I quite understand—”
Anice drew a little nearer.
“Mr. Grace has told me about you,” she said. “And Mr. Derrick.”
Joan's brown throat raised itself a trifle, and Anice thought color showed itself on her cheek.
“Both on 'em's been good to me,” she said, “but I did na think as—”
Anice stopped her with a little gesture, “It was you who were so kind to Liz when she had no friend,” she began.
Joan interrupted her with sudden eagerness.
“It wur yo' as sent th' work an' th' things fur th' choild,” she said.
“Yes, it was I,” answered Anice. “But I hardly knew what to send. I hope I sent the right things, did I?”
“Yes, miss; thank yo'.” And then in a lower voice, “They wur a power o' help to Liz an' me. Liz wur hard beset then, an' she's only a young thing as canna bear sore trouble. Seemed loike that th' thowt as some un had helped her wur a comfort to her.”
Anice took courage.
“Perhaps if I might come and see her,” she said. “May I come? I should like to see the baby. I am very fond of little children.”
There was a moment's pause, and then Joan spoke awkwardly.
“Do yo' know—happen yo' dunnot—what Liz's trouble is? Bein' as yo're so young yorsen, happen they did na tell yo' all. Most o' toimes folk is na apt to be fond o' such loike as this little un o' hers.”
“I heard all the story.”
“Then come if yo' loike,—an' if they'll let yo', some ud think there wur harm i' th' choild's touch. I'm glad yo' dunna.”
She did not linger much longer. Anice watched her till she was out of sight. An imposing figure she was—moving down the road in her rough masculine garb—the massive perfection of her form clearly outlined against the light. It seemed impossible that such a flower as this could blossom, and decay, and die out in such a life, without any higher fruition.
“I have seen Joan Lowrie,” said Anice to Derrick, when next they met.
“Did she come to you, or did you go to her?” Fergus asked.
“She came to me, but without knowing that she was coming.”
“That was best,” was his comment.
Joan Lowrie was as much a puzzle to him as she was to other people. Despite the fact that he saw her every day of his life, he had never found it possible to advance a step with her. She held herself aloof from him, just as she held herself aloof from the rest. A common greeting, and oftener than not, a silent one, was all that passed between them. Try as he would, he could get no farther;—and he certainly did make some effort. Now and then he found the chance to do her a good turn, and such opportunities he never let slip, though his way of doing such things was always so quiet as to be unlikely to attract any observation. Usually he made his way with people easily, but this girl held him at a distance, almost ungraciously. And he did not like to be beaten. Who does? So he persevered with a shade of stubbornness, hidden under a net-work of other motives. Once, when he had exerted himself to lighten her labor somewhat, she set aside his assistance openly.
“Theer's others as needs help more nor me,” she said. “Help them, an' I'll thank yo'.”
In course of time, however, he accidentally discovered that there had been occasions when, notwithstanding her apparent ungraciousness, she had exerted her influence in his behalf.
The older colliers resented his youth, the younger ones his authority. The fact that he was “noan Lancashire” worked against him too, though even if he had been a Lancashire man, he would not have been likely to find over-much favor. It was enough that he was “one o' th' mesters.” To have been weak of will, or vacillating of purpose, would have been death to every vestige of the authority vested in him; but he was as strong mentally as physically—strong-willed to the verge of stubbornness. But if they could not frighten or subdue him, they could still oppose and irritate him, and the contention was obstinate. This feeling even influenced the girls and women at the “mouth.” They, too, organized in petty rebellion, annoying if not powerful.
“I think yo' will find as yo' may as well leave th' engineer be,” Joan would say dryly. “Yo' will na fear him much, an' yo'll tire yo'rsens wi' yo're clatter. I donna see the good o' barkin' so much when yo' canna bite.”
“Aye,” jeered one of the boldest, once, “leave th' engineer be. Joan sets a power o' store by th' engineer.”
There was a shout of laughter, but it died out when Joan confronted the speaker with dangerous steadiness of gaze.
“Save thy breath to cool thy porridge,” she said. “It will be better for thee.”
But it was neither the first nor the last time that her companions flung out a jeer at her “sweetheartin'.” The shrewdest among them had observed Derrick's interest in her. They concluded, of course, that Joan's handsome face had won her a sweetheart. They could not accuse her of encouraging him; but they could profess to believe that she was softening, and they could use the insinuation as a sharp weapon against her, when such a course was not too hazardous.
Of this, Derrick knew nothing. He could only see that Joan set her face persistently against his attempts to make friends with her, and the recognition of this fact almost exasperated him at times. It was quite natural that, seeing so much of this handsome creature, and hearing so much of her, his admiration should not die out, and that opposition should rather invite him to stronger efforts to reach her.
So it was that hearing Miss Barholm's story he fell into unconscious reverie. Of course this did not last long. He was roused from it by the fact that Anice was looking at him. When he looked up, it seemed as if she awakened also, though she did not start.
“How are you getting on at the mines?” she asked.
“Badly. Or, at least, by no means well. The men are growing harder to deal with every day.” “And your plans about the fans?” The substitution of the mechanical fan for the old furnace at the base of the shaft, was one of the projects to which Derrick clung most tenaciously. During a two years' sojourn among the Belgian mines, he had studied the system earnestly. He had worked hard to introduce it at Riggan, and meant to work still harder. But the miners were bitterly opposed to anything “newfangled,” and the owners were careless. So that the mines were worked, and their profits made, it did not matter for the rest. They were used to casualties, so well used to them in fact, that unless a fearful loss of life occurred, they were not alarmed or even roused. As to the injuries done to a man's health, and so on—they had not time to inquire into such things. There was danger in all trades, for the matter of that. Fergus Derrick was a young man, and young men were fond of novelties.
Opposition was bad enough, but indifference was far more baffling. The colliers opposed Derrick to the utmost, the Company was rather inclined to ignore him—some members good-naturedly, others with an air of superiority, not unmixed with contempt. The colliers talked with rough ill-nature; the Company did not want to talk at all.
“Oh,” answered Derrick, “I do not see that I have made one step forward; but it will go hard with me before I am beaten. Some of the men I have to deal with are as bat-blind as they are cantankerous. One would think that experience might have taught them wisdom. Would you believe that some of those working in the most dangerous parts of the mine have false keys to their Davys, and use the flame to light their pipes? I have heard of the thing being done before, but I only discovered the other day that we had such madmen in the pits here. If I could only be sure of them I would settle the matter at once, but they are crafty enough to keep their secret, and it only drifts to the master as a rumor.”
“Have you no suspicion as to who they are?” asked Anice.
“I suspect one man,” he answered, “but only suspect him because he is a bad fellow, reckless in all things, and always ready to break the rules. I suspect Dan Lowrie.”
“Joan's father?” exclaimed Anice in distress.
Derrick made a gesture of assent.
“He is the worst man in the mines,” he said, “The man with the worst influence, the man who can work best if he will, the man whose feeling against any authority is the strongest, and whose feeling against me amounts to bitter enmity.”
“Against you? But why?”
“I suppose because I have no liking for him myself, and because I will have orders obeyed, whether they are my orders or the orders of the owners. I will have work done as it should be done, and I will not be frightened by bullies.”
“But if he is a dangerous man—”
“He would knock me down from behind, or spoil my beauty with vitriol as coolly as he would toss off a pint of beer, if he had the opportunity, and chanced to feel vicious enough at the time,” said Derrick, “But his mood has not quite come to that yet. Just now he feels that he would like to have a row,—and really, if we could have a row, it would be the best thing for us both. If one of us could thrash the other at the outset, it might never come to the vitriol.”
He was cool enough himself, and spoke in quite a matter-of-fact way, but Anice suddenly lost her color. When, later, she bade him goodnight—
“I am afraid of that man,” she said, as he held her hand for the moment. “Don't let him harm you.”
“What man?” asked Derrick. “Is it possible you are thinking about what I said of Lowrie?”
“Yes. It is so horrible. I cannot bear the thought of it. I am not used to hear of such things. I am afraid for you.”
“You are very good,” he said, his strong hand returning her grasp with warm gratitude. “But I am sorry I said so much, if I have frightened you. I ought to have remembered how new such things were to you. It is nothing, I assure you.” And bidding her good-night again, he went away quite warmed at heart by her innocent interest in him, but blaming himself not a little for his indiscretion.