CHAPTER VI - Joan and the Child
To the young curate's great wonder, on his first visit to her after the advent of Liz and her child, Joan changed her manner towards him. She did not attempt to repel him, she even bade him welcome in a way of her own. Deep in Joan's heart was hidden a fancy that perhaps the work of this young fellow who was “good enow fur a parson,” lay with such as Liz, and those who like Liz bore a heavy burden.
“If yo' can do her any good,” she said, “come and welcome. Come every day. I dunnot know much about such like mysen, but happen yo' ha' a way o' helpin' folk as canna help theirsens i' trouble—an' Liz is one on 'em.”
Truly Liz was one of these. She clung to Joan in a hopeless, childish way, as her only comfort. She could do nothing for herself, she could only obey Joan's dictates, and this she did in listless misery. When she had work to do, she made weak efforts at doing it, and when she had none she sat and held the child upon her knee, her eyes following her friend with a vague appeal. The discomfort of her lot, the wretchedness of coming back to shame and tears, after a brief season of pleasure and luxury, was what crushed her. So long as her lover had cared for her, and she had felt no fear of hunger or cold, or desertion, she had been happy—happy because she could be idle and take no thought for the morrow, and was almost a lady. But now all that was over. She had come to the bitter dregs of the cup. She was thrown on her own resources, nobody cared for her, nobody helped her but Joan, nobody called her pretty and praised her ways. She was not to be a lady after all, she must work for her living and it must be a poor one too. There would be no fine clothes, no nice rooms, no flattery and sugar-plums. Everything would be even far harder, and more unpleasant than it had been before. And then, the baby? What could she do with it?—a creature more helpless than herself, always to be clothed and taken care of, when she could not take care of herself, always in the way, always crying and wailing and troubling day and night. She almost blamed the baby for everything. Perhaps she would not have lost her lover if it had not been for the baby. Perhaps he knew what a trouble it would be, and wanted to be rid of her before it came, and that was why he had gone away. The night Joan had brought her home she had taken care of the child, and told Liz to sit down and rest, and had sat down herself with the small creature in her arms, and after watching her for a while, Liz had broken out into sobs, and slipped down upon the floor at her feet, hiding her wretched, pretty face upon her friend's knee.
“I canna abide the sight o' it,” she cried. “I canna see what it wur born fur, mysen. I wish I'd deed when I wur i' Lunnon—when he cared fur me. He wor fond enow o' me at th' first. He could na abide me to be out o' his sight. I nivver wur so happy i' my life as I wur then. Aye! I did na think then, as th' toime ud come when he'd cast me out i' th' road. He had no reet to do it,” her voice rising hysterically. “He had no reet to do it, if he wur a gentleman; but it seems gentlefolk can do owt they please. If he did na mean to stick to me, why could na he ha' let me a-be.”
“That is na gentlefolks' way,” said Joan bitterly, “but if I wur i' yo're place, Liz, I would na hate th' choild. It has na done yo' as much harm as yo' ha' done it.”
After a while, when the girl was quieter, Joan asked her a question.
“You nivver told me who yo' went away wi', Liz,” she said. “I ha' a reason fur wantin' to know, or I would na ax, but fur a' that if yo' dunnot want to tell me, yo' need na do it against yo're will.”
Liz was silent a moment.
“I would na tell ivverybody,” she said. “I would na tell nobody but yo'. It would na do no good, an' I dunnot care to do harm. You'll keep it to yo'rsen, if I tell yo', Joan?”
“Aye,” Joan answered, “as long as it needs be kept to mysen. I am na one to clatter.”
“Well,” said Liz with a sob, “it wur Mester Landsell I went wi'—young Mester Landsell—Mester Ralph.”
“I thout as much,” said Joan, her face darkening.
She had had her suspicions from the first, when Mr. Ralph Landsell had come to Riggan with his father, who was one of the mining company. He was a graceful, fair-faced young fellow, with an open hand and the air of a potentate, and his grandeur had pleased Liz. She was not used to flattery and “fine London ways,” and her vanity made her an easy victim.
“He wur allus after me,” she said, with fresh tears. “He nivver let me be till I promised to go. He said he would make a lady o' me an' he wur allus givin' me things. He wur fond o' me at first,—that he wur,—an' I wur fond o' him. I nivver seed no one loike him afore. Oh! it's hard, it is.—Oh! it's bitter hard an' cruel, as it should come to this.”
And she wailed and sobbed until she wore herself out, and wearied Joan to the very soul.
But Joan bore with her and never showed impatience by word or deed. Childish petulances and plaints fell upon her like water upon a rock—but now and then the strong nature was rasped beyond endurance by the weak one. She had taken no small task upon herself when she gave Liz her word that she would shield her. Only after a while, in a few weeks, a new influence began to work upon Liz's protectress. The child for whom there seemed no place in the world, or in any pitying heart—the child for whom Liz felt nothing but vague dislike and resentment—the child laid its light but powerful hand upon Joan. Once or twice she noticed as she moved about the room that the little creature's eyes would follow her in a way something like its mother's, as if with appeal to her superior strength. She fell gradually into the habit of giving it more attention. It was so little and light, so easily taken from Liz's careless hold when it was restless, so easily carried to and fro, as she went about her household tasks. She had never known much about babies until chance had thrown this one in her path; it was a great novelty. It liked her strong arms, and Liz was always ready to give it up to her, feeling only a weak bewilderment at her fancy for it. When she was at home it was rarely out of her arms. It was no source of weariness to her perfect strength. She carried it here and there, she cradled it upon her knees, when she sat down by the fire to rest; she learned in time a hundred gentle woman's ways through its presence. Her step became lighter, her voice softer—a heavy tread, or a harsh tone might waken the child. For the child's sake she doffed her uncouth working-dress when she entered the house; for the child's sake she made an effort to brighten the dulness, and soften the roughness of their surroundings.
The Reverend Paul, in his visits to the house, observed with tremor, the subtle changes wrought in her. Catching at the straw of her negative welcome, he went to see Liz whenever he could find a tangible excuse. He had a sensitive dread of intruding even upon the poor privacy of the “lower orders,” and he could rarely bring himself to the point of taking them by storm as a mere matter of ecclesiastical routine. But the oftener he saw Joan Lowrie, the more heavily she lay upon his mind. Every day his conscience smote him more sorely for his want of success with her. And yet how could he make way against her indifference. He even felt himself a trifle spell-bound in her presence. He often found himself watching her as she moved to and fro,—watching her as Liz and the child did.
But “th' parson” was “th' parson” to her still. A good-natured, simple little fellow, who might be a trifle better than other folks, but who certainly seemed weaker; a frail little gentleman in spectacles, who was afraid of her, or was at least easily confounded; who might be of use to Liz, but who was not in her line,—better in his way than his master in his; but still a person to be regarded with just a touch of contempt.
The confidence established between Grace and his friend Fergus Derrick, leading to the discussion of all matters connected with the parish and parishioners, led naturally to the frequent discussion of Joan Lowrie among the rest. Over tea and toast in the small parlor the two men often drew comfort from each other. When Derrick strode into the little place and threw himself into his favorite chair, with knit brows and weary irritation in his air, Grace was always ready to detect his mood, and wait for him to reveal himself; or when Grace looked up at his friend's entrance with a heavy, pained look on his face, Derrick was equally quick to comprehend. There was one trouble in which Derrick specially sympathized with his friend. This was in his feeling for Anice.
Duty called Paul frequently to the house, and his position with regard to its inhabitants was necessarily familiar. Mr. Barholm did not spare his curate; he was ready to delegate to him all labor in which he was not specially interested himself, or which he regarded as scarcely worthy of his mettle.
“Grace makes himself very useful in some cases,” he would say; “a certain kind of work suits him, and he is able to do himself justice in it. He is a worthy enough young fellow in a certain groove, but it is always best to confine him to that groove.”
So, when there was an ordinary sermon to be preached, or a commonplace piece of work to be done, it was handed over to Grace, with a few tolerant words of advice or comment, and as commonplace work was rather the rule than the exception, the Reverend Paul's life was not idle. Anice's manner toward her father's curate was so gentle and earnest, so frank and full of trust in him, that it was not to be wondered at that each day only fixed her more firmly in his heart. Nothing of his conscientious labor was lost upon her; nothing of his self-sacrifice and trial was passed by indifferently in her thoughts of him; his pain and his effort went to her very heart. Her belief in him was so strong that she never hesitated to carry any little bewilderment to him or to speak to him openly upon any subject. Small marvel, that he found it delicious pain to go to the house day after day, feeling himself so near to her, yet knowing himself so far from any hope of reaching the sealed chamber of her heart.
Notwithstanding her knowledge of her inability to alter his position, Anice still managed to exert some slight influence over her friend's fate.
“Do you not think, papa, that Mr. Grace has a great deal to do?” she suggested once, when he was specially overburdened.
“A great deal to do?” he said. “Well, he has enough to do, of course, my dear, but then it is work of a kind that suits him. I never leave anything very important to Grace. You do not mean, my dear, that you fancy he has too much to do?”
“Rather too much of a dull kind,” answered Anice. “Dull work is tiring, and he has a great deal of it on his hands. All that school work, you know, papa—if you could share it with him, I should think it would make it easier for him.”
“My dear Anice,” the rector protested; “if Grace had my responsibilities to carry on his shoulders,—but I do not leave my responsibilities to him. In my opinion he is hardly fitted to bear them—they are not in his line;” but seeing a dubious look on the delicate face opposite him—“but if you think the young fellow has really too much to do, I will try to take some of these minor matters upon myself. I am equal to a good deal of hard work,”—evidently feeling himself somewhat aggrieved.
But Anice made no further comment; having dropped a seed of suggestion, she left it to fructify, experience teaching her that this was her best plan. It was one of the good rector's weaknesses, to dislike to find his course disapproved even by a wholly uninfluential critic, and his daughter was by no means an uninfluential critic. He was never exactly comfortable when her views did not strictly accord with his own. To find that Anice was regarding a favorite whim with questioning, was for him to begin to falter a trifle inwardly, however testily rebellious he might feel. He was a man who thrived under encouragement, and sank at once before failure; failure was unpleasant, and he rarely contended long against unpleasantness; it was not a “fair wind and no favor” with him, he wanted both the fair wind and the favor, and if either failed him he felt himself rather badly used. So it was, through this discreetly exerted influence of Anice's, that Grace, to his surprise, found some irksome tasks taken from his shoulders at this time. He did not know that it was Anice he had to thank for the temporary relief.
CHAPTER VII - Anice at the Cottage
ANICE went to see Liz. Perhaps if the truth were told, she went to see Joan more than to visit Joan's protégée though her interest extended from the one to the other. But she did not see Joan, she only heard of her. Liz met her visitor without any manifestations of enthusiasm. She was grateful, but gratitude was not often a powerful emotion with her. But Anice began to attract her somewhat before she had been in the house ten minutes. Liz found, first, that she was not one of the enemy, and did not come to read a homily to her concerning her sins and transgressions; having her mind set at ease thus far, she found time to be interested in her. Her visitor's beauty, her prettiness of toilet, a certain delicate grace of presence, were all virtues in Liz's eyes. She was so fond of pretty things herself, she had been wont to feel such pleasure and pride in her own beauty, that such outward charms were the strongest of charms to her. She forgot to be abashed and miserable, when, after talking a few minutes, Anice came to her and bent over the child as it lay on her knee. She even had the courage to regard the material of her dress with some degree of interest.
“Yo'n getten that theer i' Lunnon,” she ventured, wistfully touching the pretty silk with her finger. “Theer's noan sich i' Riggan.”
“Yes,” answered Anice, letting the baby's hand cling to her fingers. “I bought it in London.”
Liz touched it again, and this time the wistfulness in her touch crept up to her eyes, mingled with a little fretfulness.
“Ivverything's fine as comes fro' Lunnon,” she said. “It's the grandest place i' th' world. I dunnot wonder as th' queen lives theer. I wur happy aw th' toime I wur theer. I nivver were so happy i' my life. I—I canna hardly bear to think on it—it gi'es me such a wearyin' an' long-in'; I wish I could go back, I do”—ending with a sob.
“Don't think about it any more than you can help,” said Anice gently. “It is very hard I know; don't cry, Liz.”
“I canna help it,” sobbed Liz; “an' I can no more help thinkin' on it, than th' choild theer can help thinkin' on its milk. I'm hungerin' aw th' toime—an' I dunnot care to live; I wakken up i' th' noight hungerin' an' cryin' fur—fur what I ha' not got, an' nivver shall ha' agen.”
The tears ran down her cheeks and she whimpered like a child. The sight of the silk dress had brought back to her mind her lost bit of paradise as nothing else would have done—her own small store of finery, the gayety and novelty of London sounds and sights.
Anice knelt down upon the flagged floor, still holding the child's hand.
“Don't cry,” she said again. “Look at the baby, Liz. It is a pretty baby. Perhaps if it lives, it may be a comfort to you some day.”
“Nay! it wunnot;” said Liz, regarding it resentfully. “I nivver could tak' no comfort in it. It's nowt but a trouble. I dunnot loike it. I canna. It would be better if it would na live. I canna tell wheer Joan Lowrie gets her patience fro'. I ha' no patience with the little marred thing mysen—allus whimperin' an' cryin'; I dunnot know what to do wi' it half th' toime.”
Anice took it from her lap, and sitting down upon a low wooden stool, held it gently, looking at its small round face. It was a pretty little creature, pretty with Liz's own beauty, or at least, with the baby promise of it. Anice stooped and kissed it, her heart stirred by the feebly-strong clasp of the tiny fingers.
During the remainder of her visit, she sat holding the child on her knee, and talking to it as well as to its mother. But she made no attempt to bring Liz to what Mr. Barholm had called, “a fitting sense of her condition.” She was not fully settled in her opinion as to what Liz's “fitting sense” would be. So she simply made an effort to please her, and awaken her to interest, and she succeeded very well. When she went away, the girl was evidently sorry to see her go.
“I dunnot often want to see folk twice,” she said, looking at her shyly, “but I'd loike to see yo'. Yo're not loike th' rest. Yo' dunnot harry me wi' talk. Joan said yo' would na.”
“I will come again,” said Anice.
During her visit, Liz had told her much of Joan. She seemed to like to talk of her, and certainly Anice had been quite ready to listen.
“She is na easy to mak' out,” said Liz, “an' p'r'aps that's th' reason why folks puts theirsens to so much trouble to mak' her out.”
When he passed the cottage on the Knoll Road in going home at night, Fergus could not help looking out for Joan. Sometimes he saw her, and sometimes he did not. During the warm weather, he saw her often at the door, or near the gate; almost always with the child in her arms. There was no awkward shrinking in her manner at such times, no vestige of the clumsy consciousness usually exhibited by girls of her class. She met his glance with a grave quietude, scarcely touched with interest, he thought; he never observed that she smiled, though he was uncomfortably conscious now and then that she stood and calmly watched him out of sight.
CHAPTER VIII - The Wager of Battle
“Owd Sammy Craddock” rose from his chair, and going to the mantel-piece, took down a tobacco jar of red and yellow delft, and proceeded to fill his pipe with solemn ceremony. It was a large, deep clay pipe, and held a great deal of tobacco—particularly when filled from the store of an acquaintance. “It's a good enow pipe to borrow wi',” Sammy was wont to remark. In the second place, Mr. Craddock drew forth a goodly portion of the weed, and pressed it down with ease and precision into the top of the foreign gentleman's turban which constituted the bowl. Then he lighted it with a piece of paper, remarking to his wife between long indrawn puffs, “I'm goin'—to th' Public.”
The good woman did not receive the intelligence as amicably as it had been given.
“Aye,” she said, “I'll warrant tha art. When tha art no fillin' thy belly tha art generally either goin' to th' Public, or comin' whoam. Aw Riggan ud go to ruin if tha wert na at th' Public fro' morn till neet looking after other folkses business. It's well for th' toun as tha'st getten nowt else to do.”
Sammy puffed away at his pipe, without any appearance of disturbance.
“Aye,” he consented dryly, “it is, that. It ud be a bad thing to ha' th' pits stop workin' aw because I had na attended to 'em, an' gi'en th' mesters a bit o' encouragement. Tha sees mine's what th' gentlefolk ca' a responsible position i' society. Th' biggest trouble I ha', is settlin' i' my moind what th' world 'ill do when I turn up my toes to th' daisies, an' how the government'll mak' up their moinds who shall ha' th' honor o' payin' for th' moniment.”
In Mr. Craddock's opinion, his skill in the solution of political and social problems was only equalled by his aptitude in managing the weaker sex. He never lost his temper with a woman. He might be sarcastic, he was sometimes even severe in his retorts, but he was never violent. In any one else but Mr. Craddock, such conduct might have been considered weak by the male population of Riggan, who not unfrequently settled their trifling domestic difficulties with the poker and tongs, chairs, or flat-irons, or indeed with any portable piece of household furniture. But Mr. Craddock's way of disposing of feminine antagonists was tolerated. It was pretty well known that Mrs. Craddock had a temper, and since he could manage her, it was not worth while to criticise the method.
“Tha'rt an owd yommer-head,” said Mrs. Craddock, as oracularly as if she had never made the observation before. “Tha deserves what tha has na getten.”
“Aye, that I do,” with an air of amiable regret “Tha'rt reet theer fur once i' thy loife. Th' country has na done its duty by me. If I'd had aw I deserved I'd been th' Lord Mayor o' Lunnon by this toime, an' tha'd a been th' Lady Mayoress, settin' up i' thy parlor wi' a goold crown atop o' thy owd head, sortin' out thy cloathes fur th' wesh woman i'stead o' dollyin' out thy bits o' duds fur thysen. Tha'rt reet, owd lass—tha'rt reet enow.”
“Go thy ways to th' Public,” retorted the old dame driven to desperation. “I'm tired o' hearkenin' to thee. Get thee gone to th' Public, or we'st ha' th' world standin' still; an' moind tha do'st na set th' horse-ponds afire as tha goes by em.
“I'll be keerful, owd lass,” chuckled Sammy, taking his stick. “I'll be keerful for th' sake o' th' town.”
He made his way toward the village ale-house in the best of humors. Arriving at The Crown, he found a discussion in progress. Discussions were always being carried on there in fact, but this time it was not Craddock's particular friends who were busy. There were grades even among the visitors at The Crown, and there were several grades below Sammy's. The lowest was composed of the most disreputable of the colliers—men who with Lowrie at their head were generally in some mischief. It was these men who were talking together loudly this evening, and as usual, Lowrie was the loudest in the party. They did not seem to be quarrelling. Three or four sat round a table listening to Lowrie with black looks, and toward them Sammy glanced as he came in.
“What's up in them fellys?” he asked of a friend.
“Summat's wrong at th' pit,” was the answer. “I canna mak' out what mysen. Summat about one o' th' mesters as they're out wi'. What'll tha tak', owd lad?”
“A pint o' sixpenny.” And then with another sidelong glance at the debaters:
“They're an ill set, that lot, an' up to summat ill too, I'll warrant. He's not the reet soart, that Lowrie.”
Lowrie was a burly fellow with a surly, sometimes ferocious, expression. Drink made a madman of him, and among his companions he ruled supreme through sheer physical superiority. The man who quarrelled with him might be sure of broken bones, if not of something worse. He leaned over the table now, scowling as he spoke.
“I'll ha' no lads meddlin' an' settin' th' mesters agen me,” Craddock heard him say. “Them on yo' as loikes to tak' cheek mun tak' it, I'm too owd a bird fur that soart o' feed. It sticks i' my crop. Look thee out o' that theer window, Jock, and watch who passes. I'll punse that lad into th' middle o' next week, as sure as he goes by.”
“Well,” commented one of his companions, “aw I've gotten to say is, as tha'll be loike to ha' a punse on it, fur he's a strappin' youngster, an' noan so easy feart.”
“Da'st ta mean to say as I conna do it?” demanded Lowrie fiercely.
“Nay—nay, mon,” was the pacific and rather hasty reply. “Nowt o' th' soart. I on'y meant as it was na ivvery mon as could.”
“Aye, to be sure!” said Sammy testily to his friend. “That's th' game is it? Theer's a feight on hond. That's reet, my lads, lay in thy beer, an' mak' dom'd fools o' thysens, an' tha'lt get a chance to sleep on th' soft side o' a paving-stone i' th' lock-ups.”
He had been a fighting man himself in his young days, and had prided himself particularly upon “showing his muscle,” in Riggan parlance, but he had never been such a man as Lowrie. His comparatively gentlemanly encounters with personal friends had always been fair and square, and in many cases had laid the foundation for future toleration, even amiability. He had never hesitated to “tak' a punse” at an offending individual, but he had always been equally ready to shake hands when all was over, and in some cases, when having temporarily closed a companion's eyes in the heat of an argument, he had been known to lead him to the counter of “th' Public,” and bestow nectar upon him in the form of “sixpenny.” But of Lowrie, even the fighting community, which was the community predominating in Riggan, could not speak so well. He was “ill-farrant,” and revengeful,—ready to fight, but not ready to forgive. He had been known to bear a grudge, and remember it, when it had been forgotten by other people. His record was not a clean one, and accordingly he was not a favorite of Sammy Craddock's.
A short time afterward somebody passed the window facing the street, and Lowrie started up with an oath.
“Theer he is!” he exclaimed. “Now fur it. I thowt he'd go this road. I'll see what tha's getten to say fur thysen, my lad.”
He was out in the street almost before Craddock and his companion had time to reach the open window, and he had stopped the passer-by, who paused to confront him haughtily.
“Why!” cried Sammy, slapping his knee, “I'm dom'd if it is na th' Lunnon engineer chap.”
Fergus Derrick stood before his enemy with anything but a propitiatory air. That this brutal fellow who had caused him trouble enough already, should interfere with his very progress in the street, was too much for his high spirit to bear.
“I comn out here,” said Lowrie, “to see if tha had owt to say to me.”
“Then,” replied Fergus, “you may go in again, for I have nothing.”
Lowrie drew a step nearer to him.
“Art tha sure o' that?” he demanded. “Tha wert so ready wi' thy gab about th' Davys this mornin' I thowt happen tha'd loike to say summat more if a mon ud gi' yo' a chance. But happen agen yo're one o' th' soart as sticks to gab an' goes no further.”
Derrick's eyes blazed, he flung out his open hand in a contemptuous gesture.
“Out of the way,” he said, in a suppressed voice, “and let me pass.”
But Lowrie only came nearer.
“Nay, but I wunnot,” he said, “until I've said my say. Tha wert goin' to mak' me obey th' rules or let th' mesters hear on it, wert tha? Tha wert goin' to keep thy eye on me, an' report when th' toime come, wert tha? Well, th' toime has na come yet, and now I'm goin' to gi' thee a thrashin'.”
He sprang upon him with a ferocity which would have flung to the earth any man who had not possessed the thews and sinews of a lion. Derrick managed to preserve his equilibrium. After the first blow, he could not control himself. Naturally, he had longed to thrash this fellow soundly often enough, and now that he had been attacked by him, he felt forbearance to be no virtue. Brute force could best conquer brute nature. He felt that he would rather die a thousand deaths than be conquered himself. He put forth all his strength in an effort that awakened the crowd—which had speedily surrounded them, Owd Sammy among the number—to wild admiration.
“Get thee unto it, lad,” cried the old sinner in an ecstasy of approbation, “Get thee unto it! Tha'rt shapin' reet I see. Why, I'm dom'd,” slapping his knee as usual—“I'm dom'd if he is na goin' to mill Dan Lowrie!”
To the amazement of the by-standers, it became evident in a very short time, that Lowrie had met his match. Finding it necessary to defend himself, Derrick was going to do something more. The result was that the breathless struggle for the mastery ended in a crash, and Lowrie lay upon the pavement, Fergus Derrick standing above him pale, fierce and panting.
“Look to him,” he said to the men about him, in a white heat, “and remember that the fellow provoked me to it. If he tries it again, I will try again too.” And he turned on his heel and walked away.
He had been far more tolerant, even in his wrath, than most men would have been, but he had disposed of his enemy effectually. The fellow lay stunned upon the ground. In his fall, he had cut his head upon the curbstone, and the blood streamed from the wound when his companions crowded near, and raised him. Owd Sammy Craddock offered no assistance; he leaned upon his stick, and looked on with grim satisfaction.
“Tha's getten what tha deserved, owd lad,” he said in an undertone. “An' tha'st getten no more. I'st owe th' Lunnon chap one fro' this on. He's done a bit o' work as I'd ha' takken i' hond mysen long ago, if I'd ha' been thirty years younger, an' a bit less stiff i' th' hinges.”
Fergus had not escaped without hurt himself, and the first angry excitement over, he began to feel so sharp an ache in his wrist, that he made up his mind to rest for a few minutes at Grace's lodgings before going home. It would be wise to know the extent of his injury.
Accordingly, he made his appearance in the parlor, somewhat startling his friend, who was at supper.
“My dear Fergus!” exclaimed Paul. “How excited you look!”
Derrick flung himself into a chair, feeling rather dubious about his strength, all at once.
“Do I?” he said, with a faint smile. “Don't be alarmed, Grace, I have no doubt I look as I feel. I have been having a brush with that scoundrel Lowrie, and I believe something has happened to my wrist.”
He made an effort to raise his left hand and failed, succumbing to a pain so intense that it forced an exclamation from him.
“I thought it was a sprain,” he said, when he recovered himself, “but it is a job for a surgeon. It is broken.”
And so it proved under the examination of the nearest practitioner, and then Derrick remembered a wrench and shock which he had felt in Lowrie's last desperate effort to recover himself. Some of the small bones had broken.
Grace called in the surgeon himself, and stood by during the strapping and bandaging with an anxious face, really suffering as much as Derrick, perhaps a trifle more. He would not hear of his going home that night, but insisted that he should remain where he was.
“I can sleep on the lounge myself,” he protested. “And though I shall be obliged to leave you for half an hour, I assure you I shall not be away a longer time.”
“Where are you going?” asked Derrick.
“To the Rectory. Mr. Barholm sent a message an hour ago, that he wished to see me upon business.”
Fergus agreed to remain. When Grace was on the point of leaving the room, he turned his head.
“You are going to the Rectory, you say?” he remarked.
“Yes.”
“Do you think you shall see Anice?”
“It is very probable,” confusedly.
“I merely thought I would ask you not to mention this affair to her,” said Derrick. The Curate's face assumed an expression at that moment, which it was well that his friend did not see. A shadow of bewilderment and anxiety fell upon it and the color faded away.
“You think—” faltered he.
“Well, I thought that perhaps it would shock or alarm her,” answered Derrick. “She might fancy it to have been a more serious matter than it was.”
“Very well. I think you are right, perhaps.”
CHAPTER IX - The News at the Rectory
If she did not hear of the incident from Grace, Anice heard of it from another quarter.
The day following, the village was ringing with the particulars of “th' feight betwix' th' Lunnon chap an' Dan Lowrie.”
Having occasion to go out in the morning, Mr. Barholm returned to luncheon in a state of great excitement.
“Dear me!” he began, almost as soon as he entered the room. “Bless my life! what ill-conditioned animals these colliers are!”
Anice and her mother regarded him questionably.
“What do you suppose I have just heard?” he went on. “Mr. Derrick has had a very unpleasant affair with one of the men who work under him—no other than that Lowrie—the young woman's father. They are a bad lot it seems, and Lowrie had a spite against Derrick, and attacked him openly, and in the most brutal manner, as he was going through the village yesterday evening.”
“Are you sure?” cried Anice. “Oh! papa,” and she put her hand upon the table as if she needed support.
“There is not the slightest doubt,” was the answer, “everybody is talking about it. It appears that it is one of the strictest rules of the mine that the men shall keep their Davy lamps locked while they are in the pit—indeed they are directed to deliver up their keys before going down, and Derrick having strong suspicions that Lowrie had procured a false key, gave him a rather severe rating about it, and threatened to report him, and the end of the matter was the trouble of yesterday. The wonder is, that Derrick came off conqueror. They say he gave the fellow a sound thrashing. There is a good deal of force in that young man,” he said, rubbing his hands. “There is a good deal of—of pluck in him—as we used to say at Oxford.”
Anice shrank from her father's evident enjoyment, feeling a mixture of discomfort and dread. Suppose the tables had turned the other way. Suppose it had been Lowrie who had conquered. She had heard of horrible things done by such men in their blind rage. Lowrie would not have paused where Derrick did. The newspapers told direful tales of such struggles ending in the conquered being stamped upon, maimed, beaten out of life.
“It is very strange,” she said, almost impatiently. “Mr. Grace must have known, and yet he said nothing. I wish he would come.”
As chance had it, the door opened just at that moment, and the Curate was announced. He was obliged to drop in at all sorts of unceremonious hours, and to-day some school business had brought him. The Rector turned to greet him with unwonted warmth. “The very man we want,” he exclaimed. “Anice was just wishing for you. We have been talking of this difficulty between Derrick and Lowrie, and we are anxious to hear what you know about it.”
Grace glanced at Anice uneasily.
“We wanted to know if Mr. Derrick was quite uninjured,” she said. “Papa did not hear that he was hurt at all, but you will be able to tell us.”
There was an expression in her upraised eyes the Curate had never seen there.
“He met with an injury,” he answered, “but it was not a severe one. He came to my rooms last night and remained with me. His wrist is fractured.”
He was not desirous of discussing the subject very freely, it was evident, even to Mr. Barholm, who was making an effort to draw him out. He seemed rather to avoid it, after he had made a brief statement of what he knew. In his secret heart, he shrank from it with a dread far more nervous than Anice's. He had doubts of his own concerning Lowrie's action in the future. Thus the Rector's excellent spirits grated on him, and he said but little.
Anice was silent too. After luncheon, however, she went into a small conservatory adjoining the room, and before Grace took his departure, she called him to her.
“It is very strange that you did not tell us last night,” she said; “why did you not?”
“It was Derrick's forethought for you,” he answered. “He was afraid that the story would alarm you, and as I agreed with him that it might, I remained silent. I might as well have spoken, it appears.”
“He thought it would frighten me?” she said.
“Yes.”
“Has this accident made him ill?”
“No, not ill, though the fracture is a very painful and inconvenient one.”
“I am very sorry; please tell him so. And, Mr. Grace, when he feels able to come here, I have something to say to him.”
Derrick marched into the Barholm parlor that very night with his arm in splints and bandages.
It was a specially pleasant and homelike evening to him; Mrs. Barholm's gentle heart went out to the handsome invalid. She had never had a son of her own, though it must be confessed she had yearned for one, strong and deep as was her affection for her girl.
But it was not till Derrick bade Anice good-night, that he heard what she intended to say to him. When he was going, just as he stepped across the threshold of the entrance door, she stopped him.
“Wait a minute, if you will be so good,” she said, “I have something to ask of you.”
He paused, half smiling.
“I thought you had forgotten,” he returned.
“Oh! no, I had not forgotten,” she answered. “But it will only seem a very slight thing to you perhaps.” Then she began again, after a pause. “If you please, do not think I am a coward,” she said.
“A coward!” he repeated.
“You were afraid to let Mr. Grace tell me about your accident last night and though it was very kind of you, I did not like it. You must not think that because these things are new and shock me, I am not strong enough to trust in. I am stronger than I look.”
“My dear Miss Barholm,” he protested, “I am sure of that. I ought to have known better. Forgive me if—”
“Oh,” she interposed, “you must not blame yourself. But I wanted to ask you to be so kind as to think better of me than that. I want to be sure that if ever I can be of use to anybody, you will not stop to think of the danger or annoyance. Such a time may never come, but if it does—”
“I shall certainly remember what you have said,” Fergus ended for her.
CHAPTER X - On the Knoll Road
The moon was shining brightly when he stepped into the open road—so brightly that he could see every object far before him unless where the trees cast their black shadows, which seemed all the blacker for the light. “What a grave little creature she is!” he was saying to himself. But he stopped suddenly; under one of the trees by the roadside some one was standing motionless; as he approached, the figure stepped boldly out into the moonlight before him. It was a woman.
“Dunnot be afeard,” she said, in a low, hurried voice. “It's me, mester—it's Joan Lowrie.”
“Joan Lowrie!” he said with surprise. “What has brought you out at this hour, and whom are you waiting for?”
“I'm waiting for yo'rsen,” she answered.
“For me?”
“Aye; I ha' summat to say to you.”
She looked about her hurriedly.
“Yo'd better come into th' shade o' them trees,” she said, “I dunnot want to gi' any one a chance to see me nor yo' either.”
It was impossible that he should not hesitate a moment. If she had been forced into entrapping him!
She made a sharp gesture.
“I am na goin' to do no harm,” she said. “Yo' may trust me. It's th' other way about.”
“I ask pardon,” he said, feeling heartily ashamed of himself the next instant, “but you know—”
“Aye,” impatiently, as they passed into the shadow, “I know, or I should na be here now.”
A moonbeam, finding its way through a rift in the boughs and falling on her face, showed him that she was very pale.
“Yo' wonder as I'm here at aw,” she said, not meeting his eyes as she spoke, “but yo' did me a good turn onct, an' I ha' na had so many done me i' my loife as I can forget one on 'em. I'm come here—fur I may as well mak' as few words on't as I con—I come here to tell yo' to tak' heed o' Dan Lowrie.”
“What?” said Fergus. “He bears me a grudge, does he?”
“Aye, he bears thee grudge enow,” she said. “He bears thee that much grudge that if he could lay his hond on thee, while th' heat's on him, he'd kill thee or dee. He will na be so bitter after a while, happen, but he'd do it now, and that's why I warn thee. Tha has no reet to be goin' out loike this,” glancing at his bandaged arm. “How could tha help thysen if he were to set on thee? Tha had better tak' heed, I tell thee.”
“I am very much indebted to you,” began Fergus.
She stopped him.
“Tha did me a good turn,” she said. And then her voice changed. “Dan Lowrie's my feyther, an' I've stuck to him, I dunnot know why—happen cause I never had nowt else to hold to and do for; but feyther or no feyther I know he's a bad un when th' fit's on an' he has a spite agen a mon. So tak' care, I tell thee agen. Theer now, I've done. Will tha walk on first an' let me follow thee?”
Something in her mode of making this suggestion impressed him singularly.
“I do not quite understand—” he said.
She turned and looked at him, her face white and resolute.
“I dunnot want harm done,” she answered. “I will na ha' harm done if I con help it, an' if I mun speak th' truth I know theer's harm afoot toneet. If I'm behind thee, theer is na a mon i' Riggan as dare lay hond on thee to my face, if I am nowt but a lass. That's why I ax thee to let me keep i' soight.”
“You are a brave woman,” he said, “and I will do as you tell me, but I feel like a coward.”
“Theer is no need as you should,” she answered in a softened voice, “Yo' dunnot seem loike one to me.”
Derrick bent suddenly, and taking her hand, raised it to his lips. At this involuntary act of homage—for it was nothing less—Joan Lowrie looked up at him with startled eyes.
“I am na a lady,” she said, and drew her hand away.
They went out into the road together, he first, she following at a short distance, so that nobody seeing the one could avoid seeing the other. It was an awkward and trying position for a man of Derrick's temperament, and under some circumstances he would have rebelled against it; as it was, he could not feel humiliated.
At a certain dark bend in the road not far from Lowrie's cottage, Joan halted suddenly and spoke.
“Feyther,” she said, in a clear steady voice, “is na that yo' standin' theer? I thowt yo'd happen to be comin' whoam this way. Wheer has tha been?” And as he passed on, Derrick caught the sound of a muttered oath, and gained a side glimpse of a heavy, slouching figure coming stealthily out of the shadow.