Project Gutenberg's Philip, by Virginia C. Young and Mary C. Hungerford This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: Philip The Story of a Boy Violinist Author: Virginia C. Young Mary C. Hungerford Release Date: July 10, 2018 [EBook #57476] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PHILIP *** Produced by David E. Brown and The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) PHILIP PHILIP The Story of a Boy Violinist By T. W. O. Lamson, Wolffe and Company Boston, New York and London MDCCCXCVIII Copyright, 1898 By Lamson, Wolffe and Company All rights reserved Press of Rockwell and Churchill BOSTON Contents Chapter Page I. Philip’s Home 1 II. Dash 15 III. Philip’s Mother 29 IV. Mag’s Story 42 V. Philip’s Father 56 VI. A New Friend 73 VII. A Mining Tragedy 87 VIII. A Great Change 106 IX. Trials and Pleasures 120 X. Aunt Delia’s Secret 134 XI. A Day at Ashden 148 XII. The Renewal of an Acquaintance 163 XIII. Lord Ashden’s Plan 175 XIV. Off for Italy 190 XV. Drifting 210 XVI. Home Again 225 XVII. Marion 240 XVIII. The Concert 254 XIX. Fire 271 XX. The End 285 H Philip The Story of a Boy Violinist Chapter I Philip’s Home IS days were nearly all spent in a place where there were great heights and depths, long corridors and galleries, with many people passing to and fro, many chambers above and below, and elevators running up and down. A great hotel, do you say? No, nothing so grand or pleasant as that, but a deep, dark, dismal mine; and there, from dawn till after nightfall, Philip and his mother spent the long, sun-bright days in a sort of living death. It was really like that, for what is life worth in a place where the sun never comes, where there is no grass nor flowers nor trees, where the beautiful blue sky with its snow-white flying cloudlets or great, gray, snow-capped cloud-mountains cannot be seen, and where there is nothing but the darkness of night all the day long! But Philip was quite accustomed to this strange underground life, and as he knew nothing of anything different or better he was as happy as the day was long. After all, our lives are very much what we make them, and Philip was blessed with a very sweet and cheerful nature, which could make its own sunshine even at the bottom of a deep, dark mine; he had beside a very strong and healthy fancy, and he had peopled the dark recesses of the mine with all kinds of imaginary beings, who were real companions for the lonely child. Instead, however, of creating, as some foolish children would have done, only gnomes and goblins to inhabit the deep caverns and underground chambers, Philip chose rather to pretend that the soft sound of dropping water, which could always be heard if one listened, was the musical language of the coal-fairies who guarded the secrets of the mine, a language which only those who were very pure and good could understand. There was another sprite who lived in the mine, with whom Philip used to hold long conversations, and who could always reply to him, although the answer was sometimes unsatisfactory; this was the echo of his own voice, and one day the little boy lost his way and caused his mother great alarm by following this mocking voice deep into the intricate windings of an unworked shaft. He found his way out again on this particular occasion by the aid of some other spirit- friends of his, the little lamps or candles which the miners carry in their hats. At a distance these lights, glancing here and there as the men moved about their work, looked exactly like large fireflies, and it was by following these and answering the friendly voices of the miners who shouted directions to him that Philip found his way back to his mother’s side again. And so you see that Philip led what I suppose most boys and girls would have called a very hard and lonely life, for he had few companions of his own age, and spent most of the time which other children have for play in sober work, yet he was quite happy and contented; and indeed he was much more fortunate than many of the people about him, who did not, like him, come up when the day was over, but who spent days and sometimes weeks or months down in the darkness of the mine, with never a glimpse of the blessed light of day, except what little could be seen from the long well-like shaft, up and down which went the buckets or elevators by which the miners were carried to and from their work. But when Philip’s day in the mine was over he had only to step aboard the rough elevator which carried the miners up and down, and looking upward, as he always did on this journey back to the outer world, he could see the tall derrick which pointed skyward from the mouth of the shaft like a black finger grow gradually more distinct against the blue sky, and then in a moment more he would come out into the daylight once again. The bright sunshine always hurt his eyes at first, but how pleasant and warm it seemed after the damp twilight down below! And how glorious it was to be able to run straight ahead for miles without being obliged to stoop beneath low, dripping walls, or to squeeze through narrow openings into close, rocky chambers where the stagnant air made one cough and choke! It was almost worth while, Philip thought, to spend eight hours of the day away from this beautiful world of nature in order to come back to it again each afternoon. “Do ye think, mother dear,” he said thoughtfully, one beautiful summer evening as they were walking home together through a field gay and fragrant with innumerable wild flowers—“do ye think that heaven can be a nicer place than this?” His mother smiled at her boy’s earnest question, and laid her hard, rough hand on his curly head in a loving way she had. “I reckon it is, my little lad,” she said, “though we can’t quite think of it; but they says the flowers there never wither nor die, and the sky is always blue, not lowering and black as our sky is sometimes—ye mind how it looked before the thunder-storm last night. The pleasures in that land will leave no ugly sting behind them, folks tells us, as they does here ’most always.” She spoke with a sad wistfulness in her voice which Philip was quick to notice, and he slipped his little hand into hers and looked up into her face with troubled eyes. “Tell me, mother dear,” he said gently, “why you are always so sad when we cross this field, especially in daisy time. Is it because my father used to walk here with you in the time ye said ye was used be happy?” How marvellously wise love makes us all! Philip’s mother looked down at him wonderingly. [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] “However did the lad guess?” she said as though to herself; “for it was in this very field we used to wander in those happy, foolish days. Oh, it would have been far better had we never”—she did not finish the sentence, but broke off quite suddenly, telling Philip to run on ahead; and the boy did as he was bidden, but half reluctantly, for although he seldom spoke of his father, feeling instinctively that the subject was a painful one to his mother, yet he thought about him very often, pondering as children will upon a theme not understood or only half explained. He knew that his father was dead—so much his mother had told him; and many a time he had heard her say that if it were not for her boy she could find it in her heart to wish herself dead too. He also knew that a locket which his mother always wore on a chain about her neck contained a portrait which she had once shown to him, and which she had told him was a perfect likeness of his father. Philip looked wonderingly at the face of the handsome young gentleman, who had clustering curls like his own, but whose clothes were of a cut and texture quite unlike those worn by the men whom Philip saw every day; and then as his glance had fallen upon his mother in her rough dress, he said with a kind of awe, “What fine clothes my father wore, didn’t he, mother dear?” And his mother had snatched the miniature almost fiercely from his hand, saying proudly: “Of course he did, lad; your father was a gentleman.” A gentleman! Philip thought of it often afterward, wondering what his mother could have meant, for the only gentlemen the boy had ever seen lived in fine houses, and their wives rode in carriages and wore silk dresses and fine bonnets, while their home was a humble miner’s cottage, and his mother—and then Philip, half ashamed of the thought, had run and put his arms about his mother’s neck and smoothed the coarse cotton cloth of her dress with his loving hands, telling himself that although she did not wear the fine clothes of a lady, yet she was as sweet and beautiful and good as any lady in the land. It never occurred to Philip to wonder that Mag (the only name by which his mother was known) could neither read nor write, for the people who lived all about them, and who spent the greater part of their lives in the mine, were of course very ignorant, there being no such things in those days as compulsory education or laws forbidding child-labor in the mines. Philip, therefore, at ten years of age did not know a single letter of the alphabet, and had seen only one or two books in his life. But although his mother was no wiser than her child so far as books went, she seemed somehow to have gained a strange knowledge of life; indeed, no one could look at her without feeling sure that she had loved and felt and suffered much. She was a large, grand-looking young woman, with a face and figure like a Greek statue, and she was almost as silent. Philip had never heard her laugh, and she seldom talked with the miners or joined in their rough merriment and sometimes rather coarse jokes. In reply to their greetings or questions she always gave short, civil enough answers, never voluntarily prolonging the conversation. But her silence was never sullen, and they all seemed to understand her; indeed, there was not one of them who would not gladly have done her a good turn, and she always acknowledged their favors gratefully. It was often remarked that she seemed to take a sort of fierce pleasure in doing the hardest and roughest kinds of work, labor which usually was given only to the men; but she was still young and very strong, and it may have been that she dreaded the time for thought which idleness might have brought. At any rate, she chose the work and labored faithfully and patiently for the wages which supported her father and child. Philip was constantly with his mother, and as he was a trifle shy and made few friends among the rough boys and girls of the neighborhood, he seemed to have concentrated all the affection of his warm little heart upon Mag, who loved him in return with a passionate devotion. Philip and Mag and her old father were happy together in their humble home, which, although it was precisely the same as all the other huts which were huddled together around the opening of the mine, had about it an unusual air of comfort and refinement. There were white curtains at the small windows, a honeysuckle climbed over the porch, and at one side was a small garden, where it was Philip’s delight to work with his grandfather; it was always gay with flowers, which seemed to thrive in spite of the poor soil, and there were vegetables and berries too, which often found their way to the tables of less fortunate neighbors. Within the cottage were a few small comforts not usually to be found in the miners’ dwellings, a square or two of carpet, faded and worn, but warm and comfortable under the feet on cold nights, a red table-cover to replace the white one used for meals (a most unusual luxury), and a lamp with a colored silk shade. There was besides an easy-chair or two, and in one corner a plain oak writing-desk which was regarded by the neighbors with some awe; it was carefully locked, and Philip had often wondered where the key which fitted it might be, but somehow he had always hesitated to ask, feeling, perhaps almost instinctively, that the explanation might cause his mother pain or embarrassment. [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] N Chapter II Dash EXT to Mag and his grandfather Philip loved his dog Dash better than anything else in the world. He was a ragged little terrier with a head much too large for his body, a short stump of a tail, and an awkward way of getting under people’s feet and of tumbling all over himself when he ran; but he was a marvel of faithfulness and affection, and could do a multitude of the clever tricks which Philip delighted to teach him. He had come to the door of the cottage one wild, stormy night, and had wailed so piteously outside that Mag said at last: “Go, Philip, lad, unbolt the door; it is likely some poor dog perishing in the storm. We are not so poor but we can give the poor thing food and shelter for the night.” So Philip ran and opened the door, and the little dog ran in and cowered shivering before the fire; he was very wet and dirty, and so thin that the bones in his poor little body stood out in a way that was quite pitiful to see; he had a jagged end of rope about his neck, as though he had broken away from some place of confinement; his feet were cut and bleeding, as though he had travelled a long distance; and he had a general air of being quite done up and exhausted. Philip brought him some food and water, and you should have seen the look of gratitude in the creature’s eyes as he wagged his poor little stump of a tail, stopping now and then, hungry as he was, to lick the kind hand that fed him. Philip made a comfortable bed for him beside the fire, but next morning when he awoke and sat up in his own little bed, which stood beside his mother’s, there was his small new friend sitting gravely beside him, quietly waiting for him to awake. Later, when Mag missed her little boy from her side, she discovered him, still in his night-clothes, rolling about on the floor, in play with the dog. “Oh, mother!” he cried when she called to him, “please may I keep him for my very own? Only see how we love each other already!” And Mag, her great love for her boy shining in her dark eyes, laid her hand kindly on the little dog’s shaggy head. “Sure, ye may keep the creature, Philip,” she said, “provided his proper owner does na’ call for him.” But no one ever came to claim him, and from that day Philip and Dash were inseparable, except during the hours when Philip was down in the mine with his mother; there the dog was not allowed to follow his young master, but he would go with him every morning to the entrance of the shaft, and stand looking down, after the car which carried the miners to their work had started on its downward journey. When it was quite out of sight he would turn with a whimper and trot home again with a business-like air, seldom stopping to play with other dogs by the way, and staying very quietly and obediently with the old grandfather for the rest of the day. But at the exact hour when it was to be expected that the car would come up again from the mine, bringing the men, with Philip and his mother, there would be Dash waiting for them, and ready to escort them home each night with as much joy as though he had not seen them for a month. No one ever knew how the little fellow could always be sure of the exact time when Philip might be expected, but he was never known to be late, except on one occasion when his grandfather had gone to a neighbor’s, leaving Dash locked in the cottage. He must have managed to climb out of the window, which was several feet above the ground, for he came galloping down the road just as the miners were saying: “Ah, Philip, lad, thy friend is failing thee the night.” Dash came by his name in quite an extraordinary way. “Ye may depend upon it, such a clever dog has a handle to him already,” said Philip’s grandfather when the boy suggested that his pet should have a name. “But however could we guess the right one?” said Philip doubtfully. Nevertheless he began to mention over in the little animal’s hearing several names common to dogs, such as Rover, Gyp, Sport, and the like, while his dumb playmate stood before him, wagging his short tail as much as to say: “I wish I could help you, master, but you haven’t struck it yet, my boy.” Mag was sitting as usual by the table with the lamp, sewing quietly, but though she said little she would glance up now and then from her work and look lovingly at the little group before the fire. Suddenly she spoke: “I have thought of a name for the dog,” she said. “Perhaps he may be called—Dash.” She spoke the name emphatically, with a slight pause before it, and instantly the dog flew to her side as though she had called him, and stood wagging his tail and looking from Mag to Philip, saying as plainly as a dog could: “That’s my name—did you call me?” “Oh, mother!” said Philip, clapping his hands with delight and surprise, “that is his name, I am sure of it—only see how knowing he looks! Here, Dash! Dash!” “Here, Dash! Dash!” echoed Mag, almost smiling with the pleasure and excitement which she shared with her little son; and the dog ran wildly from one to the other, barking and frisking about for joy, as though delighted to be no longer a stray and nameless cur, but a dog with a name, and therefore with some claim to respectability. “However did you guess it, mother?” asked Philip afterward. [15] [16] [17] [18] [19] [20] [21] “I don’t know exactly, myself,” said Mag, “unless it is,” she added slyly, “that your friends the coal fairies whispered the name in my ear.” And Philip blushed, for he was secretly a little ashamed of what he felt to be rather foolish sport for a boy who was earning his four shillings a week in the mine. From this time on Philip was never conscious of the lack of companionship, which, in the days before Dash came, he had sometimes felt so sadly; for from henceforth he had a constant playfellow, who was always sweet-tempered and eager to frolic and play, yet ready too, at a sign from his young master, to lie quietly down beside him when Philip was tired of playing and wanted to pore over his books; for although the boy could not read, yet it was his chief delight to look at the pictures in some volumes which he had found one day packed carefully away in an old trunk, and which Mag told him had belonged to his father. There were fortunately many illustrations in these books, and he had his own way of enjoying them, by making up stories for the pictures as he went along, to Dash, who was a most attentive listener, and who really seemed to enjoy the recital quite as much as Philip. He would lie quite still before the fire, with his black nose thrust in between the pages of the book, and his sharp, bright eyes fixed attentively on Philip’s face; occasionally he would thump contentedly on the floor with his tail, and at such times Mag would look up from her work to smile lovingly at her boy, as in a low voice he would weave his pretty fancies about the pictures; sometimes, too, she would break in with suggestions. “I think I could help ye there, Philip,” she would say. “I remember your father told me summat about that picture; it was one he was always over-fond of, an’ sometimes he would try to tell me about what was in the books. I wish I could remember better for your sake, my lad.” It was really pathetic to see with what attention she had tried to follow the narrative or explanation, and it was quite wonderful how much of the recital she could recall, in almost the exact words in which she had heard it. “How clever my father must have been!” said Philip thoughtfully, and Mag would reply proudly. “Of course he was, lad; he could read out of the book just as smooth as talking.” And then she would usually lapse into silence again, and perhaps say no more that evening. And Philip loved his father’s books, and longed to be able to master their contents. One of the overseers at the mine, who was regarded as quite a scholar by the ignorant miners, had noticed Philip’s interest in the newspaper which he sometimes brought down into the mine to be glanced over at odd moments when the men were all at work around him and he had little to do but keep a general eye on the others. One day in a burst of kindly feeling he pointed out some of the letters in the head-lines of the paper to Philip, and explained how, when put together, they made words and sentences. Finding the boy an apt pupil and very eager to learn, he became quite interested in teaching him to read, in much the same way as he might have found amusement in training an intelligent dog to fetch and carry, or to stand up and beg. To Philip this opened a whole world of wonder and delight. To be sure he did not learn at once, and sometimes weeks would pass when his friend would find no time to teach him; but the boy waited patiently, and meanwhile he had his own way of enjoying the gradual acquaintance which he was making with the great Alphabet Family, from A, the dignified and rather stern father, and B, the fat, good-natured mother of the flock, down to the youngest letter of the family, funny little crooked Baby Z. Every evening during the time of those first lessons in the rudiments of learning, Philip could scarcely wait to get home, so anxious was he to tell Dash of the new letters which he had learned from the overseer’s paper. “Isn’t it funny, Dash?” he would say. “Here is M—him I have known quite well for over a week, and always thought he was a very well-behaved and polite young letter, and here to-day, right in the middle of a page, I find him standing on his head; and—did ye ever see the like?—he’s changed his name and calls himself W. And then here is O—I always knew him the minute I saw him. He seems almost to jump out at me from the page, he’s that round and fat and easy to remember; and now only see here, Dash, they have gone and put a little handle on him, something like your tail, you see, and now he is called Q.” So Dash and Philip studied the alphabet together, and the little boy, from weaving fancies about the letters and the pictures in his father’s books, came to have long waking dreams, which were so beautiful that he longed to tell his mother about them; but somehow when he tried to put them into words, Mag did not seem to understand, but would only shake her head and say kindly: “Thy head grows dull, Philip, from sitting so much in the house. Go now an’ have a run with Dash in the fresh air.” And sometimes when Philip would be loath to leave his book, his mother would shake her head more decidedly, and perhaps push him gently out of the house, closing the door behind him; while Philip, knowing that it was only love which prompted her seeming harshness, would shake himself out of his dreamy mood, and cry, “Come, Dash, mother is right; let’s have a race. One, two, three! Go!” And away they would both scamper. [22] [23] [24] [25] [26] [27] [28] T Chapter III Philip’s Mother HE winter that Dash came to the cottage where Philip lived with his mother and grandfather was a very long and hard one. A great political crisis had, in some mysterious way, affected the price of coal; there were long weeks when only half the usual number of men were employed in the mines, and this meant that many little children in the miners’ cottages went often supperless to bed, while the men would gather in groups in the street and talk gloomily of the hard times, which seemed to offer little hope of improvement. There was much illness in the town, too; a season of unusual rain and fog, less fire than usual to keep the chill out of the houses, and constitutions weakened by anxiety and lack of food made ready a fertile soil for the fever which attacked and carried off many scores of victims, especially among the little children and the aged; the good village doctor was kept busy day and night, and his old-fashioned hooded phaeton, with its patient old gray horse which all the children in the village knew and petted, might be seen constantly going back and forth from house to house, sometimes until quite late into the night. Mag was one of the few who had steady work, but her wages had been reduced one-half, and with all her clever management it was sometimes difficult to keep the little household warmed and fed. Philip’s earnings had ceased altogether, and although he had more time above-ground, yet he would gladly have exchanged this unaccustomed freedom for the toil which would have brought a few extra comforts into their little home. It made his tender heart ache, too, to see the lines of anxiety grow each day deeper on the faces of Mag and his grandfather; often when he was playing with Dash he would find his mother’s eyes fastened upon them both, with a sad intensity which would sometimes lead him to run to her and put his little arms close about her neck, whispering: “Don’t worry, mother dear; God will take care of us.” And on these occasions Dash would always join the group, thrusting his cold nose into their faces, and making it so evident that he shared their distress that they would laugh in spite of themselves at his awkward efforts to express his affection and sympathy. Dearly as he loved her, Philip stood in awe of his silent mother, and he used sometimes to wonder in his childish way why it was that even when work had been plenty and wages high she was still so sad and grave, so unlike her noisy, gossipy neighbors, who he noticed used sometimes to shake their heads as though in kindly pity when she passed their doors on her way to work. Philip had heard the miners, too, say as they looked after her retreating figure: “Poor lass! Poor Maggie!” But whatever the sorrow that had darkened her life, she never allowed it to blind her to the troubles of others, and her neighbors seemed to understand this, for if ever sickness or accident befell any of them, who so quick as Mag to help or befriend? Many a blessing followed her that winter as, her work for the day finished, she would hurry from house to house on countless errands of mercy, often going quietly without her supper, that some little delicacy prepared by her own hands might find its way to an ailing neighbor. Philip noticed that when his mother returned from these kind errands she always seemed more contented than usual, and the happiest time in the whole day was when, her bonnet removed and her shawl neatly folded and laid away, she would light the evening lamp and sit quietly down to her sewing, while her father dozed contentedly in his chair before the fire (sometimes, alas! a feeble enough blaze) and Philip and Dash played happily together on the hearth. Philip never remembered but one occasion when his mother had spoken to him other than very gently, but that once he never forgot. It was an evening when, tired of romping with Dash, the little boy had curled up before the fire with a picture-book which had been loaned to him by the overseer’s child. It was a rare treat, and Philip soon became quite absorbed in this new object of interest. But Dash was determined not to be cheated out of his usual half hour of play with his young master, and after waiting as long as he thought that even the best-behaved dog could be expected to do, he began to pull at Philip’s sleeve as though to say: “Come, old fellow. Time’s up, you know!” But as Philip paid no attention to this, he began to bark and frisk about him in such a lively and disturbing manner that Philip pushed him away several times, saying, “Down, Dash,” in a vexed and impatient voice; but the little dog persisted in teasing and annoying him all the more for being rebuffed, and at last Philip grew angry, and struck and kicked the dog several times. Dash was so astonished at this unusual behavior that for a moment he stood looking at his master in silent reproach, and then he turned sadly away, and ran, yelping and whining, to Mag. She turned and caught her little son by the arm, holding him so tightly that he cried out in surprise and pain. His mother’s great sorrowful eyes were fixed upon him with an expression so unusual that he remembered it long afterward. She was very pale as she cried: “Shame on ye, Philip lad, to hurt the brute that loves ye an’ canna’ strike back! Oh, Philip, Philip, ye must keep down that temper, my little lad, or it will bring you to the woe that’s wearing me out.” She sank into a chair, covering her face with her trembling hands, and rocking herself to and fro as she said softly, and as though speaking to herself: “Oh, Mag, ye have given your own wicked temper to the child, to be a curse to him as it has been to yourself!” She dropped her hands at her side and gazed at Philip with such mournful eyes that although he could not understand the meaning of her words, he was frightened and shrank into his corner, his face burning with shame and remorse. Dash had stood looking from one to the other, as though bewildered by such a strange scene, and presently he crept up to Philip, thrusting his nose timidly into the boy’s hand, as much as to say: “Don’t feel so badly, Philip. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me, and it was mean to tease you when I knew you wanted [29] [30] [31] [32] [33] [34] [35] [36] to read. Come, let bygones be bygones—that’s my motto.” And Philip patted his rough head, and the companions felt that they had been mutually understood and forgiven. But with Mag it was different. She took up her sewing again, to be sure, and went on with her work as usual, but she paid no heed to Philip’s timid efforts to explain and ask forgiveness. Indeed, she seemed not to see him, for her thoughts had wandered apparently far away; and after a while Philip stole off to bed, wondering sadly why his fit of ill-temper should have so strangely moved his silent mother. The next morning Mag seemed still constrained and unhappy, and went about her work in an absent-minded way, scarcely heeding Philip’s timid efforts at conversation; so shortly after breakfast he stole quietly out of the house with Dash. They did not return until dinner-time, and as they approached the house Philip perceived with a sinking of the heart that the good doctor’s carriage was fastened to the gate-post in front of their little cottage. He flew rather than ran the remainder of the distance, and his mother met him at the door, a warning finger on her lip. “Hush!” she said; “your grandfather is ill. I saw he was not over-well this week past, and this morning he could not eat; so when I saw the doctor pass, I hailed him in. I fear—it may be—the fever.” She spoke with a catch in her voice, but she tried to smile as she put her arm around Philip with more than her usual tenderness and drew him into the house. The doctor was coming out of the sick man’s room, and he was looking rather grave; but he said little, only leaving some powders, with directions as to food and other matters, promising to call again later in the day. The old man grew no worse, however, and indeed in a few days he persisted in leaving his bed and coming out to his favorite seat beside the fire; but he seemed to have but little strength, and to have grown much older in those few days of illness. The first evening that he took his place again in the family circle was a memorable one for Philip. The boy had always been a great favorite with his grandfather, who delighted to ask him questions about what he had seen during the day; there was never much to tell, but Philip had a whimsical fashion of making a great deal of a small adventure in relating it, and often some trifling remark would suggest past events to the old man, and he would tell the boy strange stories of the past, which though often repeated were always new and of absorbing interest to his grandson and to Mag, who was ever an interested listener. On this particular evening, however, she seemed listless and distraught, and after a while she left her sewing and knelt in front of the fire in a drooping attitude, which made Philip ask at last half timidly (for since the episode with Dash he had not felt quite at ease with his mother): “Are ye cold, mother dear? Shall I put a few coals on the fire?” She shook her head without replying, and after a moment Philip asked his grandfather for a story; but, to the great surprise of both, Mag suddenly spoke: “Wait a moment,” she said, “both of ye; it is my turn to tell the story to-night, an’ ye must listen patiently while I tell it, even though it may seem over-long.” She put her hand to her throat as though something there choked her, and in the flickering firelight her eyes gleamed strangely. Philip was so dumbfounded at the idea of his silent mother telling him a story that he looked from her to his grandfather in amazement. The old man shook his head. “My poor lass!” he said softly. “Perhaps it will ease the poor troubled mind of ye to tell it to the lad.” And Mag began her story in a cold, hard voice, with her eyes still fixed upon the fire and her position unchanged. [37] [38] [39] [40] [41] “L Chapter IV Mag’s Story ONG 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 [42] [43] [44] [45] [46] [47] [48] [49] 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.” [50] [51] [52] [53] [54] [55] B Chapter V Philip’s Father UT she did not go on for full five minutes, and there was no sound in the room but the crackling of the fire and the ticking of the clock on the mantel-shelf. Dash was the first to break the silence, which even he seemed to find oppressive; he got up from his place under the table, and coming over to Mag, gravely put his two paws in her lap and looked up into her face in a coaxing way he had when he wanted something; it was an appeal which Mag never resisted, and she patted him gently on the head, saying, “Good doggie! Lie down here, by the fire where it is warm, an’ I will try and tell Philip more about the gentleman we were speaking of just now. “His name was Philip; it’s right ye should know that much.” “The same as mine,” said the boy; “that’s strange. What was the name of the lass?” “Never mind a name for her,” said grandfather hastily. Mag went on as if she had not heard the question: “He worked for his wife, Philip did, with the paints, an’ made pictures to send up to London to be sold, an’ the next year when the baby came, an’ there was more money needing, he worked harder than ever, till he was worn like a shadow. He was very sad and quiet them times, with the weight that was on him of caring for a family, and him not reared with even the thoughts of earning his own living. She, the wife, never noticed how the toil was wearing on him; she wasn’t much more than a child, an’ when he grew so still and weary-like, she fretted for the pleasant words and free-hearted laugh that used to be like music to her. Then she’d scold him, with the evil tongue she had, when things went against her liking, an’ he bore every word like a saint. Once when the money was lacking entirely, an’ she hadn’t the patience to wait for the payment he was looking for from London, she turned on him worse than ever; an’ when he couldn’t be driven to make her an answer, she grew more bitter and ugly, till at last she told him if he was like other men he’d go down to work in the mine. She was frightened after she said it, for it was like an insult to liken a born gentleman to them rough miners; but he made no answer even to that, only just got up from his chair an’ walked out of the house, she following him to the very door an’ flinging rough words after him to the last.” “Leave it now, Mag,” implored the old man, who, to Philip’s amazement, had been shaking his head and groaning during his daughter’s rapidly spoken narrative. But Mag went on again as if she had not noticed the interruption. This time, however, she spoke with an effort, as if the words were dragged from her by a force she could not resist. “The foolish woman repented her of all her wicked words as soon as she lost sight of him at the turn of the road, but the pride an’ temper that was in her kept her back from going after him. The thought wouldn’t leave her the day through, that the jibes of her had sent him off to his hurt in some way, an’ she wasn’t greatly astonished, but her heart was grieved awful, when one of the neighbors told her that she’d seen her husband going down the shaft. “When it comes near night she took up the baby an’ walked over to the mine, ready to throw herself on her knees to Philip before them all when he come up out of it, an’ beg him to forgive the temper of her that drove him to take her at her words an’ go down to seek for work that was ill-fitting a gentleman. There was a crowd coming over from the shaft, early as it was, an’ as she come nearer she saw some of the men carrying one between them that looked, by the way the hands hung, as if he had no life in him. There was no need to tell her who it was, there was no call to tell her how it happened, for she knew that it was Philip before they brought him a step nearer. It was no use for the women to come around to comfort her, to tell her ’twas an accident that took the life that was a hundred times better worth saving than her own. Her heart told her ’twas herself killed him by the rage that drove him to take her at her word, an’ it turned to lead in her bosom, an’ ever since she has waited for the punishment that is coming, for she knows that her life will be taken as his was. The same way that others long for life, she longs for death; an’ she dare not take her life with her own hands, or many a time she would have done it, for waiting an’ waiting is a part of her punishment, an’ she will shirk none of it. But, oh! it’s a weary, weary life, an’ it takes patience to bear it.” She rose at the last words, which were uttered in a sort of moan, and, opening the cottage door, walked out into the cloudy darkness, which was not even lig...