


THE UNDERWORLD

The Story of Robert Sinclair, Miner

by

JAMES C. WELSH

New York
Frederick A. Stokes Company
Publishers

1920







PREFACE


I have tried to write of the life I know, the life I have lived, and of
the lives of the people whom, above all others, I love, and of whom I am
so proud.

My people have been miners for generations, and I myself became a miner
at the age of twelve. I have worked since then in the mine at every
phase of coal getting until about five years ago, when my fellow workers
made me their checkweigher.

I say this that those who read my book may know that the things of which
I write are the things of which I have firsthand knowledge.

  JAMES C. WELSH.
  DOUGLAS WATER,
  LANARK.




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER

      I. THE THONG OF POVERTY

     II. A TURN OF THE SCREW

    III. THE BLOCK

     IV. A YOUNG REBEL

      V. BLACK JOCK'S THREAT

     VI. THE COMING OF A PROPHET

    VII. ON THE PIT-HEAD

   VIII. THE MANTLE OF MANHOOD

     IX. THE ACCIDENT

      X. HEROES OF THE UNDERWORLD

     XI. THE STRIKE

    XII. THE RIVALS

   XIII. THE RED HOSE RACE

    XIV. THE AWAKENING

     XV. PETER MAKES A DECISION

    XVI. A STIR IN LOWWOOD

   XVII. MYSIE RUNS AWAY

  XVIII. MAG ROBERTSON'S FRENZY

    XIX. BLACK JOCK'S END

     XX. THE CONFERENCE

    XXI. THE MEETING WITH MYSIE

   XXII. MYSIE'S RETURN

  XXIII. HOME

   XXIV. A CALL FOR HELP

    XXV. A FIGHT WITH DEATH





CHAPTER I

THE THONG OF POVERTY


"Is it not about time you came to your bed, lassie?"

"Ay, I'll no' be very long now, Geordie. If I had this heel turned, I'll
soon finish the sock, and that will be a pair the day. Is the pain in
your back worse the nicht, that you are so restless?" and the clicking
of the needles ceased as the woman asked the question.

"Oh, I'm no' so bad at all," came the answer. "My back's maybe a wee bit
sore; but a body gets tired lying always in the yin position. Forby, the
day aye seems long when you are out, and I dinna like to think of you
out working all day, and then sitting down to knit at nicht. It must be
very tiring for you, Nellie."

"Oh, I'm no' that tired," she replied with a show of cheerfulness, as
she turned another wire in the sock, and set the balls of wool dancing
on the floor with the speed at which she worked. "I've had a real good
day to-day, and I'm feeling that I could just sit for a lang while the
nicht, if only the paraffin oil wadna' go down so quick. But the longer
I sit, it burns the more, and it's getting gey dear to buy now-a-days."

"Ay," said the weary voice of the man. "If it's no' clegs it's midges.
Folk have always something to contend against. But don't be long till
you stop. It's almost twelve o'clock, and you ought to be in your bed."

"Oh, I'll no' be very long, Geordie," was the bravely cheerful answer.
"Just you try and gang to sleep and I'll soon finish up. I'll have to
try and get up early in the morning, for I have to go to Mrs. Rundell
and wash. She always gi'es me twa shillings, and that's a good day's
pay. The only thing I grudge is being away all day, leaving you and the
bairns, for I ken they're no' very easy to put up with. They're steerin'
weans, and are no' easy on a body who is ill."

"Ay, they're a steerin' lot, lassie," he answered tenderly. "But, poor
things, they must hae some freedom, Nellie. I wish I was ready for my
work."

"Hoot, man," she said with the same show of cheerfulness. "We might have
been worse, and you will be better some day, and able to work as well as
ever you did."

For a time there was silence, broken only by the loud ticking of the
clock, the clicking of the needles, and occasionally a low moan from the
bed, as the injured miner sank into a restless sleep.

There had been an accident some six weeks before, and Geordie Sinclair,
badly wounded by a fall of stone, had been brought home from the pit in
a cart.

It was during the time known to old miners as the "two-and-sixpenny
winter," that being the sum of the daily wage then earned by the miners.
A financial crisis had come upon the country and the Glasgow City Bank
had failed, trade was dull, and the whole industrial system was in
chaos. It had been a hard time for Geordie Sinclair's wife, for there
were four children to provide for besides her injured husband. Work
which was well paid for was not over plentiful, and she had to toil from
early morning till far into the night to earn the bare necessities of
life. There were times like to-night, when she felt rebellious and
bitter at her plight, but her tired eyes and fingers had to get to the
end of the task, for that meant bread for the children in the morning.

The silence deepened in the little kitchen. No sound came now from the
bed, and the lamp threw eerie shadows on the walls, and the chimney
smoked incessantly.

Her eyes grew watery and smarted with the smoke. She dropped stitches
occasionally, as she hurried with her work, which had to be lifted again
when she discovered that the pattern was wrong, and sometimes quite a
considerable part had to be "ripped out," so that she could correct the
mistake.

The dismal calling of a cat outside irritated her, and the loud
complacent ticking of the clock seemed to mock her misery; but still she
worked on, the busy fingers turning the needles, as the wool unwound
itself from the balls which danced upon the floor. There was life in
those balls of wool as they spun to the tune of the woman's misery. They
advanced and retired, like dancers, touching hands when they met, then
whirling away in opposite directions again; they side-stepped and
wheeled in a mad riot of joyous color, just as they were about to meet:
they stood for a little facing each other, feinting from side to side,
then were off again, as the music of her misery quickened, in an
embracing whirl, as if married in an ecstasy of colored flame,
many-shaded, yet one; then, at last, just as the tune seemed to have
reached a crescendo of spirit, she dashed her work upon the floor, as
she discovered another blunder, and burst into a fit of passionate
weeping.

Suddenly there was a faint tap at the window, and she raised her head,
staying her breath to listen. Soon she heard it again, just a faint but
very deliberate tap, which convinced her that someone was outside in the
darkness. Softly she stole on tiptoe across the room, so as not to
disturb her sleeping husband, and opening the door quietly, craned
forward and peered into the darkness to discover the cause of the tap.

"It's just me," said a deep voice, in uneasy accents, from the darkness
by the window, and she saw then the form of a man edging nearer the
door.

"And who are you?" she asked a little nervously, but trying to master
the alarm in her voice.

"Do you not ken me?" replied the voice with an attempt to speak as
naturally as possible; yet there was something in the tone that made her
more uneasy.

Then the figure of the man drew nearer, and he whispered "Are they all
sleeping?" alluding to the inmates of the house.

"Ay," she answered, drawing back into the shelter of the doorway. "Why
do you ask? And what is it you want?"

"Oh, I just came along to see how you were all getting on," was the
reply. "I ken you must be in very straitened circumstances by this time,
and thought I might be able to help you a bit," and there was an
ingratiating tone in the words now as he sidled nearer. "You must have a
very hard battle just now, and I would like to do something to help
you."

"Come away in," said the woman, with still an uneasy tremor in her
voice, yet feeling more assured. "Geordie is sleeping, but he'll not be
hard to waken up. Come away in, and let us see who you are, and tell us
what you really want."

"No, I'm no' coming in," he whispered hoarsely. "Do you no' ken me? Shut
the door and not let any of them hear. I'm wanting you!" and he stepped
into the light and reached forward his hand, as if to draw her to him.

Mrs. Sinclair gasped and recoiled in horror, as she recognized who it
was that stood before her.

"No," she cried decisively, stepping further back into the shelter of
the house, her voice low and intense with indignation. "No, I have not
come to that yet, thank God. Gang home, you dirty brute, that you are!
I'll be very ill off when I ask anything, or take anything, from you,
Jock Walker!" For it was well known in Lowwood that Jock Walker's
errands to people in distress had always in them an ulterior motive.

He was the under manager at the pits, and his reputation was of the
blackest. There were men in the village of Lowwood who were well aware
of this man's relations with their wives, and they openly agreed to the
sale of the honor of their women folk in return for what he gave them in
the shape of contracts, at which they could make more money than their
neighbors, or good "places," where the coal was easier won. In fact, to
be a contractor was a synonym for this sort of dealing, for no one ever
got a contract from Walker unless his wife, or his daughter, was a woman
of easy virtue, and at the service of this man.

"Very well," replied Walker with chagrined anger. "Please yourself. But
let me tell you that you'll maybe no' ay be so high and mighty; you'll
maybe be dam'd glad yet of the chance that I have given you."

"No, no," protested Mrs. Sinclair. "Go away--"

"Look here, Nellie," he said, his voice changing to a low pleading tone,
"you're in a hole. You must be. Be a sensible woman, and you'll never
need to be so ill-grippet again. I can put Geordie in a position that
he'll make any amount of money as soon as he is able to start. You are
not a bit better than anyone else, and for the sake of your bairns you
should be sensible. And forby," he went on, as if now more sure of his
ground, "what the hell's wrang in it? It's no' what folk do that is
wrong. It's in being found out. Now come away and be sensible. You ken
what is wanted, and you ken that I can make you well off for it."

"No, by heavens," she cried, now tingling with anger at the insult.
"Never! Get out of this, you brute! If Geordie Sinclair had been able
this nicht, I'd have got him to deal with you. Get out of here, or I'll
cleave your rotten body, and let out your rotten heart." And she turned
in, and closed and bolted the door, leaving Walker fuming with anger at
the repulse of his advances. Nellie Sinclair had never felt so outraged
in all her life before. She was trembling with anger at the insult of
his proposals. She paced the floor in her stockinged feet, as if a wild
spirit were raging within her demanding release; then finally she flung
herself into the "big chair," disgust and anger in her heart, and for
the second time that night burst into a passionate fit of weeping, which
seemed to shake her body almost asunder. For a long time she sat thus,
sobbing, her whole being burning with indignation, and her mind in a
fury of disgust and rebellion.

Then there was a faint stirring in the bed where the children slept, and
a little boy's form began to crawl from amongst the rough bedclothes,
his eyes gazing in amazement at the bowed figure of his mother. She was
crying, he concluded, for her shoulders were heaving and it must be
something very bad that made his beautiful mother cry like this. He
crept across the bare wooden floor, his bare sturdy legs showing beneath
the short and meager shirt, and was soon at her side.

"What's wrang wi' you, mother?" he asked, as he put his soft little
hand upon her head. "What's wrang wi' you? Will I kiss you held and make
it better?" But his mother did not look up--only the big sobs continued
to shake her, and the boy becoming alarmed at this, also began to cry,
as he placed his little head against hers. "Oh, mother, dinna greet," he
sobbed, "and I'll kiss your heid till it's better."

At last she lifted her head, and seeing the naked boy, she caught him in
her arms and crushed him to her breast, as if she would smother him.
This was strange conduct for his usually undemonstrative mother; but it
was nice to be hugged like that, even though she did cry.

"What made you greet, mother?" he queried, for he had never before, in
all his four years, seen his mother cry. For answer she merely caught
him closer to her breast, her hair falling soft and warm all over him as
she did so.

"Was you hungry, mither?" he tried again.

"No' very," she answered, choking back her sobs.

"Are you often hungry, too, mither?" he persisted, feeling encouraged at
getting an answer at last.

"Sometimes," she replied. "But dinna bother me, Rob," she continued.
"Gang away to your bed like a man."

He was silent for a time at this repulse, and lay upon her knee puzzling
over the matter.

"Do you greet when you are hungry?" he enquired, with: wide-eyed
earnestness and surprise.

"There noo," she answered, "don't ask so many questions, Daddy'll not be
long till he is better again, and when he is at work there'll be plenty
of pieces to keep us all from being hungry."

"And will there be jeely for the pieces?" pursued the boy, for it seemed
to him that there had never been a time when there was plenty to eat.

"Yes, we'll get plenty o' jeely too," she replied, drying the remaining
tears from her eyes, and hugging him again to her breast.

"Oh, my," he said, with a deep sigh. "I wish my father was better!" and
the little lips were moistened by his tongue, as if in anticipation of
the coming feast.

Another silence; and then came the query--"What way do we not get plenty
o' pieces when my daddy's no' working? Does folk no' get them then?"

"No, Robin," she answered, "but dinna fash your wee noddle with that.
You'll find out all about it when you get big. Shut your eyes and
mother'll sing, an' you'll go to sleep." And he snuggled in and shut his
eyes, while Mrs. Sinclair gathered him softly to her breast and began to
croon an old ballad.

As she sang it seemed to the boy that there were no such things as
"jelly-pieces" to bother about. He liked his mother to sing to him, for
he seemed to get rolled up in her soft, warm voice, and become restful
and happy. Gradually the low crooning song grew fainter in his ears, the
flicker of the fire danced further and further away, until long streaks
of golden thready light seemed to reach out, straight from his eyes to
the fireplace, and all the comfort that it was possible to have flowed
through his soul, and at last he slept. Mrs. Sinclair placed him beside
his brothers and sisters in the bed and went back to finish her
knitting. The night was far gone before she accomplished her task, and
she stood and surveyed her humble home with weariness in her heart.

Through the dim smoke which hung like a blue cloud along the roof, and
made more seemingly thick by the small lamp upon the table, she looked
at her husband lying asleep, and so far free from pain. Then her eyes
traveled to the children in the other bed, and they filled with tears as
she thought that she had had to put them supperless to bed that night,
and again rebellion surged through her blood as she thought of all the
misery of her life. Was it worth living and going on in this way? Was it
worth while to continue? What had she done to reap all this suffering?

She was hungry and weak and exhausted. Perhaps if she could sleep she
would forget it, and in the morning the socks she had finished would
bring her a few pence, and that would mean food.

She decided to go to bed, and in passing by the shelf at the window,
her eye caught sight of a plateful of potato skins, the remains of the
meager dinner of boiled potatoes which the children had had; and
clutching them, she began greedily to devour them, filling her mouth and
cramming them in in handfuls, until it seemed as if she would choke
herself. Then, licking the plate clean of every crumb, she undressed and
slipped quietly into bed, to lie and fret and toss, as she thought of
the insult which Black Jock had offered her, and pondered over the
unhappy lot of her children and their injured father.




CHAPTER II

A TURN OF THE SCREW


On the Friday following Jock Walker's visit to Mrs. Sinclair, a notice
was put up at the pit by Peter Pegg and Andrew Marshall, to the effect
that a collection would be taken next day on behalf of Geordie Sinclair.
The notice was posted up before Andrew and Peter descended the pit for
the day.

"Black Jock," as Walker was called by the miners, saw the notice before
it had been ten minutes posted, and deliberately tore it down. He then
visited Peter Pegg and Andrew Marshall at the coal face.

"I suppose you an' Andrew are goin' to gather for Geordie Sinclair the
morn?" he said, addressing Peter.

"Ay," Peter answered, "we were thinkin' it was aboot time somethin' was
done. There's four bairns an' their two selves, an' though times are no'
very guid for ony of us now, it maun be a lot worse for them. Geordie
has been a guid while off."

"Do ye think, Peter, they are in such need?" asked Walker, with a hint
in his voice that was meant to convey he knew better.

"Lord, they canna be aught else!" decisively returned Peter. "How can
they be? I ken for mysel'," he went on, "that if it was me, I wad hae
been in starvation lang syne."

"Weel, wad ye believe me when I tell ye--an' it's a fact--they're about
the best-off family in this place, if ye only kent it."

"What!" cried Peter in surprise, "the best-off family in the place!
Lord, I canna take that in!"

"Maybe no'," said Walker, "but I ken, an' ye're no' the first that's
been taken in by Nellie Sinclair. If ye notice, she never tells any
thin' to anybody; but she lets ye carry the notion in your mind that
she's in great straits. She's a cute one, Nellie."

"Weel, Nellie does keep hersel' to hersel'," admitted Peter. "She's no'
given to clashin' and claverin' about the doors like some o' the rest o'
the women; but I canna' for the life o' me see where she can be onythin'
but ill aff at this time."

"Weel, I ken when folk are bein' imposed on," said Walker, in a knowing
tone, "an' I tore down your notice this mornin'. I didna want to see you
mak' a fool o' yersels. I ha'e been considerin' for a while," he went
on, speaking quickly, "about puttin' a stop to this collectin' business
at the office on pay Saturdays, for it just encourages some men to lie
off work when there's no' very muckle wrong wi' them; after they get the
collection they soon start work again. Ye had better no' stand the morn,
for I might as well begin at once and put a stop to it."

Up till now Andrew Marshall had not spoken; he was a silent man, given
more to thought than speech, but this was a way of doing things he did
not like.

"But ye might let us tak' the collection first, and then put up a notice
yersel sayin' that a' collections have to be stopped. It wad be best to
gi'e the men notice."

"No," said Walker, "there's to be nae mair collections taken. I might as
well stop it this time as wait. So ye'll no' stand the morn."

"Will I no'?" returned Andrew challengingly. "How the hell do ye ken
whether I will or no'?"

"I ken ye'll no'," replied Walker, with quiet menacing tones; "the
ground at the office belongs to the company, and is private. So ye can
do it if ye like, but ye'll be weel advised no' to bother."

"I don't gi'e a damn," cried Andrew explosively, "whether the ground is
private or no'. I'll take that 'gathering' for Geordie Sinclair the
morn, though ye ha'e a regiment o' sodgers at the office."

"Very well," said Walker, as he departed, "if ye do, ye can look out."

Peter took his pipe out of his mouth and spat savagely on the ground;
he then replaced it with great deliberation and looked gloomily at the
stoop-side. He was a man about thirty-five, tall, bony and angular; his
neck was long and thin, and his head seemed always on the point of
turning to allow him to look over his shoulder. His right eye was half
closed, while his left eye looked big and saucer-like, and never seemed
to wink; one eye was ready to laugh and the other to "greet," as his
comrades described it. He had been badly disfigured in a burning
accident in the pit when he was a young man, and a broken nose added
still more to the strangeness of his appearance. Andrew, on the other
hand, was stout and broadly built, with a bushy whisker on each cheek,
and a clump of tufty hair on his head.

"What do ye mak' o' that, Andrew?" enquired Peter, after a few minutes,
as he again spat savagely at the stoop-side.

"What do I mak' o't?" echoed Andrew, as he glowered across the little
bing of dross at his mate, "it's just in keepin' wi' the rest o' his
dirty doin's, the dirty black brute that he is!"

"I wonder what's wrong wi' him?" mused Peter as he sucked quietly at his
snoring pipe. But there was no answer from Andrew, who was sitting
silent and glum, gazing at his little lamp.

"What are ye goin' to do about it, then?" broke in Peter again.

"Just what I said," returned Andrew with quiet firmness. "I'll take that
collection the morn, some way or another, if I should be damned for it.
Does he mean to say that we can let folk starve?" He lifted his pick and
began to hew the coal with an energy that told of the passion raging
within him.

"Does he mean to think I'm goin' to see decent folk starve afore my
e'en?" he asked after a while, pausing to wipe the sweat from his eyes.
"No' damned likely! Things ha'e come to a fine pass when folk are
compelled to look at other folk starvin' an' no' gi'e them a crust."

"Do ye think there's onything in what he said about them bein'
weel-aff?" asked Peter cautiously, while his big eye tried to wink.
"Nellie is a wee bit inclined to be prood an' independent, ye ken, an'
disna say muckle about her affairs. An forby we don't ken very muckle
about her; she's an incomer to the place, and she might ha'e been
weel-aff afore she married Geordie, for aught we ken."

"It disna matter," replied Andrew, "I dinna care though
they had thousan's. What I don't like is this
'ye'll-no'-do-this-an'-ye'll-no'-do-that' sort o' thing. What the hell
right has ony gaffer wi' what a man does? It's a' one to him what I do.
I'm nae slave, an' forby, I dinna believe they are weel-aff. They maun
be hard up."

"But he'll maybe sack ye," suggested Peter, "if ye take the collection."

"Well, let him," cried Andrew, now thoroughly roused, "the bastard! I
would see the greyhounds o' hell huntin' him roun' the rocks o' blazes
afore I'd give in to him!"

Nothing further was said of the matter until well on in the day, when it
suddenly occurred to Andrew that Peter, who had a large family, might
not care to incur the displeasure of Walker by taking the collection the
next day.

"Of course, Peter," he said, after he had thought the matter over, "if
ye don't care to take the collection wi' me, I won't press ye. I'll no'
think ony worse o' ye if ye don't. Ye ha'e a big family, while I ha'e
only the wife to look after. Sometimes I think it's lucky we ha'e nae
weans; I can flit, and ye might no' be able to rise an' run. But I mean
to take the collection onyway, for I don't like a man to order me what I
ha'e to do."

"Oh, I wasna mindin' that, Andra," replied Peter, trying to make Andrew
believe that he had not guessed the truth. "I'll take the collectin wi'
ye, an' Black Jock can gang to hell if he likes."

"No, Peter, ye'll do naethin' o' the kind. I'll take it mysel'." And
Andrew would not move from that decision.

Next day everybody was curiously expectant; it had got noised abroad
that Walker had defied Andrew Marshall to take a collection at the
office, and had threatened him with arrest. There were wild rumors of
other penalties, and when pay-day came everybody was surprised to see
Andrew draw his pay and walk home. They concluded that Andrew had
thought better of it, and had been cowed into submission. When darkness
began to fall, however, Andrew sauntered out and visited every home in
the village, soliciting aid on behalf of Geordie Sinclair. There were
few houses from which he did not get a donation, though the will to give
was often greater than the means. In each house Andrew had to give in
detail the interview between Black Jock and himself in the pit.

"The muckle big, black, dirty brute that he is!" the good-wife would cry
in indignation. "It's a pity but he could ken what starvation is
himsel'. It might make him a bit mair like a human bein'."

"That's true," Andrew would agree.

In one or two houses he met with a blank refusal, but in these he was
not disappointed, for he knew that the men would not risk Walker's
disapproval by contributing. Again, some were wholly hostile. They were
the "belly-crawlers," as Geordie Sinclair had once dubbed them at a
meeting, those who "kept in" with the management by carrying tales, and
generally acting as traitors to the other men.

"No, I'll no' gi'e ye onythin'," would be the reply; "he can just be
like me an' gang an' work for his bairns. Forby, look at yon stuck-up
baggage o' a wife o' his. She can hardly pass the time o' day wi'
ye--she thinks hersel' somethin'."

"Very well," Andrew would reply, "maybe ye ha'e mair need o't for other
things." And he would pass on to the next house.

He had gathered between three and four pounds, contributed sometimes
even in pennies, and going to Geordie's house, he knocked at the door.
This was the most uncomfortable part of his work, and he stood shifting
from one foot to the other, wondering what he would say when he entered.
Mrs. Sinclair was busy washing the floor and cleaning up, after having
been at work all day washing for someone in the village. She wiped her
hands and opened the door.

"How are ye a' keepin' the night?" inquired Andrew, as he stepped inside
at Mrs. Sinclair's invitation, feeling more and more uncomfortable. It
was a hard enough matter to go and ask others whom he knew had little
to spare, but now, having got the money, he did not know how he was
going to hand it over to Nellie. He ruminated for a time as to how he
would break into the subject. He knew that Nellie Sinclair must have
heard of the collection, and guessed his errand, for he saw that she,
too, was uneasy and agitated.

"How are ye a' the night?" he again enquired, to break the silence.

"Oh, I'm no' so bad at a', Andra," replied Geordie. "I'm feelin' a wee
bit easier the night. How's yersel'?"

"No' so bad," answered Andrew, putting his hand in his pocket for his
pipe.

"Dash it! I'm away without my pipe," he said with a show of annoyance.
"Can ye len' me yours, Geordie, to get a smoke? I ha'e my tobacco and
matches. Ye see," he went on, speaking more rapidly, "I thought I would
just slip round to see how ye was keepin'."

Andrew knew that Geordie would not have had a smoke for a long time, and
this was his way of leaving him with a pipeful of tobacco.

"I think my pipe's on the mantelshelf," returned Geordie, "but I doot
it's empty."

Andrew took down the pipe, filled it generously, set it alight, and sat
for a few minutes trying vainly to keep up a connected conversation.
After he had puffed a few minutes at Geordie's pipe he laid it down,
dived his hand into his trousers pocket as he made for the door. He
pulled forth the money, which was in a little bag, and laid it down on
the table, saying: "I'm no' guid at this kind of thing, Geordie. There's
something for ye from the men. Guid nicht!" and he was off, leaving
Nellie in tears and Geordie in glum silence.

Mrs. Sinclair's tears were tears of rebellion as well as of gratitude.
She was touched by Andrew's delicacy, but her independent spirit was
wounded at having to take help from anyone. She thought of the children
and of her husband, who needed nourishment, and taking up the little bag
she poured its contents into her lap, while her hot tears fell upon the
money. Little Robert, who was sitting watching, and who had never in
all his life seen so much money, ran to his mother with a cry of
delight.

"Oh, mammy, will I get sweeties noo?" and the boy danced with glee, as
he shouted, "I'll get jeely-pieces noo, hurray!"

That night there was happiness in Geordie Sinclair's house, for there
was food in plenty, and it seemed as if the children would never be able
to appease their hunger.

The "jeely-pieces," or slices of bread with jam on them, disappeared
with amazing rapidity, and Geordie had some beef-tea, which seemed to
improve him almost as soon as he had taken it. For the first time for
many months Mrs. Sinclair and the children went to bed with satisfied
appetites; and the children's dreams were as the incidents in the life
of a god, exalted and happy, and their mother's rest was unbroken and
full of comfort.

But on Monday morning Andrew Marshall had to pay the price of the
happiness he had been instrumental in giving them, for he was informed
by one of Walker's henchmen that his place was stopped. The excuse given
was that it was too far in advance of the others. Andrew knew what that
meant, and as he went home, fierce rebellious feelings stirred within
him. Peter Pegg, he was glad to know, had got started on "oncost" work,
and Andrew felt he had done right in not allowing Peter to take the
collection with him.




CHAPTER III

THE BLOCK


"I see Andra Marshall's back again," observed Sanny Robertson to Peter
Pegg one evening three months later.

"Ay," said Peter, "he was at Glampy, but his place was stopped, an'
there wasna anither for him."

"Got the sack again, I suppose," said Sanny. "Weel, he maun learn,
Peter, that gaffers are no' gaun to put up wi' his nonsense. If a man
will no' do what he's telt, he maun just take the consequences."

"Ay," said Peter, very dryly, and as Peter knew his man, no more was
said.

Later the same night Matthew Maitland observed to Peter, as they sat on
their "hunkers" at the corner:

"Andra's back again, I suppose."

"Ay," was the answer, "he was telt his place was stopped."

"Imphm," said Matthew, "it's a damn fine excuse. It's a pity but
somethin' could be done."

"It's the Block," said Peter. "I'm telt that a' the managers roun' aboot
ha'e an understandin' with one another no' to gi'e work to onybody they
take a dislike to."

"Ay," agreed Matthew, "I ha'e heard aboot it, but I would soon put a
stop to it."

"Ay, Matthew, it's a union we need up here badly. I'm telt that that
chap Smillie has managed to start one down in the West Country, an' it's
daein' weel. He's got some o' their wages up a hale shillin' a day since
he took it in hand."

"Is that a fact, Peter? The sooner we ha'e him up here the better then.
Black Jock needs a chap back onyway," and Matthew looked like a man who
had suddenly discovered a great truth.

Andrew Marshall had never been allowed to forget his action in defying
Walker; everywhere he went it was the same story--no work for him. The
"Block" system among the managers was in good working order, and could
easily starve a man into docility. Andrew became more desperate as time
passed, and he knew that he and his wife were nearing the end of their
small savings. He returned home one evening from his usual fruitless
search for employment, and threw himself into the arm-chair by the
fireside.

"No work yet, Andra?" asked Katie.

"Nane," was the gloomy response.

"We have no' very mony shillin's left noo, Andra. I dinna ken what we'll
do."

Savage, revengeful feelings surged through Andrew, and found vent in a
volley of oaths which terrified his wife.

"Dinna talk like that, Andra," she pleaded. "It's no' canny, an' forby,
the Lord disna like ye to do it."

"If the Lord cared He could take Black Jock by the scruff o' the neck
an' fling him into hell oot o' the road. It's Black Jock that's at the
bottom o' this, an' I could twist his dirty neck for him."

"Weel, Andra, it's the Lord's doin', an' maybe things'll soon men'."

"If it's the Lord's doin', I dinna think muckle o' His conduct then,"
and Andrew lapsed into sullen silence.

On Monday morning he was up at five o'clock, desperately resolved to lay
his case before the men. He walked to the end of the village, knowing
the colliery would be idle, for Tam Donaldson was to be "creeled." This
was a custom at one time very prevalent in mining villages. When a young
man got married, the first day he appeared at his work afterwards he was
taken home by his comrades, and was expected to stand them a drink. It
generally ended in a collection being made, after they had tasted the
newly-married man's whiskey, and a common fund thus being established, a
large quantity of beer and whiskey was procured, and all drank to their
heart's content.

Andrew heard the men calling to each other as they made their way to the
pit, the lights from their lamps twinkling in the darkness of the winter
morning.

"Is Tam away yet, Jamie?" he heard wee Allan ask, as he overtook old
Jamie Lauder on his way to the pit.

"Ay, I saw to that," replied Lauder, "I chappit him up at five o'clock,
so that he wadna sleep in. I hinna missed a creelin' for thirty-five
years, an' I wasna' gaun to miss Tam Donaldson's. I heard him goin' oot
two or three minutes afore me. We're in for a guid day, for he telt me
he had in two bottles for the spree."

"That's a' right, then; I was afraid he wad maybe sleep in," and the two
trudged on together towards the pit.

A group of dark figures stood on the pithead, waiting their turn to go
below. The cage rattled up from the depths of the shaft, the men stepped
in, and almost immediately disappeared down into the blackness. Arrived
at the bottom, they walked along towards the different passages,
chaffing and jesting with Tam Donaldson, the newly-married one.

"Ye'll be gaun to do something decent the day, Tam, when we take ye
hame?" said Jamie Allan. "I hear ye ha'e two bottles ready for the
occasion."

"Ay, but I'm damned shair there's no a lick gaun unless ye take me
hame," answered Donaldson. "If I ha'e to be creeled, I'll be creeled
right, an' every one o' ye'll gang hame wi' me afore ye get a taste."

"Oh, but we'll see to that, chaps," said old Lauder. "Here's a hutch,
get him in an' aff wi' him."

The victim pretended to resist, and stoutly maintained that they should
not creel him. He was seized by half a dozen pairs of arms, and with
much expenditure of energy and breath, deposited in the hutch. Some
considerate person had put some straw and old bags in the "carriage" to
make it more comfortable, and a few of the wags had chalked
inscriptions, the reverse of complimentary, all over it.

"There, noo', boys," said old Lauder, who had been busy hanging lighted
pit lamps round Tam's cap, "gi'e him a guid run to the bottom, and see
that he gets a guid bump in the lye."

The men ran the hutch to the "bottom" straight against the full tubs
ready to be sent to the surface.

"Come on, Sourocks, let us up," called Allan to the old man who acted as
"bottomer."

"Hell to the up will ye get!" replied the old fellow, "I'm gaun to put
on these hutches first."

"No, ye'll no', an' if ye do, you'll gang into the 'sump,' an' we'll
chap the bell oorsels"--the sump being the lodgment into which the water
gathered before pumping operations could start.

"Sourocks" thought discretion the better part of valor in this case, and
swearing quietly to himself, he signaled to the engineman at the top to
draw them up.

"He's no gaun to walk hame," said Allan, as they all gathered again on
the pit head. "We'll take the hutch hame wi' Tam in it. Put a rope on
it, and we'll draw the damned thing through the moor, an' maybe Tam'll
mind the day he was creeled as lang as he lives."

This proposal was jumped at, especially by the younger men, to whom an
idle day did not mean so much worry on pay-day as to their married
elders.

Andrew Marshall had waited at the end of the village, knowing that the
creeling was to take place, and that he would get the men on their way
from the pit. Presently old Lauder, who had taken a short cut across the
moor, came up, and Andrew accosted him.

"Will ye wait here, Jamie, so that I can try an' get a meetin' held wi'
the rest o' the men when they come alang?"

"I will that, Andra," replied Jamie, taking the lighted lamp from his
head, and sitting down at the corner on his "hunkers." "They're a'
comin' hame anyway, for we're creelin' Tam Donaldson."

Soon the procession appeared, the hutch jolting along the rough street,
the men shouting and singing as they came. The village had turned out to
see the fun. Andrew and Jamie found themselves in the midst of a crowd
of women and children, as the foremost of the men came to a halt at the
corner.

Andrew quietly stepped out and addressed the men, asking them if they
would wait a few minutes--as they were idle in any case--to have a
meeting. All were agreed.

"Here's Sanny Robertson," said Tam Tate, peering into the breaking
light, "he'll no' likely wait, but we'll see what he says aboot it," and
all waited in silence until Robertson approached. He seemed to guess
what was in the air, and hurriedly tried to pass on, but Andrew stepped
out with the usual question.

"No," he replied uneasily, "I'll ha'e no part in ony mair strife. Folk
just get into bother for nothing. Men'll ha'e to keep mind that gaffers
now-a-days'll no' put up wi' disobedience."

"Ay, but ye maun mind," said Tam Tate hastily, "that men maun be treated
as human bein's, even by a gaffer."

"I can aye get on with the gaffer," replied Robertson, "an' I dinna see
what way ither folk canna do the same."

"That's a' richt," put in old Jamie Lauder, "but a' men are no' just
prepared to do as ye do," and there was a hint of something in his voice
which the others seemed to understand.

"I ha'e no quarrel," sulkily replied Robertson, "an' I dinna see what
way I should get into this one. I can get plenty o' work, an' ither folk
can get it too, if they like to behave themselves."

"Ye're a liar," roared Tam Tate angrily, his usual hasty temper getting
the mastery. "It's no' you that gets the work, it's Mag!"

The others laughed uproariously, for it was common knowledge that Sanny
got his good jobs because of Walker's intimacy with his wife.

"Ye leave the best man in the house every mornin' when ye gang oot!"
roared another amid coarse laughter, whilst Andrew turned to tackle the
next comer.

A few refused to wait, but it was generally known that these were the
men whose houses were always open to Walker by day or night. When they
were all gathered, Andrew Marshall stood up, and for the first time in
his life spoke at a meeting.

"Weel, men," he began, "ye a' ken the position o' things. Ye ken as weel
as me that I got the sack for gatherin' for Geordie Sinclair. Weel, I
ha'e been oot o' work three months; the Block is on against me, an' it
seems I ha'e to starve. I canna get work onywhere, an' I stopped ye a'
the day to ask ye to make my quarrel yours, an' try and put an end to
this business."

That was the whole speech, but its simple sincerity appealed to all, and
many expressed approval and determination to stand by Andrew in his
fight.

"I think it's a damn'd shame," said old Lauder.

"I'll tell ye what it is," said Matthew Maitland, "it's a downricht
barefaced murder, an' I would smash this damn'd cantrip o' Black Jock's.
I ken that he'll get a' that is said at this meetin', an' maybe I'll get
the same dose; but I think it's aboot time somethin' was done to put an
end to his capers," and so Matthew floundered on.

"Ay, an' let us see what can be done for Geordie, too," put in Peter
Pegg, and his long neck seemed to get longer at every syllable, while
his big eye made a great attempt to wink and to look backward, as if he
expected to see someone coming from behind. "We a' ken," continued
Peter, "that Geordie is ready for work noo', this fower week syne, but
Black Jock says he has no places, an' forby two strangers got jobs just
yesterday."

"I ken for yae thing that there's fower places staunin' in Millar's
Level," said Jamie Lauder, "an' I'm telt there's five or six staunin' in
the Black Horse Dook. It's a' a bit of humbug, an' I think we should try
an' put an end to it."

"Weel, I think we're a' agreed on that," said Tam Tate. "Has ony o' you
onything to suggest?"

For a few minutes there was silence, while they sat or stood deep in
thought, trying to find a solution. It was an eerie gathering, with the
gray dawn just beginning to break, while on every head the
indispensable lamp burned and flickered. Men expectorated savagely upon
the ground, staring hard at the stones at their feet, thinking and
wondering how they might serve their comrades.

"It's about time we had a union," said one.

"Ay," replied another, "so that some bigmouthed idiot can pocket the
money an' get a guid saft job oot o' it."

"We've had plenty of unions," put in another. "The last yin we started
here--ye mind Bob Ritchie gaed aff to America wi' a' the money. It was a
fine go for him!"

"Oh, ay, but let us see what can be done wi' this case," said Jamie
Lauder. "Hoo' wad it do if we appointed a deputation to gang an' lay the
hale thing afore Mr. Rundell?"

Jamie was always listened to with the respect due to his proved good
sense, for everyone knew that he was a man who would not intentionally
hurt a fellow creature by word or deed.

"I believe it wad be a guid plan," agreed Tam Tate. "He maybe disna ken
the hauf that gangs on. What do ye a' think o' it, men?"

This was before the days of limited companies and coal syndicates, and
the proprietor of the pits in Lowwood, Mr. Rundell, lived about two
miles out of the village. He was not a bad man, as men go; he was fiery
and quick-tempered, but had a not ungenerous nature withal, and was
usually susceptible to a reasoned statement. Just as they were about to
decide on a course of action, Andrew spoke: "I dinna want ony mair o' ye
than can be helped to get into bother, so, if ye like, Jamie Lauder--if
he's agreeable--could gang wi' me and Geordie Sinclair, and we'll put
the hale case afore him an' see what he mak's o't."

This was received with approval, and it was agreed that Andrew, Jamie
and Geordie should form the deputation.

But Black Jock soon heard of the decision, and, as usual, acted with
alacrity; for, had the men only known it, they had decided on a course
which he did not want them to adopt. He visited Jamie Lauder, and told
him that the day before Rundell and he had agreed that the places in the
Black Horse Dook should be started at once, and that he was angry at
the course taken by the men. He believed that Mr. Rundell would also be
very angry, and if only Andrew and Geordie had come to him the night
before, they could have been working that day. He represented Rundell as
being in an explosive mood, and that he was furious at the men taking
the idle day, and that he had threatened that if they were not at work
next day, he would lock them out. So plausibly did he speak, and so
sincere did his concern appear, that Jamie, who was withal a simple man,
and aware that the circumstances of his comrades would not admit of a
very long fight, began to think it might be as Black Jock had said.

"I think ye'd better ca' a meetin' o' the men, Jamie, and put the hale
case afore them. Let them ken that Rundell decided just yesterday to
start the places, and that Andra and Geordie can start the morn. I ha'e
no ill wull at ony o' the twa o' them, and I'm vexed that things ha'e
been as bad as they've been, but I couldna get the boss to start the
places, and what could I do? They can a' be back at their work the morn
if they like to look at it reasonably. Of course, ye can please
yersel'," he went on, "it's a' yin to me; but if Rundell tak's it into
his head to ha'e a fight, well--ye ken what it means, an' I wouldna like
to ha'e ony strife the noo', for times are very hard for us a'."

Simple and honest as Jamie was, Black Jock's plausibility appealed to
him, and he began to think that Walker perhaps was not so bad as he was
made to appear. Again, Jamie knew that Rundell was a man of hasty temper
and impulsive judgments, and could not brook trouble, and he began to
think that perhaps it might be better to hold the meeting as suggested
and tell the men what he had heard, and appeal to them to go back to
work.

"All right," he said to Walker, "I'll call a meeting to-night and put
the case as you have said, and ask them to go back. But mind, you've not
to go back on your promise. You'll have to start Andrew and Geordie
within twa days, or the men will no' continue to work. Mind, I'm taking
a lot on myself to do this, and you'll have to carry out your part and
start them."

"I'll fill my part, never fear," was the answer, and there was relief in
Walker's voice. "See, there's my hand," he said, extending a big black
limb as he spoke, first spitting on his palm to ensure due solemnity.
"There's no dryness about that, Jamie. I mean it. I'll start Geordie and
Andrew all right. You get the men to go back to work to-morrow, for I'm
afraid Rundell will make trouble if you remain idle anither day. Noo' I
promise." And Jamie took the extended hand in token of the bargain and
returned to summon the meeting, which was duly held, and, as Walker had
anticipated, the men were appeased, and returned to work the next day.

Sure enough, within two days Andrew Marshall and Geordie Sinclair were
both started to work, and matters went smoothly for a time.

But though they had had a lesson, it did not stop their activities as
agitators for the establishment of a union, for they knew that there was
no protection for any of them if they remained unorganized.

"Men never were meant to work and live as colliers do," said Geordie,
thoughtfully. "Life should be good, and free, and happy, with comfort
and enjoyment for all. Look at the birds--they are happy! So are the
flowers, or they wouldn't look so pleased. God meant a' men and weemin
to be glad, even though they have to work. But hoo' the hell can folk be
happy and worship God on two and sixpence a day? It's all wrong, Andrew,
an' I'll never believe that men were meant to live as we live."

"That's true, Geordie," agreed Andrew soberly. "I only wish we could get
everybody to see it as we see it. There's plenty for a' God's
creatures--enough to make everybody happy, an' there need be no ill-will
in the world, if only common-sense was applied to things; but I'm damn'd
if I can see where even the men can be happy who are making their money
oot o' our lives. They're bound to ken surely that what comes from
misery can not make happiness for them."

"True, Andrew, true, and we maun just go on working for it. Sometimes I
have the feeling that we are on the point of big changes: just as if the
folk would awaken up oot o' their ignorance, with love in their hearts,
an' make all things right for everybody. A world o' happiness for
everybody is worth workin' for. So we maun gang on."

And so they talked of their dreams and felt the better for it.




CHAPTER IV

A YOUNG REBEL


About two years after these events little Robert Sinclair went to
school. It was a fine morning in late spring, and Robert trudged the
seemingly long road, clasping an elder brother's hand, for the school
lay about a mile to the north-west of the village, and that seemed to
the boy a very long way.

It was a great experience. Robert's clothes had been well patched, his
face had been washed and toweled till it shone, his eyes sparkled with
excitement, and his heart beat high; yet he was nervous and awed,
wondering what he would find there.

"By crikey," said wee Alec Johnstone to him, "wait till auld Clapper
gie's ye a biff or twa wi' his muckle tawse. Do ye ken what he does to
mak' them nippy? He burns them a wee bit in the fire, an' then st'eeps
them in whusky. An' they're awful sair."

"Oh, but I ken what to do, Rab, if ye want to diddle him," put in
another boy. "Just get a horse's hair--a lang yin oot o' its tail--and
put it across yer haun', an' it'll cut his tawse in twa, whenever he
gie's ye a pammy."

"That's what I'm gaun to do, Jamie," replied another. "I'll get some
hairs frae Willie Rogerson. He's gettin' me some frae his father's when
he's in the stable the morn, an' ye'll see auld Cabbage-heid's tawse
gaun in twa, whenever he gie's me yin." And they all looked admiringly
at this little hero who was going to do this wonderful thing so simply.

"I got four yesterday," said another, "an' I wasna' doin' onything. By
criffens! it was sair, an' gin I had only had a horse's hair, I'd soon
ha'e putten his tawse oot the road."

"I got four yesterday too," said another, "an' a' because I was looking
at yon new laddie wha cam to the schule yesterday. By! they were sair. I
never heard auld Cabbage-heid till he cam up an' telt me to put oot my
haun."

"It's Peter Rundell's his name," chimed in another. "He's the Boss's
laddie. My! if you just saw what fine claes he has on. A new suit, an'
lang stockings, an' a pair o' fine new buits."

"Ay, an' a white collar too," said another, "an' hundreds o' pooches in
his jacket."

"He has a waistcoat wi' three pooches in it--yin for a watch--an' a
braw, black, shiny bonnet."

"He had a white hankey too, an' sweeties in yin o' his pooches."

Robert felt a certain amount of resentment as he listened to the
description, and he grudged Peter Rundell his new suit for he himself
had never known anything of that kind, but had always worn "make-downs"
created by his mother's clever fingers out of the discarded clothes of
grown-ups.

"Auld Cabbage-heid didna' like me looking at Peter Rundell an' that's
the way he gied me four, but I'll get a horse's hair too, an' his tawse
'll soon get wheegh. He's awful cruel, Rab," he said, turning to Robert,
"an' ye'd better look oot."

Each and all had some fearful story to tell of the cruelty of the
headmaster, and all swore they'd get even with him. These stories filled
Robert with a certain fear, for he was an imaginative and sensitive boy.
Still he knew there was no escape. He must go to school and go through
with it whatever the future might hold for him.

So far he had grown wild and free, and loved the broad wide moor which
began even at the end of the row where he lived. It seemed to him that
there never had been a time when he did not know that there was a moor
there. Nothing in it surprised him, even as a child. Its varied moods
were already understood by him, and its silences and its many voices
appealed to and were balm to his soul. The great blue hills which
fringed it away in the far distance were for him the ends of the world,
and if he could go there some day, he would surely look over and
find--what? The thought staggered him, and his imagination would not, or
could not, construct for him what was at the other side. All day, often,
he had lain stretched full length upon the moor, watching the great
white clouds sailing past, seeing himself sometimes sitting astride
them, proudly surveying, like God, the whole world. At times it was so
real that he bounded to his feet when by some misadventure he slipped
from the back of the cloud. He listened to the songs of larks, the cries
of curlews and lapwings and all the other moorland birds, and became as
familiar with each of them as they were with one another.

But this going to school was a break in his freedom, and it stirred him
strangely. He felt already that he would rather not go to school. He had
always been happy before, and he did not know what lay ahead.

In the schoolroom that morning, Robert was called out by the
headmistress to her desk, and while she was jotting down in her register
particulars as to his age, etc., it happened that Peter Rundell was also
on the floor. Robert looked so wonderingly at the white collar and the
shining boots, that Rundell, to fill in the blanks and keep himself
cheerful, promptly put out his tongue. Robert, not to be behind in
respectfulness, just as promptly put out his, at the same time making a
grimace, and immediately they were at it, pummeling each other in hearty
glee before the teacher could do anything to prevent them. It was their
first fight. The whole class was in immediate uproar and cries of--"Go
on, Rob!" and "Good Peter!" were ringing out, as the supporters on
either side shouted encouragement. Both went at it and for a couple of
minutes defied the efforts of the teacher to separate them; but in
response to calls for help, Mr. Clapper, the headmaster, came in, and
taking hold of Robert soon had him across his knee, and was giving him a
taste of the "tawse" he had heard so much about that morning, and Robert
went back to his seat very sore, both physically and mentally, and
crying in pain and anger. Thus his first day began at school, and the
succeeding months were full of many such incidents.

Life ran along in the ordinary ruts for three or four years, but always
Peter and Robert were antagonists. If Rundell happened to get to the top
of the class, Robert never rested till he had excelled and displaced
him; and then it was Peter's turn to do likewise till he too succeeded.

Robert, when in the mood, was eager and brilliant, and nothing seemed
able to stay him. At times, however, he was given to dreaming, and lived
through whole days in the classroom quite unconscious of what was going
on around him. He worked mechanically, living in a strange world of his
own creation, usually waking up to find himself at the foot of the class
with Peter smiling at the top.

Often he went hungry, for times were still hard, and the family had
increased to six. It was a bitter struggle in which Mrs. Sinclair was
engaged to try and feed--let alone clothe--her hungry children. Patient,
plodding, and terrible self-sacrifices alone enabled her to accomplish
what she did. It was always a question of getting sufficient food rather
than aiming at any particular kind. It was quantity rather than quality
that was her biggest problem, for the children had sharp appetites and
could make a feast of the simplest material. A pot of potatoes, boiled
with their "jackets" on, tumbled on to the center of the bare, uncovered
table and a little salt placed in small heaps at the exact position
where each person sat, a large bowl of butter-milk when it could be got,
with a tablespoon for each with which to lift a spoonful of the milk,
and thus was set the banquet of the miner's family.

"Mither, Rob's taken twa sups of milk to yae bite o' tattie," little
Mary would say.

"Ay, an' what did you do?" Robert would reply. "When you thought naebody
was lookin', you took three spoonfu' to yae wee tattie. I was watchin'
you."

"Now that'll do," the mother would admonish them. "Try and make it gang
as far as ye can. Here you!" she would raise her voice to another,
"dinna be so greedy on it. The rest maun get some too." At this the
guilty child would frown and look ashamed at being caught taking more
than his share.

Robert's dreams, however, were always satisfying, and even the sordid
surroundings of the home were gilded by the warmth and glow of his
imagination. Some day, somewhere he seemed to feel, there was a place
for him to fill in the hearts of men. Vague stirrings told him of great
future events which no one could dominate, save the soul that filled his
body.

One day, during the dinner hour, when the school children were all at
play, Robert and Peter again came into conflict. Some girls were playing
at a ring game, and Robert and a few other boys were shamefacedly
looking on. He was by this time at the bashful age of ten, and already
the sweet, shy face of Mysie Maitland had become familiar in every
dream. Mysie's modesty and grace appealed to him and the strange
magnetic power of soul for soul was continually drawing them together,
even at this early age. No voice was like Mysie's voice, no name like
her name to him. If only she chanced shyly to ask if he had a spare
piece of pencil Robert was happy; he'd gladly give her his only piece
and forthwith proceed to borrow another for himself. He saw that Mysie
did certain things, used, for instance, to clean her slate with a bit of
rag, and he instantly procured one, and this kept his jacket sleeve
clean and whole.

  "Choose, choose wha' ye'll tak',
  Wha' ye'll tak', wha' ye'll tak',
  Choose, choose wha' ye'll tak',
  A laddie or a lassie."

So sang the girls, as with hands joined they walked round in a ring,
with Mysie, blushing and sweet, standing in the center--a sweet, shy,
little rosebud--a joy in a cheap cotton frock.

"Come on, Mysie," urged the girls, who had now come to a standstill with
the finish of the song. "Choose an' dinna keep us waiting." But Mysie
stood still, her little heart beating at a terrible rate, her breath
coming in short, quick gasps, and a soft, glowing light of nervous
intensity in her eyes.

"Oh, come on, Mysie Maitland," cried one girl in hurt tones, "choose an'
dinna spoil the game."

"Come on," urged another, "the whistle will be blawn the noo."

"She's feart," said one, "an' she disna need, for we a' ken that she
wants to choose Bob Sinclair."

Something sang uproariously in Bob's ears at this blunt way of stating
what they all felt; a hot wave surged over him, and his whole being
seemed to fill with the energy of a giant. He shifted uneasily, his
senses all acutely alert to pick up even Mysie's faint gasp of shame, as
the hot blood suffused her face. Would she choose him before all these
others? He hoped she wouldn't, and he tried to summon a smile to hide
his uneasiness. Still Mysie hesitated. She wanted to choose Robert, but
if she did, perhaps the other boys and girls would tease them
afterwards.

"Oh, come on, Mysie. It's no' fair," cried one of the girls, getting
more and more impatient. "Choose an' be done wi' it. It's only a game."

Thus urged Mysie stepped forward, and, excited out of all judgment, her
face covered with shame, her heart thumping and galloping, she grabbed
the first hand she saw, which happened to be Peter Rundell's, and
something seemed to darken the day for all. Robert, now that he had not
been chosen, felt murder in his heart. His body felt charged with
energy, a flood of passion poured over him and he lost all discretion.
He saw only Peter's shining collar, his fine boots and good clothes, and
above all the smile, half of shame, half of triumph, upon his face. In
passing Peter staggered against Robert, who let drive with his fist, and
there was a fight before anyone really knew what had happened.

"What are ye shovin' at? Can ye no' watch folk's toes?" And he was on
Peter like a whirlwind. There was the hatred of years between them, and
they pummeled each other heartily.

"A fight, boys!" yelled the others. "Here's a fight!" and a crowd
rapidly gathered to watch operations, while little Mysie, who had been
the cause of it all, shrank back into a quiet corner, the tears running
from her eyes and a sore pain at her heart.

"Go on, Bob! Gi'e him a jelly yin," cried Bob's supporters.

"Watch for his nose, Peter," cried those who pinned their faith to the
coal-owner's son. Amid a chorus of such encouragement, both boys
belabored each other and fought like barbarians.

"Let up, Peter," cried Bob's admirers, "an' gi'e him fair doo," as the
two rolled upon the ground, with Peter, who was much the bigger boy, on
top. "Come on now, he let you up when you was doon," and so they kept
the balance of fair play. But the fight raged on in a terrible fury of
battle, sometimes one boy on top, sometimes the other. Bob was the more
active of the two, and hardier, and what he lacked in weight he made up
in speed. One of Peter's eyes was bruised, while Robert's lip was
swelling, and each strained to plant the decisive blow that would end
the fight.

"Nae kickin', Peter! Ye're bate," yelled one watchful supporter of Bob,
as he noticed the former's booted foot come into violent contact with
Bobbie's bare leg.

"Big cowardie!" cried another, as Peter, crying now with rage and
vexation, hit out with his foot. "Fight fair an' nae kickin'!"

Bob managed to dodge the kick, and flinging himself in before Peter
recovered his balance, planted a heavy blow upon his opponent's nose.

"Ho! a jelly yin! a jelly yin!" roared the crowd in admiration. "Gi'e
him anither yin," and even Peter's supporters began to desert him. Bob,
thus encouraged, laid about him with all the strengthened "morale" of a
conscious victor, finding it comparatively easy now to hit hard--and
often. Peter, blinded by tears and choking with passion, could not see,
but struck aimlessly, till one resounding smack upon his already injured
nose brought the eagerly looked for crimson blood from it, and that of
course, in schoolboy etiquette, meant the end of the fight. Peter was
now lying upon the ground, his handkerchief at his nose, and roaring
like a bull, not so much because of his injured nose, as because of the
hurt to his pride and vanity.

"Haud back yer held," advised one boy, "an' put something cauld doon
yer back."

Suddenly there was silence, and everyone looked awed and shamefaced as
Mr. Clapper, the headmaster, strode into the midst of them. He had heard
the noise of the fight, and had stolen up unobserved just in time to see
Peter get the knockout blow.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded sternly, his eyes traveling
all over the children, till they rested finally on Robert. No one
answered, and so he proceeded to question Peter, who had struggled to
his feet. Peter, like many other boys in similar circumstances, poured
forth a great indictment of his adversary, and Mr. Clapper then turned
to Robert.

"What have you to say, Sinclair?" he asked. "Speak out, and give me your
side."

But Robert said nothing. His rebellious spirit was roused, and he
resented the tone of the headmaster's voice. Again Mr. Clapper tried,
but Robert remained silent.

"Come now, tell me what led to the fight? Why were you fighting with
Peter?"

Robert would not speak, and Mr. Clapper, being of an explosive
temperament, with little tact, was fast losing his temper. He turned to
question some of the other boys, finally calling them all into the
school, and putting Robert into the teacher's room, so that he might
"get to the bottom of it."

Mr. Clapper, whatever good points he may have possessed, was not at all
fitted for the teaching profession, for he lacked the sympathy necessary
in dealing with children, and he was a rigid believer in the doctrine of
punishment.

After a time he came into the room where Robert sat, and began once more
to question him. But Robert was still obdurate, and stolidly kept
silent. Mr. Clapper recognized at once that this was a clear case of a
dour nature in the wrong. It needed correction, and that of a severe
kind. That spirit he felt must be broken, or there would be trouble
ahead in after years for Robert Sinclair. Mr. Clapper was determined to
do his duty, and he believed that Robert in later life would probably
feel grateful for this thrashing. He thrashed the boy soundly and
severely upon the most sensitive parts of his body, so that the pain
would help to break his spirit. He saw no indignity heaped upon a
high-spirited, sensitive soul. It was all for the boy's own good, and so
the blows fell thick and heavy upon the little back and hips.

Robert bit his lip to repress the roar of pain that wanted to escape. He
would not cry, and this was another spur to the efforts of Mr. Clapper.
The boy's flesh twitched and quivered at every blow, yet never a cry
came from him. It but served to feed his rebellion, and he struggled and
fought with fury until completely exhausted.

"There now," declared Mr. Clapper, flinging down the "tawse" upon the
table, panting from his exertions and wiping his brow, "I shall leave
you for a time until you decide to speak. If you will not speak when I
return, I shall thrash you again," and he went out, locking the door,
leaving the boy, still proud and unsubdued, but aching in every muscle
and bone of his little body.

Left to himself, Robert very nearly cried, but he dashed the gathering
tears from his eyes, angry at the weakness, and resolved, as he adjusted
his garments, that he would die rather than speak now. He looked round,
and seeing the window raised a little from the bottom, sprang to it, a
sudden resolve in his heart to run away. Just as he got astride the sill
he spied a piece of chalk and the "tawse" on the table, so turning back
he put the "tawse" in his pocket, and with the chalk wrote on the
table:--

"You are an ould pig and I'll not speak, and you'll never put your hands
on your tawse again."

Then he was out of the window, dropped easily to the ground, and was
away to the moors. He ran a long way, until finding that he had not been
detected, he skirted a small wood, dug a hole in the soft moss, put in
the "tawse," and covered them up. There they may be lying to this day,
for no one ever learned from him where they were buried.

The spell of the moor took possession of him, and his wounded soul was
soon wrapped in the soft folds of its silence. The balm of its peace
comforted him, and brought ease and calmed the rebellion in his blood.
He was happy, forgetting that there ever had existed a schoolmaster, or
anything else unpleasant. Here he was free, and no one ever
misunderstood him. He gave pain to no one, and nothing ever hurt him
here.

He flung himself down among the rank gray grass and heather, while the
moor cock called to his mate in an agony of pleading passion, the
lapwing crooned upon a tuft of grass as she prepared a place for her
eggs, the whaup wheepled and twirled and cried in eerie alarm, the
plover sighed to a low white cloud wandering past; while the snipe and
the lark, the "mossie," the heather lintie, and the wandering, sighing
winds among the reeds and rushes of the swampy moss, all added their
notes to soothe and satisfy the little wounded spirit lying there on the
soft moorland. Already he was away upon the wings of fancy in a world of
his own--a world full of dreams and joys unspeakable; a world of calm
comfort, where there was no pain, no hunger, no unpleasantness; a world
of smiles and warm delights and love.

Thus he dreamed as he watched the white clouds trailing their draperies
along the sky, till the shadows creeping over the hills, and the cries
of the heron returning to his haunts in the moor, woke him to a
realization of the fact that the school was long since out, and probably
another thrashing awaited him when he got home. Sadly and regretfully he
dragged his little aching body from its soft mossy bed, felt that his
limbs were still sore, and that he was very, very hungry. Rebellion
again surging within him as he remembered all, he trudged home, fearful
yet proud, resolved to go through with the inevitable.




CHAPTER V

BLACK JOCK'S THREAT


That same day Walker intimated to Geordie, when he was at work
underground, that a reduction was to be imposed on his ton rate, which
meant for Sinclair that it would be more difficult to earn a decent
wage. Geordie had always had it in his head to confront Walker about his
very unfair treatment of him, and on this occasion he decided to do so.

"What way are you breakin' my rate?" he asked, when Walker told him of
the reduction.

"Oh, it's no' me," replied Walker. "It's Rundell. He thinks it can be
worked for less than it's takin', and, of course, I've just to do as I
am tell'd."

"Weel, I don't ken," said Geordie. "But I've thocht for a lang while
back that you had a hand in it. Have I done anything to ye, for I don't
ken o' it?"

"Ye've never done me any harm, Geordie," replied Walker with a show of
sincerity. "What mak's ye think that?"

"Weel, for a lang time noo', I've ay been kept in hard places, or places
wi' nae air, or where there was water to contend wi'. There's ay been
something, an' I ha'e come to the conclusion that there's mair design
than accident in it."

"I dinna think so," was the reply. "But maybe it's because you're ay
agitatin' to have a union started."

"An' what about it," enquired Geordie, getting a bit heated. "If I ha'e
been advocatin' the startin' o' a union? It seems to me to be muckle
needed."

"Oh, I've nothing to say aboot it," replied Walker. "It's the boss, an'
I was merely givin' ye a hint for yer ain guid."

"It's a' richt," exclaimed Geordie, getting still more heated. "I can
see as far through a brick wall as you can see through a whin dyke. The
boss has naething to do wi' it. It's you, an' I'm quite pleased to get
the chance to tell ye to yer face. Ye could, many a time, ha'e given me
a better place, if you had cared. But let me tell you, if there was a
union here, it would soon put an end to you an' yer damn'd cantraips."

"Very weel. Gang on an' start yin. Man, though ye were a' in a union the
morn, I could buy an' sell the majority of them for the promise of a
guid place, or a bottle of whisky--Ay, if they jist thocht they were in
wi' the gaffer, I'd get all I wanted frae the maist o' them. A clap on
the shoulder, a smile, or even a word would do it. The one hauf o' the
men can ay be got to sell the ither. Ye daurna' cheep, man, but I hear
of it."

"Damn'd fine I ken that," replied Geordie, "an' it's mair the peety. But
that's no' to say that men'll ay be like that. If they'd be true an'
stick to yin anither, they'd damn'd soon put an end to sic gaffers as
you."

"Maybe ye'll be the first to be put an end to," said Walker, rising to
leave. "I might ha'e something to say to--"

"You rotten pestilence o' hell," cried Geordie, now fairly roused, and
jumping over the coals on the "roadhead" after him. "I'll cleave the
rotten heart o' ye if I get my fingers on ye, you an' yer fancy women,
yer gamblin' an' yer shebeens!"

But Walker was off; he did not like to hear these matters of his private
life mentioned, and so Geordie, left to himself, lit his pipe, and sat
down to cool his temper.

A few minutes later Matthew Maitland came round to borrow a shot of
powder, and Geordie unburdened his mind to him.

"He's a dirty brute," said Matthew, "an' it's time we had a union
started. I hear great stories aboot how Bob Smillie's gettin' on wi' the
union that he started doon the west country."

"I ken Bob fine," said Geordie. "He's a fine fellow. I worked next wall
to him doon there a while, an' a better chap ye couldna' get."

"I hear that he's gotten as muckle as tippence on the ton to some o'
the miners who ha'e joined. I'm gaun to join whenever it can be
started."

Geordie agreed that it would be good to have a union, but he knew that
whoever led in the matter would very likely have to pay for his courage.
There was the "Block" to consider, and he could not see how they might
start a union just then in such hard times.

He sat and thought after Matthew had gone away, and was still sitting
when Matthew's shot went off. His lot, he knew, was hard. He could not
afford to "flit," even though he did find work somewhere else. His six
children depended upon his readiness to swallow insult and injustice,
and he could see no way but to submit. If only his first boy were ready
for work, it would soon make a difference in the house. It was only a
few months now till that time would come, and perhaps things might
change.

All day he was sullen and angry, and he tore at his work like some
imprisoned fiend, a great rebellion in his heart, and a fury of anger
consuming him. Everything seemed to go wrong that day, and at last when
"knock-off" time came, he felt a little easier, though still silent and
angry. His last shot, however, missed fire, just as he was coming away
home; and that, added to all the other things that day, made him feel
that his whole life was clouded, and was one long trial.

On the way home from the pit he heard the story of Robert's rebellious
outburst at school, and when he came into the house his wife saw by his
face that something had upset him. She proceeded to get him water to
wash himself, and brought in the tub, while he divested himself of his
clothes, flinging each garment savagely into the corner, until he stood
naked save for his trousers. Most miners are sensitive to the presence
of strangers during this operation, and it so happened at that
particular time the minister chose to pay one of his rare visits among
his flock in the village.

"Wha the hell's this noo?" asked Geordie, when he heard the tap at the
door, as he looked up through soapy eyes, his head all lathered with the
black suds. "Dammit, they micht let folk get washed," he said angrily.

When he heard the voice of the minister, he plunged his head into the
tub, and began splashing and rubbing, and lifting the water over his
head.

"Oh, you are busy washing, I see, Mr. Sinclair," observed the minister,
looking at the naked collier.

"Ay," said Geordie shortly, "an' I dinna think you'd ha'e thankit me for
comin' in on the tap o' you, when you were washin' yerself," he said
bluntly--a remark which his wife felt to be a bit ill-natured, though
she said nothing.

"Oh, I am sorry," replied the minister. "I did not mean to intrude. I'll
not stay, but will call back some other time," and his voice was
apologetic and ill at ease.

"I think sae," retorted Geordie, splashing away and spitting the soap
from his mouth. "Yer room's mair to my taste than yer company the noo."

"My! that was an awfu' way to talk to the meenister," said Mrs. Sinclair
when the door was again closed. "You micht aye try to be civil to folk,"
and there was resentment in her voice.

"Ach, dammit, wha can be bothered wi' thae kind o' folk yapping roun'
about when yer washin' yerself. He micht ken no' to come at this time,
when men are comin' hame frae their work," and he went on with his
splashing. "Here, gi'e my back a rub," and he lay over the tub while she
washed his back from the shoulders downward, making it clean and free
from the coal dust and grime. Then she proceeded to dry him all over
with a rough towel, after which he put on a clean shirt, and taking off
his pit trousers, stepped into the tub and began to wash his lower limbs
and make them as clean as the upper part of the body.

"Ach, folk should ha'e a place to wash in anyway," he grumbled, as if to
justify his outburst, for secretly he was beginning to feel ashamed of
it. "The folk that ha'e the maist need o' a bath are the folk wha never
get the chance o' yin," he went on. "Look at that chap wha was in the
noo. He never needs to dirty a finger, an' look at the hoose he has to
bide in, wi' its fine bathroom an' a' things that he needs. Och, but we
are a silly lot o' blockheads!" And so he raved on till he sat down to
his frugal dinner of potatoes and buttermilk, after which he relapsed
into silence again, and sat reading a newspaper.

It was in this mood that Robert found him when he returned from the
moors. Nellie had noticed that something was worrying her husband, and
she suspected some fresh trouble at the pit, though she asked no
questions.

"Where hae ye been?" asked Geordie very calmly, as Robert entered
furtively, and sat down on a chair near to the door. The boy did not
answer. He dreaded that calmness. He seemed to feel there was something
strong, cruel and relentless behind it. But he had something of his
father's nature in him, so he sat in silence.

"What kind o' conduct's this I hear ye've been up to?" was the next
question, with the same studied calm, seemingly passionless and pliable.
Still no answer from the boy, though when he looked at his father he
felt afraid. He turned his eyes appealingly to his mother, but her face
betrayed nothing, and a feeling of hopelessness entered Robert's heart.
There was nothing else but to go through with it.

"Tak' aff yer claes," quietly commanded the father, and the boy
reluctantly began to peel off his scanty garments one by one, till he
stood naked on the bare floor. He was glad that no one except the baby
was in to see his humiliation, his brothers and sisters being all out at
play.

The father rose and went to the corner where his working clothes lay in
a heap. Selecting the belt he wore round his waist at his work, he
grasped it firmly, and with the other hand took the boy by one arm,
saying:--

"Are ye going to answer my question noo', and tell me where ye ha'e
been?"

But Robert did not answer, so down came the hard leather belt with a
horrible crack across the naked little hips, and a thick red mark
appeared where the blow had fallen. A roar of pain broke from the boy's
lips, in spite of his resolution not to cry, as lash after lash fell
upon his limbs and across the little white back. Horribly, cruelly,
relentlessly the belt fell with sickening regularity, while the tender
flesh quivered at every blow, and an ugly series of red stripes
appeared along the back and down across the sturdy legs.

"Oh, dinna' hit me ony mair, faither," he pleaded at last, the firm
resolution breaking because of the pain of the blows. "Oh, dinna hit
me!" and he jumped as the blows fell without slackening. "Oh, oh, oh!
Mother, dinna' let him hit me ony mair!" roared the boy, while the grim,
set face of the parent never relaxed, and the belt continued to lash the
quivering flesh.

Mrs. Sinclair, who by this time was crying too, feeling every blow in
her mother-heart, began to fear this grim, cruel look on her husband's
face. He was mad, she felt, and there was murder in his eyes; and at
last, spurred to desperation, she jumped forward, tore at the belt with
desperate strength, and flung it into the corner, crying, as she gripped
the boy in her arms.

"In the name of Heaven, Geordie, are ye gaun to kill my bairn afore my
een?"

She tore the boy fiercely from his father's grasp and shielded him from
her husband, exclaiming at the same time with indignation, "Ha'e ye nae
humanity aboot ye at a'? Hit me if ye are goin' to hit any more. It's
murder, an' I'll no' stand ony longer an' let ye do it."

Geordie, surprised and amazed at her action, and the fierceness in her
voice, looked up, and immediately reason seemed to steal back into his
mind. A flush of shame overspread his face, and he sat down, burying his
face in his hands.

"Wheesht, sonny. Wheesht, my wee man," crooned the mother soothingly, as
she began to help Robert to get on his clothes, the tears falling still
from her own eyes, as she saw the ugly stripes and bruises upon his back
beginning to discolor. "Wheesht, sonny! Dinna' greet ony mair. There
noo', my wee son. Daddy's no' weel the nicht," she excused, "an' didna'
ken what he was doin'." Then breaking into a louder tone: "I wonder what
in Heaven's name puir folk are born for at a'. There noo'. There noo'.
Dinna greet, my wee man, an' mither'll gi'e ye yer denner."

Sinclair could stand it no longer, so slipping on his boots and
reaching for his cap, he went out, never in all his life feeling more
ashamed of himself.

Left to themselves--for all the other children were still out at
play--Nellie soon had Robert quietened and sitting at his dinner of cold
potatoes and buttermilk. Bit by bit she drew from him the story of the
fight at school; divining for herself the reason for Robert's attack
upon Peter Rundell, she soon was in possession of the whole story with
its termination of revolt against the headmaster and even the confession
of what he had written on the table.

"An' what did ye do wi' the tawse, son?" she enquired, her dark eyes
showing pride in the revolt of her laddie. She was proud to know that he
had sufficient character to stand up to a bully, even though he were a
headmaster.

"I buried them in the muir," he replied simply, "but I dinna' want to
tell naebody where they are. I'll never gi'e them back."

"Oh, weel, if ye dinna' want to tell me, dinna' do it," she said. "I'll
gang with ye to the school the morn, an' I'll see that ye're no' meddled
wi'. But, Robin, while I like to see ye staunin' up against what is
wrong, I dinna want ye to dae wrang yerself. An' I think ye was in the
wrang to strike Peter. He staggered against ye, an' I dinna think he wad
try to tramp on yer taes. An' always when ye're in the wrang, own up to
it, an' make what amends ye can."

Robin did not reply to this, but she could see that he knew she was
right. Before he could say anything she added, "Come awa' noo', if ye
ha'e gotten yer denner, son, I think ye should gang awa' to yer bed.
Ye'll be the better o' a lang sleep. Dinna' think hard o' yer faither;
he's feelin' ashamed o' hittin' ye. There must be something botherin'
him, for I dinna' mind o' him ever leatherin' one o' ye like that."

This was true, for Geordie Sinclair was rather a "cannie" man, and had
never been given to beating his children before. She felt that something
had happened in the pit, and whatever it was it had made her husband
angry.

Robert again stripped off his clothes and crept into bed, while his
mother seemed to feel every pain once more as she looked upon the soft
little body with the ugly black stripes upon it. She placed him under
the rough blankets as snugly as possible, telling him to lie well over
near to the wall, for there were five of them now who lay abreast, and
there was never too much room. He was soon asleep, and Mrs. Sinclair put
fresh coals on the fire, and began to tidy up, so as to have everything
as cheerful as possible when her husband should return. It was no easy
matter to keep a house clean, with only a single apartment, and eight
individuals living in it.

The housing conditions in most mining villages of Scotland are an
outrage on decency. In Lowwood there were no sanitary conveniences of
any kind, and it was a difficult matter for the women folk to keep a
tidy house under these circumstances. But it was wonderful, the
homeliness and comfort found in those single apartment houses. It was
home, and that made it tolerable. In such homes fine men and women were
bred and reared, but the credit was due entirely to our womenfolk; for
they had the fashioning of the spirit of the homes, and the spirit of
the homes is always the spirit of the people.




CHAPTER VI

THE COMING OF A PROPHET


Another year passed, and Robert was now eleven years of age. Though full
of hardship, hunger and poverty, yet they were not altogether unhappy
years for him. There were joys which he would not have liked to have
missed, and in later life he looked back upon them always through a mist
of memory that sometimes bordered on tears.

He had grown "in wisdom and stature," and gave promise of being a fine
sturdy boy; but lately it had been borne in upon him that no one seemed
just to look at things from his point of view. He was alluded to as "a
strange laddie," and the gulf of misunderstanding seemed to grow wider
every day. Old Granny Frame, the "howdie-wife" of the village, always
declared that he would be a great man, but others just took it for
granted that he would never see things as they saw them.

He was already too serious for a boy, and his joys were not the joys of
other children. Sensitive, and in a measure proudly reserved, he took
more and more to the moors and the hills. All day sometimes he roved
over them, and at other times he would lie motionless but happy, for the
moor always understood. If he were hurt at anything which happened, the
moor brought him solace; if he grieved, it gave him relief; and if he
were happy, it too rejoiced. He loved it in all moods, and he could not
understand how its loving silence was dreaded by others.

His parents now found that their battle, though not much easier,
certainly was no worse, and hope shone bright for them in the future.
The oldest boy was already at work and one girl was away "in service."
Robert, too, would soon be ready, and in quick succession behind him
there were three other boys. Geordie Sinclair was often told by his
workmates that he would "soon ha'e naethin' to do but put in wicks in
the pit lamps." But Geordie merely smiled. How often before had he heard
that said of others who had families like his own and he knew that he
would never see them all working. Fifty years was a long time to live
for a collier in those days of badly ventilated and poorly inspected
pits and many men were in their graves at forty.

Walker still indulged in petty persecution, whilst Geordie agitated for
the starting of a union, and many a battle the two had, until the enmity
between them developed into keen hatred.

"I wonder what Black Jock really has against me," he had said over and
over again, unable to understand his persistent hostility, but his wife
had never dared tell him.

One night, however, after he had been out of work a week, because, as
Black Jock had said, "there was nae places," she decided to tell him the
real reason of Walker's antipathy.

"Man, it's no' you, Geordie, that Black Jock has the ill will at," she
ventured to say, "it's me, an' he hits me an' the bairns through you."

"You," said Geordie in some surprise, "hoo' can that be?"

Bit by bit, though with great reluctance, she told her husband how and
when Black Jock had attempted to degrade her. When she had ended, he sat
in grim silence, while the ticking of the clock seemed to have gained in
loudness, and so, too, the purring of the cat, as it rubbed itself
against his leg, first on one side and then the other, drawing its
sleek, furry side along his ankle, turning back again, and occasionally
looking up into his face for the recognition which it vainly tried to
win.

The fire burned low in the grate as Nellie busied herself with washing
the dishes; while outside the loud cries of the children, playing on the
green, mingled occasionally with a clink, as the steel quoits fell upon
each other, telling of some enthusiastic players, who were practicing
for the local games. Loud cries of encouragement broke from the
supporters, and Geordie and Nellie heard all these--even the plaintive
wail of a child crying in a house a few doors farther up the "row," and
the mother's attempts to soothe it into forgetfulness of its temporary
pain or disappointment.

The little apartment seemed to have become suddenly cheerless. Nellie
felt the silence most oppressive, for she was wondering how he was
taking it all. Soon, however, he rose and reached for his cap. Looking
at his wife with eyes that set all her fears at rest--for she saw pride
in them, pride in her and the way she had acted--he said:--

"Thank ye, Nellie; ye are a' the woman I always thocht ye was, an' I'll
see that nae dirty brute ever again gets the chance to insult ye," and
he was out of the door before she could question him further.

Geordie went straight to where Walker lived and knocked at the door. A
girl of fourteen came in answer to his knock, for Walker was a widower,
his wife having died shortly after the birth of their only child.

"Is yer faither in?" enquired Geordie quietly, hardly able to control
the raging anger in his heart.

"No, he's no' in," replied the girl. "Oh, is that you, Geordie?" she
asked, recognizing him in the darkness. "My father said when he went oot
that if ye cam' to the door, I was to tell ye he had nae places yet."

"That's a' richt," said Geordie, still very quietly. "Do ye ken onything
aboot where he is this nicht?"

"No, unless he's up in Sanny Robertson's, or maybe in Peter Fleming's."

"Thank ye," said Geordie, turning away, "I'll go up an' see if he is
there."

He knew that Peter Fleming was working that night, and had stopped on an
extra shift to repair a road, by special instructions from Walker; so
Geordie went direct to Fleming's house and knocked at the door. After an
interval a woman's voice enquired, "Wha's that?" and Geordie thought
there was anxiety in it.

"Open the door," said Geordie quietly. "What the hell are ye afert for?"
and the woman, thinking it was her husband returned from work,
immediately opened the door.

"You're shairly early," she said; then suddenly recognizing who the
intruder was, she tried to shut the door.

"Na, na," said Geordie, now well in the doorway, "I want to see Black
Jock."

"He's no' here," she lied readily enough, but with some agitation in her
voice.

"You're a liar, Jean," replied Geordie, "that's him gaun oot at the room
door," and Geordie withdrew hurriedly, determined that Black Jock should
not escape him. He hurried to the end of the "row," and waited with all
the passion of long years raging through his whole being. He stepped out
as Walker advanced, and said: "Is that you, Walker?"

"Ay," came the answer, "what do ye want?" as he came to a halt.

"Just a meenit," said Geordie, placing himself in front of Walker,
barring his way. "I want to warm yer dirty hide. It ought to have been
done years ago, but I never kent till the nicht, and I'm gaun to dae it
the noo," and the tones of his voice indicated that he meant what he
said.

"Oh! What's wrang?" asked Walker in affected surprise. "I'll get ye a
place," he went on hurriedly, "just as soon as I can--in fac' there's
yin that'll be ready by the morn."

"I'm no gi'ein' a damn for yer place. It's you I'm efter the nicht. Come
on, face up," and Sinclair squared himself for battle.

Thus challenged, Walker, who was like all bullies a coward at heart,
tried to temporize, but Sinclair was in no mood for delay.

"Come on, pit them up, or I'll break yer jaw for you," he said
threateningly.

"Man, Geordie, what ails ye the nicht?" asked Walker in hurried alarm,
wondering wildly how he could stave off the chastisement which he knew
from Geordie's voice he might expect. "Talk sensibly, man. Try an' ha'e
some sense. What's the matter wi' ye?"

"Matter," echoed Geordie, "jist this. The wife has jist telt me a' aboot
the nicht ye cam' chappin' to the door when I was lyin' hurt. She kent
I'd break yer neck for it, and she was feart to tell me. So put up yer
fists, ye black-hearted brute that ye are. I'm gaun to gi'e ye what we
should hae gotten seven years syne, an' it'll maybe put ye frae preyin'
on decent women. Come on."

"Awa', man, Geordie, an' behave yersel'," began Walker, trying to evade
him.

"Tak' that, then, ye dirty brute!" and Geordie smashed his fist straight
between Walker's eyes.

Roused at last, Walker showed fight and swung at Sinclair. He was the
younger man by about two years, and had not had the hard work and bad
conditions of the other, but Sinclair was a strong man, and was now
roused to a great pitch, so he struck out with terrific force. Then the
two closed and swayed about, struggling, cursing and punching each other
with brutal might. Sinclair's extra weight and more powerful build soon
began to tell, and he was able to send home one or two heavy blows on
Black Jock's face and body. Panting and blowing, they separated, and as
they did so, Sinclair caught his opponent a straight hard crash on the
jaw that sent him rolling to the muddy road, and feeling as if a
thousand fists had struck him all at once.

Walker lay for a short time, then gathering himself together, he rose to
his feet and set off at a quick pace in the direction of his house,
whilst Geordie, too, turned homewards, feeling that it was useless to
follow him.

Mrs. Sinclair did not hear what had happened till a week later, when
Geordie, being in a communicative mood, told her of the affair in
simple, unaffected terms.

Shortly afterwards a great event happened in Lowwood, which made the
deepest impression on Robert's mind. His father still being out of work,
had sent a letter to Robert Smillie, who was then beginning to be heard
of more and more in mining circles. In the letter Geordie explained, to
the best of his ability, the local circumstances, and he mentioned his
own case of persecution, and his agitation for the starting of a union.
Smillie sent word in reply that he would come in two days, and Geordie
enthusiastically set to work to organize a meeting, going round every
house in the district, telling the folks that Smillie was coming, and
exhorting them to turn out and hear him.

"I dinna think it'll do any guid," said old Tam Smith, when Geordie
called upon him. "It's a' richt talkin' about a union, but the mair ye
fecht the mair ye're oppressed. The bosses ha'e the siller, an' they can
ay buy the brains to serve them."

Geordie made no reply, for he knew from experience that it was only too
true.

"Just look at young Jamie Soutar," continued Tam. "He is yin o' the
cleverest men i' the country. He wrocht wi' me as a laddie when he went
into the pit, an' noo' he's travelin' manager for that big company doon
the west country, an' I'm telt he's organizin' an' advocatin' the
formin' o' what he calls a Coal Combine."

"That's a' richt, Tam. I admit it a', though I dinna jist ken what a
Coal Combine means; but I ken that Bob Smillie is makin' great wark wi'
the union he has formed. I ken he has gotten rises in wages for a' the
men who ha'e joined, an' that he is advocatin' an eight hours day. If
that can be done doon there, it can be done here; for there's naebody
has ony mair need o' a eight hours day than miners."

"Oh, I'll turn oot a' richt at the meetin'," said Tam, who was always
credited with seeing farther than most of his workmates, "an' I'll join
the union, too, if it's formed; but ye'll see if ye live lang enough
that the union'll no' be a' ye think it. The ither side will organize to
bate ye every time." And with this encouraging prophecy, Geordie went on
to the next house.

"No, I'm no' comin' to nae meetin'. I want naethin' to dae wi' yer
unions. I can get on weel enough without them," curtly said Dan Sellars,
the inmate. He was what Geordie somewhat expressively called a
"belly-crawler," a talebearer, and one who drank and gambled along with
Walker, Fleming, Robertson and a few others.

"Man, it'll no' do muckle guid," said another, "ye mind hoo' big Geordie
Ritchie ran awa' wi' the money o' the last union we started? It'll gi'e
a wheen bigmouths a guid job and an easy time. That's a' it will do."

"Oh, ay," answered Sinclair, "but that's no' to say that the union'll
ay fail. Folks are no' a' Geordie Ritchies, an' they're no' a' bigmouths
either. We're bound to succeed if we care to be solid thegither."

"I'll come to the meetin', Geordie, although I was sayin' that, but I'll
no' promise to join yer union," was the answer, and Sinclair had to be
content with that.

Thus went Geordie from house to house, meeting with much discouragement,
and even downright opposition, but he was always good-humored, and so he
seldom failed to extract a promise to attend the meeting.

The night of the meeting arrived, and the hall--an old, badly lit and
ill-ventilated wooden erection--was packed to its utmost. There were
eager faces, and dull, listless ones among the audience; there were eyes
glad with expectancy, and eyes dulled with long years of privations and
brutal labor; limbs young and supple and full of energy, and limbs stiff
and sore, crooked and maimed.

Geordie Sinclair was chairman, and when he rose to open the meeting and
introduce Smillie, he felt as if the whole world were looking on and
listening.

"Weel, men," he began, halting and hesitating in his utterance, "for a
lang time now there has been much cryin' for a union here. There has
been a lot of persecution gaun' on, an' it has been lang felt that
something should be done. We ha'e heard of how other men in other places
ha'e managed to start a union, and how it has been a guid thing in
risin' wages. Mr. Smillie has come here the nicht to tell us how the
other districts ha'e made a start, and what thae other districts has
gotten. If it can be done there, it can be done here. I ha'e wrocht
aside Bob Smillie, an' I ken what kind of man he is. He has done great
wark doon in the west country, an' he is weel fitted and able to be the
spokesman for the miners o' Scotlan'. I'm no gaun' to say ony mair, but
I can say that it gie's me great pleasure to ask Mr. Smillie to address
ye."

A round of applause greeted Smillie as he rose to address them. Tall and
manly, he dominated his audience from the very first sentence, rousing
them to a great pitch of enthusiasm, as he proceeded to tell of all the
many hardships which miners had to endure, of the "Block" system of
persecution, and to point to the only means of successfully curing them
by organizing into one solid body, so that they might become powerful
enough to enforce their demands for a fuller, freer, and a happier life.
Never in all his life did he speak with more passion than he did that
night in Lowwood.

Little Robert was present in the hall--the only child there; and as
Smillie spoke in passionate denunciation of the tyrannies and
persecutions of the mine-owners and their officials, his little heart
leapt in generous indignation. Many things which he had but dimly
understood before, began to be plain to him, as he sat with eyes riveted
upon Smillie's face, drinking in every word as the speaker plead with
the men to unite and defend themselves. Then, as his father's wrongs
were poured forth from the platform, and as Smillie appealed to them in
powerful sentences to stand loyally by their comrade, the boy felt he
could have followed Smillie anywhere, and that he could have slain every
man who refused to answer that call. Away beyond the speaker the boy had
already glimpsed something of the ideal which Smillie sketched, and his
soul throbbed and ached to see how simple and how easy it was for life
to be made comfortable and good and pleasant for all. Bob Smillie never
won a truer heart than he did that night in winning this barefooted,
ragged boy's.

Round after round of applause greeted the speaker when he had finished,
and in response to his appeal to them to organize, a branch of the union
was formed, with Geordie Sinclair as its first president. At the request
of the meeting Smillie interviewed Black Jock next morning, and as a
result Sinclair got started on the following day.

Smillie stayed overnight with Geordie. They were certainly somewhat
cramped for room, though Geordie had just lately got another apartment
"broken through," which gave them a room and kitchen.

The two men sat late into the night, discussing their hopes and plans,
and the trade union movement generally.

"It's a great work, Bob, you ha'e set yersel', an' it'll mean
thenklessness an' opposition frae the very men you want maist to help,"
said Sinclair as they talked.

"Ay, it will," was the reply, spoken in a half dreamy tone, as if the
speaker saw into the future. "I ken what it'll mean, but it must be
done. I have long had it in me to set myself this work, for no
opposition ought to stand in the way of the uplifting of the workers. I
... It's the system, Geordie!" he cried, as if bringing his mind back to
the present. "It is the system that is wrong. It is immoral and evil in
its foundations, and it forces the employers to do the things they do.
Competition compels them to do things they would not have to do if there
were a cooperative system of industry. Our people have to suffer for it
all--they pay the price in hunger, misery and suffering."

"Ay," said Geordie, "that's true, Bob. But what a lang time it'll tak'
afore the workers will realize what you are oot for. They'll look on
your work wi' suspicion, and a wheen o' them'll even oppose you."

"Ay," was the reply, "I know that. It will mean the slow building up of
our own county first, bit by bit, organizing, now here, now there, and
fighting the other class interests all the time. It will divide our
energies and retard our work, and the greatest fight will be to get our
own people to recognize what is wanted and how to get it. Then through
the county we'll have to work to consolidate the whole of Scotland; from
that to work in the English and Welsh miners, while at the same time
seeking to permeate other branches of industrial workers with our ideas.
And then, when we have got that length, and raised the mental vision of
our people, and strengthened their moral outlook, we can appeal to the
workers of other lands to join us in bringing about the time when we'll
be able to regard each other, not as enemies, but as members of one
great Humanity, working for each other's welfare as we work for our
own."

"That's it, Bob," agreed Geordie, completely carried away with Smillie's
enthusiasm. "That's it, Bob. If we can only get them to see hoo' simple
and easy it a' is ... Oh, they maun be made to see it that way!" he
burst out. "We'll work nicht an' day but in the end we'll get them to
see it that way yet."

"Yes, but it won't be easy, Geordie," he replied. "Our people's lives
have been stunted and warped so long, they've been held in bondage and
poverty to such an extent, that it will take years--generations,
maybe--before they come to realize it. But we must go on, undeterred by
opposition, rousing them from their apathy, and continually holding
before them the vision of the time we are working to establish. Ay,
Geordie,"--and a quieter note came into his voice, "I hope I shall be
strong enough to go on, and never to give heed to the discouragements I
shall undoubtedly meet with in the work; but I've made up my mind, and
I'll see it through or dee."

The talk of the two men worked like magic upon the impressionable mind
of young Robert, who sat listening. Long after all had retired for the
night he lay awake, his little mind away in the future, living in the
earthly paradise which had been conjured up before him by the warm,
inspiring sentences of this miners' leader, and joyful in the
contemplation of this paradise of happy humanity, he fell asleep. Could
he have foreseen the terrible, heartbreaking ordeals through which
Smillie often had to pass, still clinging with tenacity to the gleam
that led him on, praying sometimes that strength would be given to keep
him from turning back; of the strenuous battle he had, not only with
those he fought against, but of the greater and more bitter fights he
too often had with those of his own class whom he was trying to save;
and of the fights even with himself, it would have raised Smillie still
more in the estimation of this sensitive-hearted collier laddie.




CHAPTER VII

ON THE PIT-HEAD


"Hooray, mither, I've passed the examination, an' I can leave the school
noo!" cried Robert one day, breaking in upon his mother, as she was
busily preparing the dinner. She stopped peeling the potatoes to look up
and smile, as she replied: "Passed the fifth standard, Robin?" she said,
lovingly.

"Ay," said the boy proudly, his face beaming with smiles. "It was quite
easy. Oh, if you had just seen the sums we got; they were easy as
winking. I clinked them like onything."

"My, ye maun hae been real clever," said Mrs. Sinclair encouragingly.

"Sammy Grierson failed," broke in Robert again, too full of his success
to contain himself. "He couldna' tell what was the capital of
Switzerland! Then the inspector asked him what was the largest river in
Europe, an' he said the Thames. He forgot that the Thames was just the
biggest in England. I was sittin' next him an' had to answer baith
times, an' the inspector said I was a credit to the school. My, it was
great fun!" and he rattled on, full of importance at his success.

"Ay, but maybe Sammy was just nervous," said his mother, continuing her
operations upon the potatoes, and trying to let him see that there might
have been a cause for the failure of the other boy to answer correctly.

"Ach, but he's a dunce onyway," said the boy. "He canna spell an easy
word like 'examination,' an' he had twenty-two mistakes in his dictation
test," he went on, and she was quick to note the air of priggish
importance in his utterance.

"Ay, an' you're left the school now," said Mrs. Sinclair, after a
pause, during which her busy fingers handled the potatoes with great
skill. "Your faither will be gey pleased when he comes hame the day,"
she said, giving the conversation a new turn.

"Ay, I'll get leavin' the school when I like, an' gaun to the pit when I
like."

"Would ye no' raither gang to the school a while langer?" observed the
mother after a pause, and looking at him with searching eyes.

"No," was the decisive reply. "I'd raither gang to work. I'm ready for
leaving the school and forby, all the other laddies are gaun to the pit
to work."

"But look at the things ye micht be if ye gaed to the school a while
langer, Robin," she went on. "The life of a miner's no' a very great
thing. There's naething but hard work, an' dangerous work at that, an'
no' very muckle for it." And there was an anxious desire in her voice,
as if trying to convince him.

"Ay, but I'd raither leave the school," he answered, though with less
decision this time. "Besides, it'll mean more money for you," he
concluded.

"Then, look how quick a miner turns auld, Rob. He's done at forty years
auld," she said, as if she did not wish to heed what he said, "but
meenisters an' schoolmaisters, an' folk o' that kin', leeve a gey lang
while. Look at the easy time they hae to what a collier has. They dinna
get up at five o'clock in the mornin' like your faither. They rise aboot
eight, an' start work at nine. Meenisters only work yae day a week, an'
only aboot two hoors at that. They hae clean claes to wear, a fine white
collar every day, an' sae mony claes that they can put on a different
rig-oot every day. Their work is no' hard, an' look at the pay they get;
no' like your faither wi' his two or three shillin's a day. They hae the
best o' it," she concluded, as she rested her elbows on her knees and
again searched his face keenly to see if her arguments had had any
effect upon him.

"Ay, but I'd raither work," reiterated the boy stubbornly.

"Then they hae plenty o' books," continued the temptress, loth to give
up and keen to draw as rosy a picture as possible, "and a braw hoose,
an' a piano in it. They get a lang holiday every year, and occasional
days besides, an' their pay for it. But a collier gets nae pay when he's
idle. It's the same auld grind awa' at hard work, among damp, an' gas,
an' bad air, an' aye the chance o' being killed wi' falls of stone or
something else. It's no' a nice life. It's gey ill paid, an' forby
naebody ever respects them."

"Ay, mither; but do you no' mind what Bob Smillie said?" chipped in the
boy readily, glad that he could quote such an authority to back his
view. "It's because they dinna respect themselves. They just need to do
things richt, an' things wadna' be sae bad as they are," and he felt as
if he clinched his argument by quoting Smillie against her.

"Ay, Robin," she replied, "that's true; but for it a', you maun admit
that the schoolmaister an' the meenister hae the best o' it." But she
felt that her counter was not very effective.

"My faither says meenisters are nae guid to the world, but
schoolmaisters are," said the boy, with a grudging admission for the
teaching profession. "But I dinna care. I'd raither gang to work. I
dinna want to gang ony langer to the school. I'm tired o' it, an' I want
to leave it," and there was more decision in his voice this time than
ever.

"A' richt, Robin," said Mrs. Sinclair resignedly, as she emptied the
peeled potatoes into a pot and put them on the fire.

There were now seven of a family, and she knew that Robert was needed to
increase the earnings, and that meant there was nothing but the pit for
him.

"You maun hae been real clever, though, to pass," she said again, after
a pause. "How many failed?"

"Four, mither," he cried, again waxing enthusiastic over the
examination. "Mysie Maitland passed, too. She was first among the
lasses, and I was first in the laddies."

"Eh, man, Bob, learnin' is a gran' thing to hae," she said wistfully,
looking at him very tenderly.

"Ay, but I'm gaun to the pit," he said decisively, fearing that she was
again going to enlarge upon the schoolmaster's life.

"Very weel," she said after a bit, "I suppose ye'll be lookin' for a
job. Your faither was saying last nicht that ye're too young to gang
into the pit. Ye maun be twelve years auld afore ye get doon the pit
noo, ye ken. So I suppose it'll be the pithead for ye for a while."

She had often dreamed her dream, even though she knew it was an
impossible one, that she would like to see her laddie go right on
through the Secondary School in the county town to the University. She
knew he had talents above the ordinary, and, besides, her soul rebelled
at the thought of her boy having to endure the things that his father
had to go through with. She was an intelligent woman, and though she had
had little education, she saw things differently from most of the women
of her class. She had character, and her influence was easily traced in
her children, but more especially in Robert, who was always her favorite
bairn. She was wise, too, and had fathomed some secrets of psychology
which many women with a university training had never even glimpsed.

She often maintained that her children's minds were molded before she
gave them birth, and that it depended upon the state of mind she was in
herself during those nine months, as to what kind of soul her child
would be born possessing. It may have been merely a whim on her part,
but she held tenaciously to her belief, acted in accordance with it, and
no one could dissuade her from it. Robert was her child of song, her
sunny offspring, stung into revolt against tyranny of all kinds. His
soul, strong and true as steel, she knew would stand whatever test was
put upon it. Incorruptible and sincere, nothing could break him.
Generous and forgiving, he could never be bought.

"I'll gang the nicht, mither, an' see if I can get a job. I micht get
started the morn," he said breaking in upon her thought.

"A' richt, Robin," she replied with a sigh of resignation. "I suppose
it'll hae to be done. It'll be yer first start in life, an' I hope
ye'll aye be found doin' what's richt; for guid never comes o' ill
thinkin' or ill doin."

"If I get a job, mither, maybe I'll get one-an'-tippence a day like Dick
Tamson. If I do it'll be a big help to you, mither. My! I'll soon mak' a
poun' at that rate," and he laughed enthusiastically at the thought of
it. A pound seemed to represent riches to his boyish mind. What might
his mother not do with a pound? Ever so many things could be bought. And
that was merely a start. His wages would soon increase with experience,
and when he went down the pit, which would be soon, he'd earn more, and
his mother would maybe be able to buy new clothes for all the family.

He wondered what it would be like to have a new suit of clothes--real
new ones out of a shop. Hitherto he had only enjoyed "make downs," as
they were called--new ones made out of some one's cast-off clothing. But
a real new suit, such as he had seen the schoolmaster's boy sometimes
wearing! That would be a great experience! And so, lost in contemplation
of the things big wages might do, the day wore on, and he was happy in
his dreams.

That same night Robert went to call on the "gaffer," Black Jock, and as
he neared the door he met Mysie Maitland.

"Where are ye goin', Rab?" she enquired shyly.

"To look for a job," he replied proudly, feeling that now he was left
school, and about to start work, he could be patronizing to a girl.
"Where are you gaun?" he asked, as Mysie joined him in the direction of
Walker's house.

"I'm gaun to look for a job, too," she replied. "I'm no' gaun back to
the school, an' my mither thinks I'll be as weel on the pit-head as at
service. An' forby, I'll be able to help my mither at nichts when I come
hame, an' I couldna' do that if I gaed to service," she finished by way
of explanation. As Mysie was the oldest of a family of six, her parents
would be glad to have even her small earnings, and so she, too, was
looking for a job.

When Walker came to the door, Robert took the matter in hand, and became
spokesman for both himself and Mysie.

"We've left the school the day, Mr. Walker, an' Mysie an' me want to
ken if ye can gie us a job on the pitheid?" and Walker noted with
amusement the manly swagger in the boy's voice and bearing.

"We dinna' usually start lasses as wee as Mysie," replied Walker, eyeing
the children with an amused smile, "but we need twa or three laddies to
the tables to help the women to pick stones."

Mysie's face showed her keen disappointment. She knew that it was not
customary for girls to be employed as young as she was; and Robert noted
her disappointed look as well.

"Could ye no' try Mysie, too?" he asked, breaking in anxiously. "She's a
guid worker, an' she'll be able to pick as many stanes as the weemen.
Willn't ye, Mysie?" And he turned to the girl for corroboration with
assurance.

As Mysie nodded, Walker saw a hint of tears in the girl's eyes, and the
quivering of the tiny mouth; and as there is a soft spot in all men's
hearts, even he had sympathy, for he understood what refusal meant.

"Weel, I micht gie her a trial," he said, "but she'll hae to work awfu'
hard," and he spoke as one conferring an especial concession upon the
girl.

"Oh, she'll work hard enough," said Robert. "Mysie's a guid worker, an'
you'll see ..."

"Oh, then," said Walker hurriedly breaking in upon Robert's outburst of
agreement, "ye can both come oot the morn, and I'll try and put ye both
up."

"How muckle pay will we get?" asked Robert, who was now feeling his
importance, and felt that this was after all the main point to be
considered.

"Well, we gie laddies one an' a penny," replied Walker, still smiling
amusedly at the boy's eagerness, "an' lasses are aye paid less than
callants. But it's all big lasses we hae, an' they get one an' tippence.
I'll gie Mysie a shillin' to begin wi'," and he turned away as if that
settled the matter, and was about to close the door.

"But if she picks as many stanes as a laddie, will ye gie her the same
pay as me?" interrupted Robert, not wishing the interview to end without
a definite promise of payment.

"She's gey wee," replied Walker, "an' she canna' expect as much as a
laddie," and he looked at Mysie, as if measuring her with a critical eye
to assess her value.

"But if she does as muckle work, would ye gie her the same money?"
eagerly questioned the boy, and Mysie felt that there was no one surely
so brave as Robert, nor so good, and she looked at him with gratitude in
her eyes.

"Very weel," said Walker, not desiring to prolong the interview. "Come
oot the morn, an' I'll gie ye both one an' a penny."

"Six an' sixpence a week," said Mysie, as they tramped home. "My, that's
a lot o' money, Rab, isn't it?"

"Ay, it's a guid lot, Mysie," he replied, "but we'll hae to work awfu'
hard, or we'll no' get it. Guid nicht!" And so the children parted,
feeling that the world was about to be good to them, and all their
thought of care was bounded by six and sixpence a week.

Mysie was glad to tell the result of the whole interview to her parents.
She was full of it, and could talk of nothing else as she worked about
the house that night. Her mother had been in delicate health for a long
time, and so Mysie had most of the housework to do. Matthew Maitland and
his wife, Jenny, were pleased at the result, and gave Robert due credit
for his part--a credit that Mysie was delighted to hear from them.

The next morning the two children went to work, when children of their
years ought to have been still in bed dreaming their little dreams.

The great wheels at the pithead seemed terrible in their never-ending
revolutions, as they flew round to bring up the loads of coal. The big
yawning chasm, with the swinging steel rope, running away down into the
great black hole, was awesome to look at, as the rope wriggled and
swayed with its sinister movements; and the roar and whir of wheels,
when the tables started, bewildered them. These crashed and roared and
crunched and groaned; they would squeal and shriek as if in pain, then
they would moan a little, as if gathering strength to break out in
indignant protest; and finally, roar out in rebellious anger, giving
Robert the idea of an imprisoned monster of gigantic strength which had
been harnessed whilst it slept, but had wakened at last to find itself
impotent against its Lilliputian captor--man.

An old man instructed them in their duties.

"You'll staun here," he panted, indicating a little platform about two
feet broad, and running along the full length of the "scree." "You'll
watch for every bit stane that comes doon, an' dinna' let any past. Pick
them oot as soon as you see them, an' fling them owre there, an' Dickie
Tamson'll fill them into the hutch, an' get them taken to the dirt
bing."

"A' richt," said Robert, as he looked at the narrow platform, with its
weak, inadequate railing, which could hardly prevent anyone from falling
down on to the wagon track, some fifteen or twenty feet below on one
side, or on to the moving "scree" on the other.

"Weel, mind an' no' let any stanes gang past, for there are aye
complaints comin' in aboot dirty coals. If ye dinna work an' keep oot
the stanes, you'll get the sack," and he said this as if he meant to
convey to them that he was the sole authority on the matter.

He was an old man, and Robert, as he looked at him, wondered if he had
ever laughed. "Auld Girnie" they called him, because of his habit of
always finding fault with everything and everybody, for no one could
please him. His mouth seemed to be one long slit extending across his
face, showing one or two stumps sticking in the otherwise toothless
gums, and giving him the appearance of always "grinning."

The women workers' appearance jarred upon Robert. So far women to him
had always been beings of a higher order, because he had always thought
of them as being like his mother. But here they were rough and untidy,
dressed like goblins in dirty torn clothes, with an old dirty sack
hanging from the waist for an overall. Instinctively Robert felt that
this was no place for women. One of them, who worked on the opposite
side of the scree from Robert--a big, strong, heavily-built young woman
of perhaps twenty-five--in moving forward tore her petticoat, which
caught in the machinery, and made a rent right up above her knee.

"Ach, to hell wi' it," she cried in exasperation, as she turned up the
torn petticoat, displaying a leg all covered with coal grime, which
seemed never to have been washed.

"Is that no' awfu'? Damn my soul, I'll hae to gang hame the nicht in my
sark tail," and she laughed loudly at her sally.

"I'll put a pin in it, it'll do till I gang hame," she added, and she
started to pin the torn edges together. But all day the bare leg shone
through the torn petticoat, and rough jokes were made by the men who
worked near by--jokes which she seemed to enjoy, for she would hold up
the torn garment and laugh with the others.

The women and boys never seemed to heed the things that filled Robert
and Mysie with so much amazement. The two children bent over the
swinging tables as the coal passed before them. They eagerly grabbed at
the stones, flinging them to the side with a zeal that greatly amused
the older hands.

"Ye'll no' keep up that pace lang," said one woman. "Ye'll soon tire, so
ye'd better take it easy."

"Let them alone," broke in the old man, who had a penny a day more for
acting as a sort of gaffer. "Get on wi' yer own work, an' never mind
them."

"Gang you to hell, auld wheezie bellows," replied one woman coarsely,
adding a rough jest at his breathlessness, whilst the others laughed
loudly, adding, each one, another sally to torment the old man.

But after a time Robert felt his back begin to ache, and a strange dizzy
feeling came into his head, as a result of his bent position and the
swinging and crashing of the tables. He straightened himself and felt as
if he were going to break in two. He glanced at Mysie, wondering how she
felt, and he thought she looked white and ill.

"Take a wee rest, Mysie," he said. "Are ye no' awfu' dizzy?"

Mysie heard, but "six and sixpence a week" was still ringing in her
head. Indeed, the monotonous swing of the tables ground out the refrain
in their harsh clamor, as they swung backwards and forwards. "Six and
sixpence a week," with every leap forwards; "six and sixpence a week" as
they receded. "Six and sixpence" with every shake and roar, and with
each pulsing throb of the engine; and "six and sixpence a week" her
little hands, already cut and bleeding, kept time with regular beat, as
she lifted the stones and flung them aside. She was part of the
refrain--a note in the fortissimo of industry. The engines roared and
crashed and hissed to it. They beat the air regularly as the pistons
rose and fell back and forth, thump, thud, hiss, groan, up and down, out
and in: "Six and sixpence a week!"

Mysie tried to straighten herself, as Robert had advised, and
immediately a pain shot through her back which seemed to snap it in two.
The whole place seemed to be rushing round in a mad whirl, the roof of
the shed coming down, and the floor rushing up, when with a stagger
Mysie fell full length upon a "bing" of stones, bruising her cheek, and
cutting her little hands worse than ever. This was what usually happened
to all beginners at "pickin' sklits."

One of the women raised Mysie up, gave her a drink from a flask
containing cold tea, and sat her aside to rest a short time.

"Just sit there a wee, my dochter," she said with rough kindness, "an'
you'll soon be a' richt. They mostly a' feel that way when they first
start on the scree."

Mysie was feeling sick, and already the thought was shaping in her mind
that she would never be able to continue. She had only worked an hour as
yet, but it seemed to her a whole day.

"Six and sixpence a week" sang the tables as they swung; "six and
sixpence a week" whirred the engines; "six and sixpence a week" crashed
the screes; and her head began to throb with the roar of it all. "Six
and sixpence a week" as the coal tumbled down the chutes into the
wagons; "six and sixpence" crunched the wheels, until it seemed as if
everything about a pit were done to the tune of "six and sixpence a
week."

It was thundered about her from one corner, it squealed at her from
another, roared at her from behind, groaned at her in front; it wheezed
from the roof, and the very shed in which they stood swayed and shivered
to its monotonous song. "Six and sixpence a week" was working into every
fiber of her being. She had been born to it, was living it, and it
seemed that the very wheels of eternity were grinding out her destiny to
its roar and its crash, and its terrible regular throb and swing.

She grew still more sick, and vomited; so one of the women took her by
the hand and led her down the narrow rickety wooden stair out across the
dirt "bing" into the pure air. In a quarter of an hour she brought her
back almost well, except for the pain in her head.

"Where the hell hae ye been, Mag?" wheezed the old gaffer, addressing
the woman with irritated authority.

"Awa' an' boil yer can, auld belly-crawler," was the elegant response,
as she bent to her work, taking as little notice of him as if he were a
piece of coal.

"Ye're awa' faur owre much," he returned. This was an allusion to
clandestine meetings which were sometimes arranged between some of the
men in authority--"penny gaffers," as they were called--and some of the
girls who took their fancy.

After all, gaffers had certain powers of advancement, and could increase
wages to those who found favor in their eyes, to the extent of a penny
or twopence per day, and justified it by representing that these girls
were value for it, because they were better workers. Again, matters were
always easier to these girls of easy virtue, for they got better jobs,
and could even flout the authority of lesser gaffers, if their relations
with the higher ones were as indicated.

Mag replied with a coarse jest, and the others laughed roughly, and
Mysie and Robert, not understanding, wondered why the old man got angry.

Thus the day wore on, men and women cursed while familiarities took
place which were barely hidden from the children. Talk was coarse and
obscenely suggestive, and the whole atmosphere was brutalizing. Long,
however, before the day was ended, Robert and Mysie were feeling as if
every bone in their little bodies would break.

"Just take anither wee rest, Mysie," said Robert. "I'll keep pickin' as
hard as I can, an' ye'll no' be sae muckle missed."

"Oh, I'll hae to keep on, too," she replied, almost despairingly, with a
hint of tears in her voice. "Ye mind I promised to work hard, an' ye
said I was a guid worker, too. If I dinna' keep on I micht only get a
shillin' a day."

"But I'll pick as much as the twa o' us can do," pursued Robert, with
persuasive voice. "I'll gang harder, until ye can get a wee rest."

So Mysie, in sheer exhaustion, stopped for a little, and the dizzy
feeling was soon gone again. Yet the horrible pain in the back troubled
them all day, and the dizziness returned frequently, but the others
assured them that they'd soon get used to it. Their hands were cut,
bruised and dirty, and poor little Mysie felt often that she would like
to cry, but "six and sixpence a week" kept time in her heart to all her
troubles, and seemed to drive her onward with relentless force.

With rough kindness the women encouraged the two children, and did much
to make their lot easier. But it was a trying day--a hard, heartbreaking
day, a day of tears and pains and discouragement, a horrible Gethsemane
of sweat and agony, whose memory not even "six and sixpence a week"
would ever eradicate from their minds, though it made the day bearable.

The great wheels groaned and swished like the imprisoned monster of
Robert's imaginings, and at last came to a halt at the end of the shift;
but in the pattern which they had that day woven into the web of
industry, there were two bright threads--threads of great beauty and
high worth--threads which the very gods seemed proud of seeing there,
twisted and twined, and lending color of richest hue to the whole
design--threads of glorious fiber and rare quality, which sparkled and
shone like the neck of a pigeon in the sunshine. These threads in the
web of industry, which had shone that day for the first time, were the
lives of two little children.




CHAPTER VIII

THE MANTLE OF MANHOOD


Months passed, and Robert still worked on the pithead. Much of the
novelty had passed, and he was accustomed to the noise and clamor,
though he never lost the feeling that he was working with, or, indeed,
was part of, some giant monster, imprisoned and harnessed, it is true,
but capable of titanic labors and fall of unexpectedness. It was
ever-present, implacable and sinister, yet so long as its fetters held,
easily controlled.

The warm weather had come, and the lure of the moors called to him at
his work. Away out over there--somewhere--there were strange wonders
awaiting him. He watched the trains, long, fast, and so
inevitable-looking, rushing across the moor about a mile and a half from
where he worked, and often, he thought that perhaps some day one of
those flying monsters would bear him away from Lowwood across the moors
into the Big City. What was a city like? And the sea? How big would it
be? It was a staggering thought to imagine a stretch of water that ended
on the sky-line--no land to be seen on the other side! What a wonderful
world it must be!

But a touch of bitterness was creeping into his character, and for this
his mother's teaching was responsible. Nellie was always jealous of the
welfare of the working class, and was ever vigilant as to its interests.
She did not know how matters could be rectified, but she did know that
she and her like suffered unnecessarily.

"There's no reason," she would say, "for decent folk bein' in poverty.
Look at the conditions that puir folk live in!"

"Hoot ay! Nellie, but we canna' help it," a neighbor would reply. "It's
no' for us to be better."

"What way is it no'?" she would demand indignantly. "Do you think we
couldna' be better folk if we had no poverty?"

"Ay, but the like o' us ken no better, an' it wadna' do if we had mair.
We micht waste it," and the tone of resignation always maddened her to
greater wrath.

"There's mair wasted on fancy fal-lals among the gentry than wad keep
many a braw family goin'. Look at the hooses we live in; the gentry
wadna' keep their dogs in them. The auld Earl has better stables for his
horses than the hooses puir folk live in!"

"That's maybe a' richt, Nellie, but you maun mind that we're no' gentry.
We havena' been brocht up to anything else. Somebody has got to work,
an' we canna' help it," and the fatalistic resignation but added fuel to
her anger.

"Ay, we could help it fine, if we'd only try it. It's no' richt that
folk should hae to slave a' their days, an' be always in hardships,
while ither folk who work nane hae the best o' everything. I want a
decent hoose to live in; I want to see my man hae some leisure, an' my
weans hae a chance in life for something better than just work and
trouble," and her voice quivering with anger at the wrongs inflicted
upon her, she would rattle away on her favorite topic.

"There you go again. You are aye herp, herpin' at the big folk, or aboot
the union. I wonder you never turn tired, woman," the reply would come,
for sometimes these women were unable to understand her at all.

"I'll never turn tired o' that," she would reply. "If only the men wad
keep thegither an' no' be divided, they'd soon let the big folk see wha'
was the maist importance to the country. Do you think onybody ever made
a lot o' money by their ain work? My man an' your man hae wrocht hard a'
their days. They've never wasted ony o' their hard-earned money, an' yet
they hae naething."

"No, because it takes it a' to keep us," would be the reply, as if that
were a conclusive answer, difficult to counter.

"Well, how do ye think other folk mak' a fortune? Do ye think they work
harder than your man does? No! It's because our men work so hard that
other folk get it aff their labor. Do they live a better life than your
man or mine? They waste mair in yae day, whiles, than wad keep your
family or mine for a whole year. Is it because they are honester than
us? No. You ken fine your man or yoursel' wadna' hae the name o'
stealin'. But they steal every day o' their lives, only they ca' it
business. That's the difference. It's business wi' them, but it wad be
dishonest on oor pairt. Awa', woman! It's disgraceful to think aboot.
Naebody should eat wha disna work, an' I dinna care wha hears me say
it," and the flashing eyes and the indignant voice gave token of her
righteous wrath.

"That's a' richt, Nellie, but it has aye been, an' I doot it'll aye be.
We just canna help it," would come the reply.

"I tell you it's everybody's duty to work for better times. We've no
richt to allow the things that gang on. There's nae guid in poverty and
disease an' ill-health, an' we should a' try to change it; and we could
if only you'd get some sense into your held, an' no' stand and speak as
if you felt that God meant it."

"Ay, Nellie, that's a' richt, but it's the Lord's will, an' we maun put
up wi' it."

At this juncture Mrs. Sinclair's patience would become exhausted, and
she would flare up, while the neighbor would suddenly break off the
discussion and go off home.

Her children were taught that it was a disgrace not to resent a wrong,
and Robert, though only a boy, was always sturdily standing up against
the things he considered wrong at the pit-head.

Robert dreamed and built his future castles. There was great work ahead
to do. He never mentioned his longings and visions to anyone, yet
Mysie's sweet, shy face was creeping into them always, and already he
was conscious of something in her that thrilled him. He was awkward, and
his speech did not come readily, in her presence. Whole days he dreamed,
only waking up to find it was "knocking-off" time. There was an hour's
break in the middle of the day, and then he wandered out on the moor.
Its silence soothed him, and he would lie and dream among the rough
yellow grass and the hard tough heather, bathing his soul in the
brooding quietness of it all.

He was now twelve years of age, and longing to get at work down the pit.
It was for him the advent of manhood, and represented the beginning of
his real work.

One night in the late summer, after the pit had knocked off and the
"day-shift" was returning home, he and Mysie were walking as usual
behind the women. He had meant to tell her the great news all day, but
somehow she was so different now, and besides a man should always keep
something to himself as long as possible. It showed strength, he
thought.

"I'm goin' doon the pit the morn, Mysie," he said, now that he had come
to the point of telling her, and speaking as casually as he could.

"Oh, are you?" said Mysie, and stopped, disappointingly, and remained
silent.

"Ay. I'm twelve now, you ken, an' I can get into the pit," feeling a bit
nettled that she was silent in the face of such a happening.

"Oh!" and again Mysie stopped.

"My faither has got a place a week syne that'll fit John an' him an' me.
The three o' us are a' goin' to work thegither. If he could have gotten
yin sooner, I'd hae been doon a month syne. But he's aye been waitin' to
get a place that wad suit us a'," he said, volunteering this information
to see if it would loosen her tongue to express the regret he wanted her
to speak.

But again Mysie did not answer. She only hung her head and did not look
up with any interest in his news.

"It's aboot time I was in the pit now, ye ken. You used to get doon the
pit at ten. My faither was in it when he was nine, but you're no'
allowed to gang doon now till you are twelve year auld. I'm going to
draw aff my faither and John," and he was feeling more and more
exasperated at her continued silence.

Yet still Mysie did not speak, and merely nodded to this further
enlightenment.

"I've never telt onybody except yoursel'," he said, hurt at her seeming
want of interest, and feeling that what he was going to say was less
manly than he intended it to be. Indeed he was aware that it was
decidedly childish of him to say it, but, like many wiser and older, he
could not keep his dignity, and took pleasure in hurting her; for there
is a pleasure sometimes in hurting a loved one, because they are loved,
and will not speak the things one wants them to say, which if said might
add to one's vanity and sense of importance. "So ye'll just be by
yoursel' the morn, unless they put Dicky Tamson owre aside you," he
added viciously.

"I dinna want Dicky Tamson aside me," she said with some heat, and a
hint of anxiety in her voice, which pleased him a little. "He's an
impudent thing," and again she relapsed into silence, just when he
thought his pleasure was going to be complete.

"Oh, they'll maybe put Aggie Lowrieson on your side o' the table," he
volunteered, glad that at last she had shown some feeling.

"They can keep Aggie Lowrieson too," she said shortly. "I dinna' want
her. I'll get on fine mysel'," and she said no more.

He talked of his new venture all the way home, and he felt more and more
hurt because she did not reply as eagerly and volubly as he wished.

"It'll be great goin' doon the pit," he said, again feeling that he was
going to be priggish. "Pickin' stanes is a' guid enough for a laddie for
a wee while, an' for women, but you're the better to gang into the pit
when you're the age. You get mair money for it. Of course, it's hard
work, but I'll be earnin' as much as twa shillin's a day in the pit, and
that'll be twelve shillin's a week."

But Mysie could not be drawn to look at his rosy prospects, and still
kept silent, so that the last few hundred yards were covered in silence.
At the end of the row where they always parted, he could not resist
adding a thrust to his usual "good-night."

"Guid nicht then, Mysie. I thocht may be ye'd be vexed, seem' that
Dickie Tamson can torment you as muckle as he likes now." And so he
went home feeling that Mysie didn't care much.

But Mysie had a sore heart that night. She knew only too well that Dick
Tamson would torment her, and would be egged on by the other women to
kiss and tease her, and they would laugh at it all. Robert had always
been her champion, and kept Dick, who was a mischievous boy, at a
distance. She was sorry that Robert was going down the pit, and it
seemed to her that she'd rather go to service now. The harsh clamor and
the dirty disagreeable work were bearable before, but it would not be
the same with Robert away. She knew that she would miss him very much.
She thought long of it when she lay down in her bed that night. He had
no right to think that she was not vexed, and she cried quietly beneath
the blankets.

"Here's Mysie greetin'," cried her little brother, who lay beside her.
"Mither, Mysie's greetin'."

"What's wrang wi' her?" called the mother anxiously from the other bed.

"I dinna' ken," answered the boy, "she'll no' tell me."

"What is't that's wrang with you, Mysie?" again called the mother more
sharply.

"I've a sore tooth," she answered, glad to get any excuse, and lying
with promptitude.

"Well, hap the blankets owre your head," the mother advised, "and it'll
soon be better. Dinna' greet, like a woman."

But Mysie still continued to cry softly, choking back the sobs, and
keeping her face to the wall, so as not to disturb the other sleeper
beside her--cried for a long hour, until exhaustion overcame her, and at
last she fell asleep, her last thought being that Robert had no right to
misjudge her so.

Robert, on the other hand, as is the prerogative of the man, soon forgot
all about his disappointment at Mysie's seeming want of interest in his
affairs, and was busy with his preparations for the next day.

He had a lamp to buy, for Lowwood was an open-light pit, and was soon
busy on the instructions of his father learning the art of "putting in a
wick" to the exact thickness, testing his tea flask, and doing all the
little things that count in preparing for the first descent into a coal
mine. He was very much excited over it all, and babbled all the evening,
asking questions regarding the work he would be called upon to do, and
generally boring his father with his talk.

But his father understood it all, and was patient with him, answering
his enquiries and advising him on many things, until latterly he pleaded
for a "wink o' peace," and told the boy "for any sake" to be quiet.

Geordie Sinclair knew that this enthusiasm would soon evaporate. Only
too well he knew the stages of disappointment which the boy would
experience, and for this reason he was kindly with him.

He was now looking forward with better prospects. Robert was the second
boy now started, and already matters were somewhat easier; but he
shuddered to think of the lot of the man who was battling away unaided,
with four or five children to support, and depending on a meager three
and sixpence or four shillings of a daily wage to keep the house
together. For himself the prospect was now better, and in looking back
he realized what a terrible time it had been--especially for his wife;
for hers was the more difficult task in laying out the scanty wages he
earned.

It never had seemed to strike him with such force before, even when
matters were at their worst, what it had meant to her; and as he looked
at her, sitting knitting at the opposite side of the fire, he was filled
with compassion for her, and a new beauty seemed to be upon her lined
face, and in the firm set of her mouth.

Thus he sat reviewing all the terrible struggle, when she had slaved to
keep him and the children, during the time he was injured, and a pang
shot through, as the conviction came to him, that perhaps he had not
been as helpful as he might have been to her, when a little praise even
might have made it easier for her.

Impulsively he rose to his feet and crossed to where she sat, taking her
in his arms and kissing her.

"Losh, Geordie, what's wrong with you!" she enquired, looking up with a
pleased sparkle in her eyes, for he was usually very undemonstrative.

"Oh, just this, Nellie," he said with embarrassment in every feature of
his face, "I've been thinking over things, and I feel that I havena'
given you encouragement as I should have done, for all that you have
done for me and the bairns."

"You fair took my breath away," said Nellie with a pleased little laugh;
then, as she looked at his glowing face, something came into her throat,
and the tears started.

"There now, lassie," he said, again gathering her into his arms, and
kissing her tenderly, "it's all past now, my lass, and you'll get it
easier from this time forth. God knows, Nellie, you are worth all that I
can ever do for you to help," and the happy tears fell from her eyes, as
she patted his rough, hairy cheek, and fondled him again, as she had
done in their courting days.

"I'll wash the floor for you, lass," he said impulsively, almost beside
himself with happiness, as he realized that this little act of his had
made them both so happy. "You've been in the washing tub all day, and I
ken you'll be scrubbin' on the floor first thing in the morning, as soon
as we are away to the pit. But I'll do it for you the nicht. The bairns
are all in bed, and I'll no' be long. You sit an' tak' a rest," and he
was off for the pail and a scrubbing brush, and was back at the fireside
pouring water from the kettle before his wife realized it.

"Oh, never mind, Geordie," she said remonstratingly, "I'll do it myself
in the morning. You've had your own work to do in the pit, an' you need
all the rest you can get."

"No," he said decisively. "You sit doon, lass. I'll no' be lang. Just
you sing a bit sang to me, just as you used to sing, Nellie, an' I'll
wash out the floor," and he was soon on his knees, scrubbing away as if
it were a daily occurrence with him. And Nellie, pleased and happy
beyond expression, sat in the big chair by the fireside and sang his
favorite ballad, "Kirkconnel Lea."

  Oh, that I were where Helen lies,
  For nicht and day on me she cries,
  Oh, that I were where Helen lies
    On fair Kirkconnel Lea.

  Oh, Helen fair, beyond compare,
  I'll mak' a garland o' your hair
  Shall bind my heart for evermair
    Until the day I dee.

And Nellie Sinclair never in all her life sang that song so well as she
did that night; and she never sang it again. Robert, who was lying in
the room, heard her glorious voice, and marveled at the complete mastery
she showed over the plaintive old tune. It was as if her very soul
reveled in it, as the notes rose and fell; and it stirred the boy into
tremendous emotional excitement, as the tragedy was unfolded in the
beautiful words and the sadness of the old tune.

It was a memorable night of quiet happiness for all, and there was so
much of tragedy lying behind it unseen and unknown. But so often are the
sweetest moments of life followed by its sadness and its sorrow.




CHAPTER IX

THE ACCIDENT


Next morning at five o'clock Robert leapt from his bed, full of
importance at the prospect of going down the pit. Stripping off his
sleeping shirt, he chattered as he donned the pit clothes. The blue
plaid working-shirt which his mother had bought for him felt rough to
his tender skin, but unpleasant as it was, he donned it with a sense of
bigness. Then the rough moleskin trousers were put on and fastened with
a belt round the waist, and a pair of leg-strings at the knees. The
bundles of clothes, separately arranged the night before, had got mixed
somewhat in Robert's eagerness to dress, with the result that when his
brother John rose, with eyes half shut, and reached for his stockings,
he found those of Robert instead lying upon his bundle.

"Gie's my socks," he ordered grumpily, flinging Robert's socks into the
far corner of the kitchen. "You've on the wrong drawers too. Can ye no'
look what you're doin'?" and the drawers followed the socks, while
Robert looked at his mother with eyes of wonderment.

"Tak' aff his socks, Rob," she said, "he's a thrawn, ill-natured cat,
that, in the mornin'."

"Well, he should look what he's doin' an' no' put on other folk's
claes," and immediately the others burst out laughing, for this advocate
of "watchin' what he was doin'" had in his half sleepy condition failed
to see that he had lifted his jacket and had rammed his leg down the
sleeve in his hurry and anger.

"Noo, that'll do," said Geordie, as John flung the jacket at Robert,
because he laughed. "That'll do noo, or I'll come alang yer jaw," and
thus admonished John was at once silent.

Robert soon had his toilet completed, however, even to the old cap on
his head, upon which sat the little oil-lamp, which he handled and
cleaned and wiped with his fingers to keep it bright and shiny, whilst
all the time he kept chattering.

"For ony sake, laddie, hand your tongue," said Geordie at last, as he
drew in his chair to the table to start upon the frugal breakfast of
bread and butter and tea. "Your tongue's never lain since you got up."

Robert, thereupon, sat down in silence at the table, though there were a
hundred different things he wanted to ask about the pit. He could not
understand why everyone felt and looked so sleepy, nor divine the cause
of the irritable look upon each face, which in the dim light of the
paraffin lamp gave a forbidding atmosphere to the home at this time of
the day.

At last, however, the meal was over, and when Geordie had lit his pit
lamp and stuck his pipe in his mouth, all three started off with a curt
"Good morning" to Mrs. Sinclair, who looked after her boys with a smile
which chased away the previous irritability from her face.

Arrived at the pit-head, they found a number of miners there squatting
on their "hunkers," waiting the time for descending the shaft. As each
newcomer came forward, the man who arrived immediately before him called
out: "I'm last." By this means--"crying the benns,"--as it was
called--the order of descent was regulated on the principle of "First
come, first served." Much chaffing was leveled at little Robert by some
of the younger men regarding his work and the things which would have to
be done by and to him that day.

At last came the all important moment, and Robert, his father and two
men stepped on to the cage. After the signal was given, it seemed to the
boy as if heaven and earth were passing away in the sudden sheer drop,
as the cage plunged down into the yawning hole, out of which came evil
smells and shadows cast from the flickering lamps upon the heads of the
miners. The rattling of the cage sent a shiver of fear through Robert,
and with that first sudden plunge he felt as if his heart were going to
leap out of his mouth. But by the time he reached the "bottom," he had
consoled and encouraged himself with the thought that these things were
all in the first day's experience of all miners.

That morning Robert Sinclair was initiated into the art of "drawing" by
his brother John. The road was fairly level, to push the loaded "tubs,"
thus leaving his father to be helped with the pick at the coal "face."
After an hour or two, Robert, though getting fairly well acquainted with
the work, was feeling tired. The strange damp smell, which had greeted
his nostrils when the cage began to descend with him that morning, was
still strong, though not so overpowering as it had been at first. The
subtle shifting shadows cast from his little lamp were becoming
familiar, and his nervousness was not now so pronounced, though he was
still easily startled if anything unusual took place. The sound of the
first shot in the pit nearly frightened him out of his wits, and he
listened nervously to every dull report with a strange uneasiness. About
one o'clock his father called to him.

"Dinna tak' that hutch oot the noo, Robert. Just let it staun', an' sit
doon an' tak' yir piece. Ye'll be hungry, an' John an' me will be out
the noo if we had this shot stemmed."

"A' richt," cheerfully replied the boy, withdrawing down to the end of
the road, where his clothes hung upon a tree, and taking his bread from
one of his pockets, he sat down tired and hungry to await his father and
John.

Geordie's "place" was being worked over the old workings of another mine
which had exhausted most of the coal of a lower seam many years
previously, except for the "stoops" or pillars, which had been left in.
This was supposed to be the barrier beyond which Rundell's lease did not
go. It would be too dangerous to work the upper seam with the ground
hollow underneath, so the "places" had all been stopped as they came up,
with the exception of Geordie Sinclair's. Sinclair was puzzled at this,
and he often wondered why his place had not been stopped with the
others. He was more uneasy, too, when he began to find large cracks or
fissures in the metals, and spoke of this to Andrew Marshall a few
nights before; but he did not like to seem to make too much of it, and
the matter was passed over, till the day before, when Walker visited the
place for a few minutes, when Geordie accosted him.

"What way is my place going on?" he asked, and was told that it was a
corner in the barrier, which extended for one hundred yards and must go
on for that distance, and that there was really no danger, as the ground
below was solid.

So, busily working away, and finding still more rents in the floor and
roof, Sinclair thought it must just be as he had seen it in other places
of a like kind, the weight of the upper metals which were breaking over
the solid ground by reason of the hollow beneath between the stoops,
though in this case it did not amount to much as yet.

The coal was easy to get; he had one boy "forrit to the pick," with
Robert as "drawer," and his prospects seemed good, he thought, as he was
busily preparing a shot, ramming in the powder, and "stemming" up the
hole. He was busy ramming the powder in the prepared hole, while the
elder boy prepared clay, with which to stem or seal it up after the
powder had been pressed back, leaving only the fuse protruding.

"Here's a tree cracking," said the boy, drawing his father's attention
to a breaking prop; but as this is a common occurrence in all mines
where there is extra weight after development, Geordie thought nothing
of it at the time, intending merely, before he lighted his shot, to put
in a fresh prop.

"Bring in another prop, sonny," he said to the boy, "and I'll put it in
when I have stemmed this hole," and the boy turned to obey his order.

But suddenly a low crackling sound, caused by the breaking of more
props, was heard, then a roar and a crash as of thunder, followed by a
long rumbling noise, which left not a moment for the two trapped human
beings to stir even a limb or utter a cry. The immensity of the fall
created a wind, which put out little Robert's lamp; the great rumbling
noise filled him with a dreadful fear, and he sprang involuntarily to
his feet.

"Faither! Faither!" he called, terror in his voice and anxiety in his
little heart, but there was no reassuring answer. He felt his breathing
getting difficult; the air was thick with dust and heavy with the smell
of rotting wood and damp decaying matter.

"Faither! Faither!" he called again louder in his agony, darting
forward, thinking to go to their assistance, and knocking his head
against a boulder.

"John! Faither! I'm feart," and he began to cry. Afraid to move, unable
to see, he staggered from one side to another, bruising his face and
arms against the jagged sides, the blood already streaming from his
bruises, and his heart frantic with fear.

"Oh, faither! faither! Where are ye?" and he began to crawl up the
incline, in desperate fear, while still the rumbling and crashing went
on in long rolling thunder. "Oh! oh!" he moaned, now almost mad with
terror. "Faither! John! Where are ye! Oh! oh!" and he fell back stunned
by striking his head against a low part of the roof.

Again he scrambled to his feet, certain now that some disaster had
happened, since there was no response to his appeals, and again he was
knocked to the ground by striking his head against the side of the
roadway. But always he rose again, frantically dashing from side to
side, as a caged lark, when first caught, dashes itself against the bars
of its prison; until finally, stunned beyond recovery, he lay in a
semi-conscious condition, helpless and inert, his bruises smarting but
unfelt, and the blood oozing from his nose and mouth.

Andrew Marshall, working about fifty yards away, heard the roar and the
crash, and the boy's cries, and at once ran to Geordie's place. In his
haste and anxiety he nearly stumbled over the prostrate boy, who lay
unconscious in the roadway.

"Good God! What has happened?" he exclaimed, anxiously bending over the
boy and raising him up, then dashing some cold tea from Robert's flask
upon him, and forcing some between his lips. Then, when the boy showed
signs of recovery, he plied him with anxious questions.

"Where's yir faither? What's wrang?" But the boy only clung to him in
wild terror, and nothing connected could be got from him.

Andrew lighted the boy's lamp and tore up the brae, leaving Robert
shrieking in nervous fright.

"Great Christ! It has fa'en in!" he cried, when he had got as far as he
could go. "Geordie! Geordie! Are ye in there?" and as no answer came, he
began tearing at the great blocks of stone, flinging them like pebbles
in his desperation, until another warning rumble drove him back.
Immediately he realized how helpless he was alone, so he went back to
the boy and hurried him down the brae and out to where some other men
were at work. A few hasty words, and Robert was passed on, and Andrew
went back with the men, only to find how hopeless it all was; for
occasionally huge falls continued to come away, and it seemed useless to
attempt anything till more help was procured.

Andrew hurried off to the bottom and overtook Robert, sending back
others to help, and he ascended the shaft and was off to break the news
to Mrs. Sinclair; after which he returned to the pit, determined to get
out all that remained of Geordie and the boy John.




CHAPTER X

HEROES OF THE UNDERWORLD


Matters were now much easier and more comfortable for Geordie Sinclair
and his wife. They had long since added another apartment to their
house, and the "room" was the special pride of Nellie, who was gradually
"getting a bit thing for it" just as her means permitted. They had two
beds in each apartment, and the room was furnished. Mrs. Sinclair had
long set her mind upon a "chest of drawers," and now that that
particular piece of furniture stood proudly in her room, much of her day
was given to polishing it and the half-dozen stuffed bottomed chairs,
which were the envy of every housewife in the village. A large oval
mirror stood upon the top of the drawers, and was draped with a piece of
cheap curtain cloth, bleached to the whiteness of new fallen snow.

This mirror was a much-prized possession, for no other like it had ever
been known in the village. The floor was covered with oilcloth, and a
sheepskin rug lay upon the hearthstone, while white starched curtains
draped the window. The getting of the waxcloth had been a wonderful
event, and dozens of women had come from all over the village to stand
in gaping admiration of its beauty. This was always where Mrs. Sinclair
felt a thrill of great pride.

"Ye see," she would explain, "it's awfu' easy to wash, and a bit wipe
owre wi' soap an' watter is a' it needs."

"My, how weel aff ye are!" one woman would exclaim, "I'm telt that ye
maunna use a scrubbin' brush on't, or the pattern will rub off."

"Oh, ay," Nellie would laugh with a hint of superior wisdom in it.
"Ye'll soon waste it gin ye took a scrubber to it. An' ye maunna use
owre hot water to it either," she would add.

"Oh my!" would come in genuine surprise. "Do you tell me that. Eh, but
you're the weel-aff woman now, to hae a room like that, an' rale
waxcloth on the floor!"

"I thocht it was a fine, cheerie bit thing," Nellie would say. "It mak's
the hoose ever so much mair heartsome."

"So it is," would come the reply. "It's a fine, but cheerie thing.
You're a rale weel-aff woman, I can tell ye," and the woman would go
home to dream of one day having a room like Mrs. Sinclair's, and to tell
her neighbors of the great "grandeur" that the Sinclair's possessed,
whilst Nellie would set to, and rub and polish those drawers and that
mirror, and the stuff-bottomed chairs till they shone like the sun upon
a moorland tarn, and she herself felt like dropping from sheer
exhaustion.

She even took to telling the neighbors sometimes, when they came on
those visits that "working folk should a' hae coal-houses, for coal kept
ablow the beds makes an awfu' mess o' the ticks."

"Oh, weel," would be the reply, made with the usual sigh of resignation,
"I hae had a house a gey lang while now, an' I dinna think I've ever
wanted ony sic newfangled things as that."

"That's what's wrang," Mrs. Sinclair would reply. "We dinna want them.
If we did, we'd soon get them. What way would the gentry hae a' thae
things, an' us hae nane?"

"That's a' richt, Nellie," would be the reply. "We wadna ken what to do
wi' what the gentry has got. They're rich an' can afford it, an' forby
they need them an' we don't. I think I'm fine as I am."

"Fine as ye are!" with bitter scorn in her tones. "Ye'll never be fine
wi' a mind like that."

"Wheesht, woman Nellie! You're no feart. Dinna talk like that. We micht
a' be strucken doon dead!"

This usually ended the discussion, for Scots people generally--and the
workers especially--are always on very intimate terms with the Deity,
and know the pains and penalties of too intimate allusions to His power.

Yet, with all her discontent, Mrs. Sinclair found life very much easier
than it had been, for now that she had some of the boys started to work,
she had made her house "respectable," and added many little comforts,
besides having a "bit pound or twa lyin' in the store." So she looked
ahead with more hope and a more serene heart. Her children were well-fed
and clothed, and the old days of hunger and struggling were over, she
thought. Geordie was now taking a day off in the middle of the week to
rest, as there was no need for him to slave and toil every day as he had
done in the past. After all it would only be a very few years till he
would no longer be able to work at all.

Rosy looked the future then, as Mrs. Sinclair, on the day on which young
Robert went down the pit, showed off her room "grandeur" to an admiring
neighbor.

"My, what braw paper ye hae, Nellie. Wha put it on for ye? Was it
yirsel'?" asked the visitor with breath bated in admiration.

"Ay, it was that. I just got the chance o' the bargain, an' I thocht I'd
tak' it," she replied, with subdued pride.

"Oh, my! it's awful braw, an' sae weel matched too! I never saw anything
sae well done. You're rale weel-off, do ye ken."

"My God! What's wrang?" cried Nellie suddenly, gazing from the window
with blanched cheeks.

"I doot there's been an accident. I heard the bell gang for men three
tows a' rinnin', an' I see a lot o' men comin' up the brae. I doot the
pit's lowsed."

Both of them hurried to the door, and found that already a crowd of
women had flocked to the end of the row, and were standing waiting
anxiously on the men, in order to learn what had happened. They did not
talk, but gazed down the hill, each heart anxious to know if the
unfortunate one belonged to her. The sickening fear which grips the
heart of every miner's wife, when she sees that procession from the pit
before the proper quitting hour, lay heavy upon each one. The white
drawn faces, the set firm lips, and the deep troubled breathing told how
much the women were moved.

Wives and mothers, sweethearts and sisters, oh, what a hell of torture
they suffered in those few tense moments whilst waiting for the news,
which, though to a great extent it may relieve many, must break at least
one heart. No man, having once seen this, ever wants to witness it
again. Concentrated hell and torture with every moment, stabbing and
pulling at each heart and then--then the sad, mournful face of Andrew
Marshall as he steps forward slowly past Mag Robertson, past Jean
Fleming, past Jenny Maitland, past them all, and at last putting a
kindly hand on the shoulder of Nellie Sinclair, he says, with a catch in
his voice that would break a heart of granite: "Come awa' hame, Nellie.
Come awa' hame. Ye'll need to bear up."

Then it is whispered round: "It's Geordie Sinclair killed wi' a fa'."
And hope has died, and dreams have fled, and the world will never again
look bonnie and fresh and sweet and full of happiness, nor the blood
dance so joyously, nor the eyes ever again sparkle with the same soft
loving glance.

No more happy evenings, such as the night before had been, when the
glamor and romance of courtship days had come back, and they had found a
new beauty of love and the glory of life, in the easier circumstances
and rosy hopes ahead.

Misery and suffering, and the long keen pain, the sad cheerless
prospect, and over all the empty life and the broken heart.

Lowwood was plunged into gloom when the news of the accident was known,
and every heart went out in sympathy to Nellie Sinclair and her young
family. It was indeed a terrible blow to lose at one and the same time
her husband and her eldest boy.

It was two days later, and the bodies had not yet been recovered. Men
toiled night and day, working as only miners fighting for life can work,
risking life among the continually falling débris to recover all that
remained of their comrades.

"It couldna ha'e been worse," said Jenny Maitland sorrowfully to her
next door neighbor. "It's an awfu' blow."

"Ay," rejoined her neighbor, applying the corner of her apron to her
eyes. "It mak's it worse them no' bein' gotten yet. I think I'd gae
wrang in the mind if that happened to our yin," and then, completely
overcome, she sat down on the doorstep and sobbed in real sorrow.

"I suppose it's an awfu' big fall. He had been workin' on the top o'
some auld workin's, an' I suppose they wadna ken, an' it fell in. It
maun hae been an awfu' trial for wee Rob, poor wee man. His first day in
the pit, an' his father an' brither killed afore his een!"

"Hoo has Nellie taken it, Jenny?" enquired the neighbor, after a little,
when her sobs had subsided.

"Ye'd break yir heart if ye could see her," replied Jenny sorrowfully.
"I gaed owre when oor yin gaed out wi' the pieces--he cam' hame at fower
o'clock to get mair pieces, for they're goin' to work on to ten the
nicht--an' I never saw onything sae sad-lookin' as her face. She has
never cried the least thing yet. Never a tear has come frae her, but
she'd be better if she could greet."

"Do ye tell me that! Puir Nellie! It's an awfu' hand fu' she is left
wi', too," commented the neighbor.

"Ay, she jist looks at ye sae sad-like wi' her big black een; never a
word nor a tear, but just stares, an' she's that thin an' white lookin'.
I look for her breakin' doon a'thegither, an' when she does I wadna like
to see her. The bits o' weans gang aboot the hoose wonderin' at her, and
she looks to them too, but ye'd think she'd nae interest in onything.
She jist looks out o' the window an' doon the brae to the pit. It's
awesome to look at her."

"Oh, puir body!" and again the kindly neighbor was overcome, and Jenny
joined her tears too in silent sympathy.

"The minister was owre last nicht," said Jenny after a little, "but I
dinna think she ever spoke to him. He cam' in just when I was comin'
oot, an' I dinna like to leave her. He talked away a wee while an' then
put up a prayer; but there was nae consolation in't for onybody. I think
the sicht o' her face maun hae been too muckle for him. He didna stay
very lang, and gaed awa' saying he'd come back again. Nellie has
everything ready--the bed a' made, wi' clean sheets an' blankets on
them--an' there she stan's always at that window, lookin' doon the brae.
It would break yer heart to see her, Leezie, she's that vexed lookin'."
So they wept and sorrowed together.

       *       *       *       *       *

Down in the pit, Andrew Marshall, Matthew Maitland, Peter Pegg, and a
number of others toiled like giants possessed. Their naked bodies
streamed with sweat and glistened in the light of their lamps. Timber
was placed in position, and driven tight with desperation in every blow
from their hammers; blocks of rock were tossed aside, and smashed into
fragments, ere being filled into the tubs which were ever waiting ready
to convey the débris to the pit-head. Few words were spoken, except when
a warning shout was given, when some loose rubble poured down from the
great gaping cavern in the roof, and then men jumped and sprang to
safety with the agility of desperation, to wait till the rumbling had
ceased, only to leap back again into the yawning hell, tearing at the
stones, and trying to work their way into the place where they knew
Geordie and the boy were lying. It seemed impossible that human efforts
would ever be able to clear that mountain away.

"Wait a minute, callans," said Andrew, almost dropping with exhaustion,
and drawing his hands across his eyes to wipe the sweat from them,
whilst he "hunkered" down, his back against a broken tree which stood
jutting out from the building, supporting a broken "baton" (cross-tree),
which bent down in the center, making the roadway low and unsafe. "Let
us tak a minute's thocht, and see if we can get a way o' chokin' up that
stuff fear fallin' doon. We'll never get it redd up goin' like this."

So they sat down, tired but still desperate, to listen to each one
suggesting a way of stopping the débris from continuing to fall. Baffled
and at their wits' end, they could think of nothing.

At last in came a number of other men to relieve them--men equally
anxious and desperate as they, burning with the desire to get to grips
with this calamity which had come upon two of their comrades.

"I'm no' goin' hame," said Andrew decisively, "till I see Geordie out."
He was almost dropping with exhaustion, but he could not think of
leaving his dead friend in there. So at last it was agreed that he
should stay, and at least give the benefit of his advice. The others,
more tired than ever they had been before in all their experience of the
mines, where hard work is the rule, trudged wearily home, to be met by
the waiting groups of women and children, who at all times stood at the
corners of the village eagerly asking for news, "If they'd been gotten
yet."

After a few minutes' deliberation a plan was decided on by Andrew and
his comrades of trying to choke up the hole in the roof with timber, and
the work went on desperately, silently, heroically. Time and again their
efforts were baffled by new falls, but always the same persistent eager
spirit drove them back to their toil. So they worked, risking and daring
things of which no man who never saw a like calamity has any conception,
and which would have appalled themselves at any other time.

"Look out, boys," called Tam Donaldson, springing back to the road as
the warning noise again began, and great masses of rock came hurtling
down, filling the place with dust and noise.

A cry of pain and horror broke upon them as they ran, and brought them
back while the crumbling mass was still falling.

"Great God! It's wee Jamie Allan," roared one man above the din. "He's
catched by the leg! Here, boys, hurry up! Try an' get this block broken
afore ony mair comes doon. God Almichty! Are we a' goin' to be buried
thegither? This bit, boys! Quick!" And they tore at the great masses of
stone, the sweat streaming from every pore of their bodies, cursing
their impotence as they smashed with big hammers the rock which lay upon
Jamie's leg.

"Mind yersel's, laddies!" warned Jamie, as again the trickling noise
began, heralding another fall. "Leave me, for God's sake, an' get back!"
But not one heeded. Desperate and strong with the strength of giants,
they toiled on, the sight of suffering so manifest in Jamie's eyes, as
he strove not to cry out, spurring them onward.

"Ye'll never lift that bit, Tam," said Jamie, as four of them tore at
the block which lay upon his leg. "It's faur too big. Take an ax an'
hack the leg off. I doot it'll be wasted anyway. Oh, dear! Oh, dear!"
And unable longer to endure the pain, he roared aloud in agony, and tore
at the stone himself with his fingers, like an imprisoned beast in a
trap.

"Here, boys, quick!" cried Andrew, getting his long pinch in below the
stone, upon a fine leverage. "Put yir weight on this, Tam, an' Jock an'
Sanny'll try an' pull Jamie out. Hurry up, for she's working for anither
collapse. A'thegither!" and so they tugged and tore, and strained and
pulled, while the roars of the imprisoned man were deafening.

"A'thegither again, laddies!" encouraged Andrew. "This time!" and with a
tremendous effort the stone gave way, and Jamie was pulled clear, his
leg a crushed mass of pulpy blood and shattered bones. They dragged him
back clear of any further falls, and improvised a stretcher on which to
carry home his now unconscious body.

"That was a hell o' a narrow shave," quietly observed Tam Donaldson, as
they panted together, and tried to collect themselves. "His leg's
wasted, I doot, an' will need to come off." When they had their
stretcher ready, the wounded man was tenderly placed upon it, carefully
covered up with the jackets of the others; whilst half-a-dozen of them
carried him to the pit bottom, and finally bore him home, where the
doctor was ready waiting to attend to him.

Andrew and a few others worked away, and at last managed to get the
running sore in the roof choked up with long bars of timber, and even
though it continued to rumble away above them, the heavy blocks of wood
held, and so allowed them to work away in comparative safety.

Peter Pegg and Matthew Maitland returned at six o'clock next morning,
bringing with them another band of workers to relieve those who had
worked all night, but still Andrew Marshall would not leave the scene of
the disaster. He worked and rested by turns, advising and guiding the
younger men, who never spared themselves. They performed mighty epics of
work down there in the darkness amid the rumbling, falling roof. It was
a great task they were set, but they never shirked the consequences.
They never turned back. Risks were taken and accepted without a thought;
tasks were eagerly jumped to, and the whole job accepted as if it were
just what ordinarily they were asked to do.

Crash went the hammers; thump went the great blocks of material into the
tubs, and the men quietly got away the tubs as they were filled. Night
and day the great work went on, never ceasing, persistent, relentless.
If one man dropped out a minute to breathe and rest when exhausted,
another sprang into his place, and toiled and strove like an engine.

There was something great and inspiring even to look on at those mighty
efforts--something exhilarating and elevating in the play of muscles
like great long shooting serpents under the glistening skins of the men.
Arms shot out, tugged and tore, jerked and wrenched, then doubled up and
the muscles became knots, bulging out as if they would break through the
skin, as the great blocks were lifted; and then the blocks were cast
into the tub, the knots untied themselves, and slipped elastically back
into their places, and the serpents were momentarily at rest until the
body bent again to another block. Out and in they flew, supple and
silent, quick as lightning playing in the heavens; they zig-zagged and
shot this way and that, tying and untying themselves, darting out and
doubling back, advancing and retiring in rhythmic action, graceful and
easy, powerful and inevitable. Bending and rising, the swaying bodies
gleamed and glistened with greasy dust and sweat, catching the gleams
from the lamps and reflecting them in every streaming pore. Straining
and tearing, the muscles, at every slightest wish, seemed to exude
energy and health, glowing strength and power.

It was all so natural and apparently easy--an epic in moleskin and human
flesh, with only the little glimmer of oil-lamps, which darted from side
to side in a mad mazurka of toil, crossing and recrossing, swinging and
halting, the flames flattening out with every heave of their owners'
bodies, then abruptly being brought to the steady again. Looked at from
the road-foot, it was like a carnival of fireflies engaged in trying how
quickly they could dart from side to side, and cross each other's path,
without coming into collision.

Who shall sing in lyrical language the exhilaration of such splendid
men's work? Who shall catch that glow of strength and health, and work
it into deathless song? The ring of the hammers on the stone, the dull
regular thud upon the timber, the crash of breaking rock, and the
strong, warm-blooded, generous-hearted men; the passionate glowing
bodies, and above all, the great big heroic souls, fighting, working,
striving in a hell of hunger and death, toiling till one felt they were
gods instead of humans--gods of succor and power, gods of helpfulness
and strength.

So the work went on hour after hour, and now their efforts were
beginning to tell. No more came the rumbling, treacherous falls; but
perceptibly, irresistibly was the passage gradually cleared, and the way
opened up, until it seemed as if these men were literally eating their
way into that rock-filled passage.

"Can ye tell me where Black Jock is a' this time?" enquired Andrew, as
Peter and Matthew and he sat back the road, resting while the others
worked. "Rundell has been here twa or three times, for hours at a time,
but I hae never seen Walker yet."

"I hae never seen him either, an' I was hearin' that he was badly,"
returned Peter, and his big eye seemed to turn as if it were looking for
and expecting some one to slip up behind him.

"Ay," broke in Matthew, "badly! I wadna say, but it micht be that he's
badly; but maybe he's not."

"Do ye ken, boys," said Andrew quietly, taking his pipe out of his
mouth, and speaking with slow deliberation, "I'm beginnin' to think
Black Jock is guilty o' Geordie's death. Geordie, as we a' ken, had ay
something against Walker. There was something he kent aboot the black
brute that lately kept him gey quiet; for, if ye noticed, whenever
Geordie went to him about anybody's complaint, the men aye won. I ken
Walker hated him, an' I'm inclined to think that he has deliberately
put Geordie into this place, kennin' that the lower seam had been
worked out lang, lang syne. His plans wad tell him as muckle about the
workin's, and I ken, at least, he's never been in Geordie's place since
it was started, an' there's nae ither places drivin' up sae far as this.
They're a' stoppit afore they come this length; an' forby, frae what
Rundell has let drap the day, he never kent that the coal was being
worked as far up as this. By ----! Peter, gin I could prove what I
suspect, I'd murder the dirty brute this nicht! I would that!"

"Would Nellie no' ken, think ye, what it was that Geordie had against
Black Jock that kept him sae quiet?" enquired Peter.

"I couldna' say," answered Andrew, "but some day when I get the chance
I'll maybe ask her, an' if it is as I think, then there'll be rows."

"Let me ken, Andrew," broke in Matthew. "Let me ken if ever ye discover
onything; an' ye can count on me sharin' the penalties o' hell alang wi'
ye for the murder o' the big black brute."

"I heard," said Peter, "that he was boozin' wi' Mag Robertson and Sanny.
But we'll no' be long in kennin', for ill-doin' canna hide."

       *       *       *       *       *

After three frantic days of fighting against calamity, during which
Andrew never left the fight except for that brief journey to tell Nellie
the news, at last they came upon the crushed mass of bloody pulp and
rags, smashed together so that the one could not be told from the
other--father and son, a heap of broken bones and flesh and blood....
And no pen can describe accurately the scene.

The light had gone out from one woman's heart, the hope had been crushed
from her life. The rainbow which had promised so much vanished. The lust
and urge had gone out of eager life. Never again would the world seem
fair and beautiful. Instead, all the weary fight and desperate battle
with poverty and privation over again; the dull misery and the drab
gray existence, and always the pain--the heavy, dragging pain of a
broken life. With a woman's "Oh! my God!" the world for one heart stood
still, and the blind fate of things triumphed, crushing a woman's soul
in the process.




CHAPTER XI

THE STRIKE


A week had passed, and Geordie Sinclair and his boy, or at least all
that could be gathered up of them, had been laid to rest.

Nellie was very ill, and was now in bed. The reaction had been too much
for her. But, as Jenny Maitland had said: "She's never cried yet, an' it
would hae been better gin she had. She jist looked at ye wi' her big
black e'en sae vexed-like and faraway lookin', an' never spoke hardly.
When they carried out the coffins, she sprang up gin she wad follow
them, but was putten back to bed again. It was heart-vexin' to look at
her."

Robert suffered, too. The sympathy of everyone went out to him. At night
when he went to bed the whole scene was reënacted before him in all its
horror. Those tense moments of tragedy had so powerfully impressed his
boyish mind that he could never forget them.

At the end of the week Andrew Marshall visited them to talk over
matters. A collection had been made at the pay-office by the men
employed at the pit, and a beautiful wreath purchased and placed upon
the grave. A substantial balance had been handed over to Mrs. Sinclair,
and this defrayed the expenses of the funeral. After Andrew had spoken
of various things, he broke on to the object of his errand that night.

"I hae been thinkin', Nellie," he began nervously, "that I could tak'
Rob in wi' me. Ye see, I ha'e no callans o' my ain, and I ha'e aye to
get yin to draw off me. So, gin ye're agreeable, I could tak' Rob, an'
I'll be guid to him. He can come an' be my neighbor, an' as he'll hae to
get work in ony case, he micht as weel work wi' me as wi' ony ither
body. Forby I'll maybe be able to pay him mair than plenty ithers could
pay him, an' that is efter a' the point to be maist considered. What do
ye think?"

But Mrs. Sinclair could not think; she merely indicated to him that he
might please himself and make his own arrangements with the boy, which
Andrew did, and Robert went to work with him the following week. He was
a mass of nerves and was horribly afraid--indeed, this fear never left
him for years--but, young as he was, he recognized his responsibility,
to his mother and the rest of the family. He was now its head, and had
to shoulder the burden of providing for it, and so his will drove him to
work in the pit, when his soul revolted at the very thought of it.
Always the horror of the tragedy was with him, down to its smallest
detail; and sometimes, even at work, when his mind wandered for a moment
from his immediate task, he would start up in terror, almost crying out
again as he had done on the day of the accident.

Andrew kept his word and was good to the boy now in his care. Indeed, he
took, as some said, more care of the boy than if Robert had been his
own, for he tried to save him from every little detail that might remind
him of the accident.

"That's yours, Robin," he said, when pay-day came, as he handed to the
boy the half of the pay earned.

"Na, I canna' tak' that, Andrew," replied Robert, looking up into the
broad, kindly, honest face of the man. "My mither wouldna' let me."

"Would she no'?" replied Andrew. "But you are the heid o' the hoose,
Robin, sae just tak' it hame, an' lay it down on the dresser-head. We
are doin' gey weel the noo, an' forby, ye're workin' for it. Noo run
awa' hame wi't, an' dinna say ocht to yir mither, but just put it doon
on the dresser-head." And so the partnership began which was to last for
many years.

About this time there happened one of those tremendous upheavals, long
remembered in the industrial world, the great Scottish Miners' Strike of
1894. The trade union movement was growing and fighting, and every
tendency pointed to the fact that a clash of forces was inevitable. The
previous year had seen the English miners beaten after a protracted
struggle. They had come out for an increase in wages, and whilst it was
recognized that they had been beaten and forced to go back to work
suffering wholesale reductions, yet a newer perspective was beginning to
appear to the miners of Scotland.

"We'll never be able to beat the maisters," said Tam Donaldson, when the
cloud first appeared upon the industrial horizon. "The English strike
gied us a lesson we shouldna forget."

"How's that?" enquired Peter Pegg, as he sat down on his hunkers one
night at the end of the row, while they discussed the prospects of the
coming fight.

"Weel, ye saw how the Englishmen fought unitedly, an' yet they were
beaten, an' had to gang back on a reduction. We'll very likely be the
same, for the maisters are a' weel organized. What we should do is to
ha'e England an' Scotland coming out together, an' let the pits stan'
then till the grass was growin' owre the whorles. That would be my way
o' it, and I think it would soon bring the country to see what was in
the wind."

"That's richt, Tam. It would soon bring the hale country to its senses;
for nae matter what oor fight is, we are aye in the wrang wi' some folk;
so the shock o' the hale country comin' out would mak' them tak' notice,
an' would work the cure."

So they talked of newer plans, while Smillie toiled like a giant to
educate and organize the miners. He had taken hold of them as crude
material, and was slowly shaping them into something like unity. A few
more years and he would win; but the forces against him knew it, too,
and so followed the great fight which lasted for seventeen weeks.

Singularly enough, while there was undoubtedly much privation, there was
not very much real misery, as the strike had started early in a warm,
dry summer.

Communal kitchens were at once established throughout the country.
Everybody did his best, and the womenfolk especially toiled early and
late. A committee was appointed in each village to gather in materials.
Beef at a reasonable price was supplied by a local butcher. A horse and
cart were borrowed, which went round the district gathering a cabbage or
two here; a few carrots or turnips there, parsley at another, and so
on, returning at night invariably laden with vegetables for the next
day's dinner. Sometimes a farmer would give a sheep, and the local
cooperative society provided the bread at half the cost of production.
Those farmers who were hostile gave nothing, but it would have paid them
better had they concealed their hostility, for sometimes, even in a
single night, large portions of a field of potatoes would disappear as
by magic.

Robert worked in this fight like a man. He helped to cut down trees and
saw them into logs, to cook the food at the soup kitchen. Everything and
anything he tried, running errands, and even going with the van to
solicit material for the following day's meals.

All were cheerful, and no one seemed to take the fight bitterly. Sports
were organized. Quoiting tournaments were got up, football matches
arranged, games at rounders and hand-ball--every conceivable game was
indulged in, with sometimes a few coppers as prizes but more often a few
ounces of tobacco or tea or a packet of sugar. Dances in the evenings
were started at the corner of the row to the strains of a melodeon, and
were carried on to the early hours of the morning. It was from these
gatherings that the young lads generally raided the fields and hen runs
of the hostile farmers, returning with eggs, butter, potatoes, and even
cheese--everything on which they could lay their hands.

At one of these gatherings Robert related his experience with "auld
Hairyfithill." Robert had been round with the van that day, and calling
at Wilson's, or Hairyfithill Farm, to ask if they had any cabbage to
give, he heard the old man calling to the servant lass: "Mag! Mag! Where
are ye? Rin an' bring in the hens' meat; there's thae colliers coming."

Nothing daunted, Robert had gone into the kitchen to ask if they had
anything to give the strikers.

"Get awa' back to yer work, ye lazy loons, ye!" was the reply from old
Mr. Wilson. "Gie ye something for your soup kitchen! Na, na! Ye can gang
an' work, an' pay for your meat. Gang awa' oot owre, and leave the town,
an' dinna come back again." And so they had drawn blank at
Hairyfithill.

"It wad serve him richt, if every tattie in his fields was ta'en awa',"
said Matthew Maitland, after the story had been told and laughed over.

"It wad that," agreed a score of voices; but nothing was done nor
anything further said, so the dancing proceeded.

About two o'clock in the morning while the dancing was still going on
and a fire had been kindled at the corner in which some of the strikers
were roasting potatoes and onions a great commotion was suddenly caused,
when Dickie Tamson and two other boys drove in among them old
Hairyfithill's sow which he was fattening for the market. Some proposed
that the pig be killed at once.

"Oh no, dinna kill it," said Matthew Maitland, with real alarm in his
voice. "Ye'd get into a row for that. Ye'd better tak' it back, or there
may be fun."

"Kill the damn'd thing," said Tam Donaldson callously, "an' it'll maybe
a lesson to the auld sot. Him an' his hens' meat! I'd let him ken that
it's no' hens' meat the collier eats--at least no' so lang as he can get
pork."

"That's jist what I think, too, Tam," put in another voice. "I'd mak'
sure work that the collier ate pork for yince. Come on, boys, an' mum's
the word," and he proceeded to drive the pig further along the village,
followed by a few enthusiastic backers. They drove it into Granny
Fleming's hen-house in the middle of the square, put out the hens, who
protested loudly against this rude and incomprehensible interruption of
their slumbers, and then they proceeded to slaughter the pig.

It was a horrible orgy, and the pig made a valiant protest, but
encountered by hammers and picks, knives and such-like weapons, the poor
animal was soon vanquished, and the men proceeded to cut up its carcass.
It was a long and trying ordeal for men who had no experience of the
work; yet they made up in enthusiasm what they lacked in science, and by
five o'clock the pig was cut up and distributed through a score of
homes. Every trace of the slaughter was removed, and the refuse buried
in the village midden, and pork was the principal article on the
breakfast table that morning in Lowwood.

"I hear that auld Hairyfithill has offered five pound reward for
information about his pig," said Tam Donaldson a few mornings later.

"Ay, an' it's a gran' price for onybody wha kens aboot it," said auld
Jamie Lauder. "Pork maun hae risen in price this last twa-three days,
for I'm telt it was gaun cheap enough then."

"That is true," said Tam, "but it was a damn'd shame to tak' the auld
man's pig awa', whaever did it. But I hear them saying that the polisman
is gaun to the farm the nicht to watch, so that the tatties 'll no' be
stolen," he went on, as some of the younger men joined them, "an' I
suppose that the puir polisman hasna' a bit o' coal left in his
coal-house. It's no' richt, ye ken, laddies, that a polisman, who is the
representative o' law and order in this place, should sit without a
fire. He has a wife an' weans to worry aboot, an' they need a fire to
mak' meat. Maybe if he had a fire an' plenty o' coal it wad mak' him
comfortable, an' then he'd no' be sae ready to leave the hoose at nicht
an' lie in a tattie pit to watch thievin' colliers. If a man hasna'
peace in his mind it'll mak' him nasty, an' we canna' allow sic a thing
as a nasty polisman in this district!"

"That's richt, Tam," said one of the younger men. "It would be a shame
to see a woman an' twa-three weans sittin' withoot a fire an' a great
big bing o' coal lyin' doon there at the pit. We maun try an' keep the
polisman comfortable."

That night the policeman without in any way trying to conceal his
purpose walked down through the village and across the strip of moor and
took up his position at the end of Hairyfithill's potato field. At once
a group of young men led by Tam Donaldson set off with bags under their
arms after it was dark for the pit at the other end of the village and
were soon engaged in carrying coal as if their lives depended on it.

"Noo, lads, the first bag gangs to the polisman, mind," said Tam,
shouldering his load and walking off.

"A' richt, Tam. If we a' gang wi' the first bag to him that'll be nine
bags, then we can get two or three bags for hame. Dinna hurry; we ha'e
a' nicht to carry, an' we can get in a fine lot afore daylicht breaks."

"That's richt," said Tam, "but mind an' no' tire yersels too much, for
ye've a nicht at the tatties the morn. The polis'll be at the bing the
morn's nicht efter this carry-on, an' when he is busy watchin' for coal
thieves, we maun see that we get in a denner or twa o' tatties. I heard
him sayin' he could not be everywhere at yince, an' couldna' both watch
coal thieves an' tattie stealin' at yin an' the same time."

       *       *       *       *       *

All this time matters went very smoothly. The men were very firm, having
great trust in Smillie. After about six weeks, however, from various
causes a suspicious atmosphere began to be created. Hints had been
appearing from time to time in the newspapers that matters were not
altogether as the miners thought they were. Then vague rumors got afloat
in many districts and spread with great rapidity, and these began to
undermine the confidence of the strikers.

"What think ye o' the fecht noo, Tam?" enquired Matthew Maitland one
night as they sat among the others at the "Lazy Corner," as the village
forum was called.

"I dinna ken what to think o' it," replied Tam glumly. "Do ye think
there's any truth in that story aboot Smillie havin' sell't us?"

"It wad be hard to ken," replied Matthew Maitland, taking his pipe out
of his mouth and spitting savagely upon the ground. "But I heard it for
a fact, and that a guid wheen o' men doon the country hae gaen back to
their work through it. An' yet, mind ye, Smillie seemed to me to be a
straight-forret man an' yin that was sincere. Still, ye can never tell;
an' twa-three hunner pound's a big temptation to a man."

"Ay," said Tam dryly, "we hae been diddled sae often wi' bigmoothed men
on the make, that it mak's a body ay suspicious when yin hears thae
stories. I heard Wiston, the coal-maister, had gien him five hunner
pounds on the quiet."

"I heard that too," replied Matthew, "but, like you, I'm loth to think
it o' Smillie. I'd believe it quicker aboot yon ither chiel, Charlie
Rogerson. He comes oot to speak to us ay dressed in a black dress-suit,
wi' white cuffs doon to his finger nebs, his gold ring, his lum hat, an'
a' his fal-de-lals."

"Weel, I dinna believe a word o' this story aboot Bob," said Robert
quietly, who had "hunkered" down beside the two men who sat so earnestly
discussing matters while the others went on with their games and
dancing.

"Do ye no', Rob?" said Tam.

"No, I do not," was the firm reply, "for nae matter what happens in a
fight, it's ay the opeenion o' some folk that the men ha'e been sell't."

Robert, though young, took a keen interest in the fight. While other
lads of his age looked upon it as a fine holiday, the heavy
responsibilities he had to face gave him a different outlook, and so the
men seemed to recognize that he was different from the other boys, and
more sober in his view-point.

"This story is set aboot for the purpose o' breakin' oup the men," he
continued. "We hear o' Smillie haein hale rows o' cottages bought, an' a
lot ither rubbish, but I wouldna believe it. It's a' to get the men to
gang back to their work; an' if they do that, it'll no' only break the
strike, but it'll break up the union, an' that's what's wanted mair than
anything else. I've heard Smillie an' my faither talkin' aboot a' thae
things lang syne, an' Smillie says that's what the stories are set aboot
for. We should ha'e sense enough no' to heed them, for I dinna think
Smillie has sell't us at a'."

There was a fine, firm ring in the boy's voice as he spoke which moved
the two older men, and made them feel a little ashamed that they had
been so ready to doubt.

"Ah, weel, Rob," said Tam, "maybe you are richt, but a lot o' men ha'e
gaen back to their work already, an' it'll break up the strike if it
spreads. But we'll ha'e to get some tatties in the nicht; the polisman's
goin' to be watchin' auld Burnfoot's hen-hoose, sae it'll be a grand
chance for some tatties," and the talk drifted on to another subject.

About the eighth week of the strike the news went round the village
that Sanny Robertson and Peter Fleming were "oot at the pit."

"I wad smash every bone in their dirty bodies if I had my way o' it. I
would," said Matthew Maitland, with emphasis. Matthew was always
emphatic in all he said, though seldom so in what he did.

"But we'll ha'e to watch hoo we act," said Andrew Marshall more
cautiously. "It's agin the law, ye ken, to use force."

"I wadna' gi'e a damn," said Peter Pegg, his big eye making frantic
efforts to wink. "I wad see that they blacklegged nae mair."

"Sae wad I," promptly exclaimed half a dozen of the younger men.

"We maun see that they don't do it ony mair."

"Ay, an' I hope we'll mak' sure work that they sleep in for twa-three
mornin's."

"I'll tell ye what," said old Lauder, "let us get a few weemin' and
weans thegither, an' we'll gang doon to the pit an' wait on them comin'
up frae their shift. The bairns can get tin cans an' a stane for a
drumstick, an' we'll ha'e a loonie band. We can sing twa or three o'
thae blackleg sangs o' Tam Donaldson's, an' play them hame."

"That's the plan, Jamie," replied Tam, who had suddenly seen himself
immortalized through his parodies of certain popular songs. "Let us get
as mony women an' callans as possible, and we can mak' a damn'd guid
turnout. We'll sing like linties, an' drum like thunder, an' the
blacklegs'll feel as if they were goin' through Purgatory to the tune
o':"

  Tattie Wullie, Tattie Wullie,
    Tattie Wullie Shaw,
  Where's the sense o' workin', Wullie?--
    Faith, ye're lookin' braw.

or

  Peter Fleming, Peter Fleming,
    Peter, man, I say,
  Ye've been workin', ye've been workin',
    Ye've been workin' the day.

  Peter Fleming, Peter Fleming,
    If ye work ony mair,
  Peter Fleming, Peter Fleming,
    Your heart will be sair.

With little difficulty a band of men, women and children was organized
and proceeded to the pit to await the coming up of the culprits. Hour
after hour they waited patiently, determined not to miss them, and the
time was spent in light jesting and singing ribald songs.

"I wadna' like if my faither was a blackleg," observed Mysie Maitland to
the girl next her.

"No, nor me, either!" quickly agreed the other. "It wad be awfu' to hear
folk cryin' 'Blackleg' after yir faither, wadna' it, Mysie?"

"Ay," was the reply. "I wadna' like it."

"They should a' be hunted oot o' the place," put in Robert, who was
standing near. "They are just sellin' the rest o' the men, an' helpin'
to break up the strike. So ye mind, Mysie, hoo Tam Graham's lass aye
clashed on the rest o' us on the pit-head? She's just like her faither,
ay ready to do onything agin the rest, if it would gi'e her a wee bit
favor."

"Ay, fine I mind o' it, Rob," Mysie replied eagerly. "Do ye mind the day
she was goin' to tell aboot you takin' hame the bit auld stick for
firewood? When I telt her if she did, I'd tell on her stealin' the
tallow frae the engine-house an' the paraffin ile ay when she got the
chance. She didna say she'd tell then."

"Ay, Mysie. Maybe I'd ha'e gotten the sack if she had telt. But she was
aye a clashbag. But here they come!" he shouted animatedly, as the bell
signaled for the cage to rise, and presently the wheels began to
revolve, as the cage ascended.

"May the tow break, an' land the dirty scums in hell," prayed one man.

"Ay, an' may the coals they howkit the day roast them forever," added
another. Though they prayed thus, yet once again they found that the
"prayer of the wicked availeth naught." Buckets of water, however, and
even bits of stone and scrap iron were surreptitiously flung down the
shaft; and when the blacklegs did appear, they were nearly frightened
out of their senses. It would have gone hard with them as they left the
cage, but someone whispered, "Here's the polis!" and so the crowd had to
be content with beating their tin cans; and keeping time to the songs
improvised by Tam Donaldson, they escorted the blacklegs to their homes.

Next morning a large number of the strikers gathered at the Lazy Corner,
enjoying themselves greatly.

"They tell me," said Tam Donaldson, "that our fren's ha'e slept in this
morning."

A laugh greeted this sally, which seemed to indicate that most of them
knew about the sleeping-in and the reason for it.

"Ay, they'd be tired oot efter their hard day's work yesterday," replied
another.

"Ay, an' they dinna seem to be up yet," said a third, "for I see the
doors are still shut, an' the bairns are no' awa' to the school. They
maun ha'e been awfu' tired to ha'e slept sae lang."

"Let's gang doon and gi'e them a bit sang to help to keep their dreams
pleasant," suggested Tam Donaldson, as they moved off down the row and
stopped before Jock Graham's door. Tam, clearing his throat, led of:

  Hey, Johnnie Graham, are ye wauken yet,
  Or is yer fire no' ken'lt yet?
  If you're no wauken we will wait,
  An' tak' ye to the pit in the mornin'.

  Black Jock sent a message in the dark,
  Sayin': Johnny Graham, come to your wark,
  For tho' ye've been locked in for a lark,
  Ye maun come to the pit in the mornin'.

  You an' Fleeming, an' Robertson tae,
  Had better a' gang doon the brae,
  An' you'll get your pay for ilka day
  That ye gang to your work in the mornin'.

Then, leading off on to another, Tam, with great gusto, swung into a
song that carried the others along uproariously:

  O' a' the airts the win' can blaw,
  It canna blaw me free,
  For I am high an' dry in bed,
  When workin' I should be;
  But ropes are stronger faur than is
  Desire for work wi' me,
  An' sae I lie, baith high an' dry--
  I'll hae to bide a wee.

  I canna say on whatna day
  I'll gang again to work,
  For sticks an' stanes may break my banes,
  As sure's my name's McGurk.
  Gie me the best place in the pit,
  Then happy I shall be,
  Just wi' yae wife to licht oor life,
  Big dirty Jock an' me!

After a round or two of applause and some shouts from the children, Tam
broke out in a new air:

  This is no' my ain lassie,
  Kin' though the lassie be,
  There's a man ca'd Black Jock Walker,
  Shares this bonnie lass wi' me.
  She's sweet, she's kin', her ways are fine,
  An' whiles she gies her love to me.
  She's ta'en my name, but, oh, the shame,
  That Walker shares the lass wi' me.

  This is no' my ain lassie,
  She is changefu' as the sea,
  Whiles I get a' her sweet kisses,
  Whiles Black Jock shares them wi' me.
  She's fat and fair, she's het and rare,
  She's no' that trig, but ay she's free,
  It pays us baith, as sure as daith,
  That Walker shares the lass wi' me.

This sent the crowd wild with delight, and cries of "Good auld Tam!"
were raised. "Damn'd guid, Tam! Ye're as guid as Burns." All of which
made Tam feel that at last his genius was being recognized. The
explanation of the joke was to be found in the fact, as one song had
hinted, that the strikers had securely fastened the doors of all the
blacklegs' houses with ropes, and jammed the windows with sticks, so
that the inmates could not get out. Even the children could not get out
to go to school. It was late in the afternoon before the police heard of
it, and came and cut the ropes, and so relieved the imprisoned inmates.

This happened for a morning or two, and then the practice stopped, for
the police watched the doors throughout the whole night. This
preoccupation of the police was taken advantage of to raid again old
Hairyfithill's potato field, and also to pay a visit to the bing for
coal, and a very profitable time was thus spent by the strikers, even
though the blacklegs were at their work in a few days.

What was happening in Lowwood was typical of almost all other mining
villages throughout the country. Everywhere high spirits and
cheerfulness prevailed among the men. As for the leaders, the situation
proved too big for some of them to cope with it, the responsibility was
too great; and so they failed at the critical moment. The demand of an
increase of a shilling a day, for which the men had struck, had been
conceded by some of the owners, whilst others had offered sixpence. Some
of the leaders were in favor of accepting these concessions, and
allowing the men at the collieries concerned to resume work, and so be
able to contribute considerably to help keep out those whose demands had
not been met. Others of the leaders refused to agree to this, and
insisted that as all had struck together, they should fight together to
the end, until the increase was conceded to all. This difference of
opinion was readily perceived and welcomed by the coalmasters, and
stiffened their resolution, for they saw that disagreement and divisions
would soon weaken the morale of the men, and such proved to be the case.

No one can imagine what Smillie suffered at this time, as he saw his
splendid effort going to pieces; but being a big man, he knew that it
was impossible to turn back. His plans might for the moment miscarry;
but that was merely a necessary, yet passing, phase in the great
evolution of Industrialism, and his ideals must yet triumph.

As the result of the differences among the leaders, the strike
collapsed at the end of seventeen weeks. The men were forced to return
to work on the old terms. In some cases a reduction was imposed, making
their condition worse than at the start. The masters sought to drive
home their victory in order to break the union. In many parts of the
country they succeeded, while in others the spirit of the men resisted
it. Generally it ended in compromise; but, so far as the Union was
concerned, it was a broken organization; branches went down, and it was
many years afterwards before it was again reestablished in some of the
districts.

Though at the time it might have seemed all loss, yet it had its
advantages, and especially demonstrated the fact that there was a fine
discipline and the necessary unity among the rank and file. The next
great work was to find out how that unity could be guided and that
discipline perfected--how to find a common ideal for the men. This was
Robert Smillie's task, and who shall say, looking at the rank and file
to-day, that he has failed?




CHAPTER XII

THE RIVALS


Eight years passed, and Robert grew into young manhood. One of his
younger brothers had joined him and Andrew Marshall in the partnership.
It had been a long, stiff struggle, and his mother knew all the hardness
and cruelty of it. In after years Robert loved his mother more for the
fight she put up, though it never seemed to him that he himself had done
anything extraordinary. He was always thoughtful, and planned to save
her worry. On "pay-nights," once a fortnight, when other boys of his age
were getting a sixpence, or perhaps even a shilling, as pocket-money, so
that they could spend a few coppers on the things that delight a boy's
heart, Robert resolutely refused to take a penny. For years he continued
thus, always solacing himself with the thought that it was a "shilling's
worth less of worry" his mother would have.

Yet, riches were his in that the enchantment of literature held him
captive, and his imagination gained for him treasures incomparably
greater than the solid wealth prized by worldly minds. His father had
possessed about a dozen good books, among others such familiar Scottish
household favorites as "Wilson's Tales of the Borders," "Mansie Waugh,"
by "Delta," "Scots Worthies," Allan Ramsay's "Gentle Shepherd," Scott's
"Rob Roy" and "Old Mortality," and the well-thumbed and dog-eared copy
of Robert Burns' Poems.

"Gae awa', man Robin," his mother would say sometimes to him, as he sat
devouring Wilson's "Tales" or weeping over the tragic end of Wallace's
wife Marion as recounted in Jean Porter's entrancing "Scottish Chiefs."

"Gang awa' oot an' tak' a walk. Ither laddies are a' oot playin' at
something, an' forby it's no' healthy to sit too long aye readin'."

"Ach. I canna' be bothered," he would answer. "I'd raither read."

"What is't you're readin' noo?" she would enquire. "Oh, it's the
'Scottish Chiefs,' an' I'm jist at the bit aboot Wallace's wife being
murdered by Hazelrig. My! It's awfu' vexin'."

"Ay, it's a fine book, Robin. Ye might read that bit oot to me."

"A' richt," and he would start to read while Nellie sat down to listen.
Soon both were engrossed in the sad story, so powerfully told, and the
tears would be running from the mother's eyes as her fancy pictured the
sorrows of Wallace, while Robert's voice would break, and a sob come
into his throat, as he proceeded. When finally the passage was reached
where the brutal blow was struck, the book would have to be put down,
while mother and son both cried as if the grief depicted were their own.

"It's an awfu' gran' book, Rob," she would say after a time, while she
strove to subdue the sobs in her breast. "Puir Wallace! It maun ha'e
been an awfu' blow to him, when he heard that Marion was killed. But you
maun read on a bit far'er, for I'm no' gaun tae work ony mair till I see
that dirty beast Hazelrig get his deserts. He has wrocht for it, sae
jist gang on noo till you feenish the bit aboot him gettin' killed wi'
Wallace. He deserves it for killin' a woman."

Thus Robert would have to go on, until the incident in question had been
reached in the story, and as it unfolded itself his voice would grow
firmer and stronger as he became infected with the narrative, while his
mother's eyes would glow, and her body be tense with interest, and an
expectant expression would creep over her face, betraying her
excitement. In the interview between Wallace and Hazelrig in the house
in the Wellgate in Lanark, when Wallace dramatically draws his sword in
answer to the supplication for mercy, and says: "Ay, the same mercy as
you showed my Marion," Robert's voice would thunder forth the words with
terrible sternness, while Nellie would gasp and catch her breath in a
quick little sob of excitement, as the feeling of satisfied justice
filled her heart. And when the blow fell that laid the English governor
low, she would burst out: "Serves him richt, the dirty tyrant. He's got
what he deserved, an' it serves him right!"

On another occasion Robert would suddenly burst out laughing, when
reading Delta's chronicle of the adventures of Mansie Waugh, the
Scottish "Handy Andy."

"What are you laughing at, Robin?" Nellie would enquire, a smile
breaking over her face also.

"Oh, it's Mansie Waugh, mither. Oh, but it's a gran' bit. Listen to
this," and he would begin to read the passage, where Mansie, simple soul
that he was, was described as going into the byre in the morning to
learn if the cow had calved during the night, and finding, on opening
the door, the donkey of a traveling tinker, he turned and ran into the
house, crying: "Mither! Mither! The coo has calved, an' it's a cuddy!"

Whenever he reached this part of the story, his mother would go off into
a fit of uncontrollable laughter which left her helpless and crumpled up
in a heap upon the nearest chair. Her laugh was very infectious; it
began with a low, mirthful ripple, well down in the throat, and rose in
rapid leaps of musical joy till it had traveled a whole octave of
bubbling happy sounds, when it culminated in a peal of double forte
shakes and trills, that made it a joy to hear, and finally it died out
in an "Oh, dear me! What a callan Mansie was!"

As Robert approached manhood, he took more and more to the moors,
wandering alone among the haunts of the whaup and other moor birds,
wrestling with problems to which older heads never gave a thought,
trying to understand life and to build from his heart and experience
something that would be satisfying. Silent, thoughtful, "strange" to the
neighbors, a problem to everyone, but a bigger one to himself, life
staggered him and appalled his soul.

Earnestly he worked and tested his thought against the thought of
others, sturdily refusing everything which did not ring true and meet
his standard. Old religious conceptions, the orthodoxy of his kith and
kin, were fast tested in the crucible of his mind and flung aside as
worthless. The idea of Hell and the old Morrisonian notion of the
Hereafter appeared crude and barbarous. His father's fate and the
condition of the family left to welter in poverty, the cruelty of life
as it presented itself to the great mass of the working class, could not
be reconciled with the Church's teaching of an all-loving and omniscient
Father.

With the audacity of youth, he felt that he could easily have
constructed a better universe. He felt that Hell could have no terrors
for people condemned to such hardship and suffering as he saw around
him. Life was colorless for them; stinted of pleasure and beauty, with
merely the joys of the "gill-stoup" on a Saturday night at the local
"store" to look forward to, there was in it no real satisfaction either
for the body or the mind. Would he, indeed, have to wait till after
death before knowing anything of real happiness or comfort? His mind
refused to accept this doctrine so frequently expounded to working class
congregations by ministers, who were themselves comparatively well
endowed with "treasures upon earth."

Life was good, life was glorious if only it could be made as he dreamed
it. This fair earth need be no vale of tears. There were the blue skies,
the white tapestry of cloudland ever varying; there was the wind upon
his face and the sweet rain; there was the purl of mountain brook, the
graceful sweep of the river, the smile of the flowers, the songs of the
birds; the golden splendor of the day and the silver radiance of the
night.

But above and beyond all there was an ever-increasing love of his
fellows, there were noble women like his mother to reverence, and there
were sweet children to cherish. Surely life was good, and never was
meant to be the mean, sordid thing that too often was the lot of people
like himself. Heaven could and should be realized here and now. At
twenty, he finished by accepting Humanity as it is, to be understood and
loved, to be served, and, if necessary, to die for it.

Though thus naturally reserved and meditative, yet he was not unloved.
There was no more popular lad in the village. Everyone in a tight corner
came to him for help and advice. He was private secretary to half the
village and father confessor to the other half. He served everyone, and
in return all loved him more or less. In the course of time he came to
occupy the place his father had held before him as president of the
local branch of the Union, which had been recently revived. His duties
as a Union official forced him more and more into mixing with others,
and into taking a larger interest in the affairs of the locality.

Gradually with the activities of public life his moodiness gave place to
a healthy cheerfulness, and his enthusiasm soon led him into taking part
in nearly every form of sport which gave life more zest. His interest
being roused, he was wholehearted in his application, whether as a
member of the executive of any local sports association, or as a
participant in the game itself. He was elected to the committee
responsible for organizing the Lowwood Annual Games, but resigned
because having taken up racing as his pet pastime for the time being, he
wanted to compete in some of the items.

At last the "Sports" day arrived. The pits were idle, for this was one
of the recognized holidays. Everyone looked forward eagerly to this day,
and prepared for it, each in his or her own way. For weeks before it the
children practiced racing, and trained themselves in jumping, football,
quoiting and such sports. Young men stole away to secret places in the
moor to train and harden themselves, timing their performances and
concentrating on the strenuous day ahead when they would compete with
one another in fair tests of speed, strength, skill and endurance.

One event was always a special attraction, even to professional racers
all over the country. This was known as the "Red Hose Race," about which
many legends were told. The most popular of these was to the effect that
the stockings were knitted each year by the Laird's wife, and if no one
entered for the race, the Laird must run it himself, or forfeit his
extensive estate to the Crown. In addition to the Red Hose, there was a
substantial money prize. To win the race was looked upon as the greatest
achievement of the year, for it was one of the oldest sporting events
and had been run for so many years that its origin seemed lost in the
mists of antiquity. Robert made up his mind to win the Red Hose in this
particular year. Mrs. Graydon, of Graydon House, had intimated that she
herself would be present and would hand over the stockings to the proud
winner in person, but it was not by any means on this account that
Robert was so keen to win. It was the older lure that brought every year
athletes of fame to run in the historic race.

"So you are going to run in the Red Hose," said a voice behind Robert
while the people were all gathering to watch the preliminary races of
the boys and girls. Robert turned from the group of young men who had
been discussing the event with him, and met the smiling face of Peter
Rundell, dressed in immaculate style and looking as fresh and fine a
specimen of young manhood as anyone could wish to see.

"Yes," he said with a smile, "and I intend to win it."

"Do you?" returned Peter light-heartedly. "I have also entered for it,
though I had no intention of doing so when I came over; but Mr. Walker,
who, as you know, is on the committee, pressed me to go in, and so I
consented."

"Oh!" said Robert, in surprise, "I thought after last year's success you
were not going to run again." Then, in a bantering tone, and with a
smile upon his lips, "I suppose we'll be rivals in this, then; but I
gi'e you fair warning that I'm gaun to lift the Red Hose if I get a
decent chance at all."

"Well, I have set my mind on winning it, too," replied Peter. "I'd like
to lift it, just to be able to say in after years that I had done so."

"That's just hoo I feel aboot the matter too," lightly answered Robert.
"I'd like jist to be able to say that I had won the Red Hose. I feel in
good form for it, so you'd better be on your mettle."

"Well, I shall give you the race of your life for it," said Peter,
entering into the same light spirited boasting. "I hear Mair and Todd
and Semple are also entered, but with a decent handicap I won't mind
these, even with their international reputation."

"All right," said Robert. "I suppose I shall have the greater pleasure
in romping home before you all. Are the handicaps out yet?"

"Yes, I saw the list just before I spoke to you. Semple and Mair are
scratch, with Todd at five yards. You start at twenty-five, and I get
off at the limit forty.'

"Oh!" said Robert, a note of surprise in his voice. "Walker has surely
forgotten who are the runners! Why, last year you won nearly all the
confined events, and you were second in the Red Hose with twenty-five
yards. He means you to romp home this year!" and there was heat in
Robert's voice as he finished.

"Well, I daresay it is a decent handicap," said Peter, "and even though
Semple is among the crowd, I should manage, I think, to pull it off with
anything like luck."

"I should think so," said Robert. "Walker has just made you a present of
the race. But I suppose it can't be helped, though it isn't fair.
Anyhow, I'll give you a chase for it."

"All right. Half an hour and we shall be on," and Peter went on round
the field, exchanging greetings with most of the villagers.

He was finishing his education at a Technical College in Edinburgh, and
at present was home on holidays. He was a well set up young man, and
though popular with most people, yet he brought with him an air of
another world among the villagers, which made them feel uncomfortable.
They recognized that his life was very different from their own, and
while they talked to him when he spoke to them, and were agreeable
enough to him, they felt awed and could not break down the natural
reserve they always had towards people of another station of life. He
was perhaps a little too thoughtless and impulsive, though
generous-hearted enough. He drifted into things, rather than shaped them
to his own ideas, and was often not sufficiently careful of the
positions in which he found himself as a consequence of thoughtless
acts.

The week before he had caught and kissed Mysie Maitland, who was now
serving at Rundell House, merely because he was taken with her pretty
face. From that Peter already believed himself in love with her,
because she had not resented his action. He had even walked over with
her from the village, when she had been home visiting her parents one
night, and had felt more and more the witchery of her pretty face and
the lure of her fine little figure.

Up to this time Mysie had always believed herself in love with
Robert--Robert who was always so strange from the rest of young men. He
had always been her hero, her protector; but there was something about
him for which she could not account and which she could not have
defined. Such was her admiration that she believed it was in his power
to do anything he cared to attempt; it was just possible that it was
this strange sense of unknown power which fascinated her. They had never
been lovers in the accepted sense of the word. They had never "walked
out" as young people in their social station usually do, but yet had
always felt that they were meant for one another.

Only once had Robert kissed her, and that moment ever lived with her a
glowing memory. She had been home and was returning through a moorland
pass, when she came across him lying upon the rough heather, his
thoughts doubtless full of her, for he had seen her in the village, and
knew she must return that way.

"Oh, Rob!" she cried, her face flushing with excitement as she saw him.
"Ye nearly frichted me oot o' my wits the noo."

"Did I, Mysie?" he answered, springing to his feet. "I didna mean to dae
that. Ye'll be getting back, I suppose."

"Ay," she returned simply, and a silence fell upon them, in which both
seemed to lose the power of speaking.

Robert looked at her as she stood there, her full, curved breasts rising
and falling with the excitement of the unexpected meeting, the long
lashes of her eyes sweeping her flushed cheeks, as she stood with
downcast eyes before him. The last rays of the setting sun falling upon
her brown hair touched it with a rare strange beauty. Her red lips like
dew-drenched roses--luscious, pure, alluring, were parted a little in a
half smile. But it was the fascinating movement of the breast, full,
round and sensuous, that stirred and made an overpowering appeal to
every pulse within him. It seemed so soft, so tender, so wonderfully
alluring. At the moment he could not understand himself or her. There
was a strange, surging impetus raging through him that he felt
absolutely powerless to subdue, and he swayed a little as he stood.

"Oh, Mysie!" he cried, leaping forward and clasping her in his strong,
young arms, and crushing her against him, holding her there, gasping,
powerless but happy.

"You are mine, Mysie. Mine!" and he kissed her budded lips in an ecstasy
of passion and warm-blooded feeling, while a thousand fevers seemed to
course through him as he felt the contact of her body and her warm,
eager lips on his. Blinded and delirious, he kissed her again and again
in an impassioned burst of fervor, passion scorching his blood and
filling his whole heart with the enjoyment of possession. She closed her
eyes, and her head touched his shoulder, while the faint scent of her
hair and its soft caressing touch upon his cheek maddened him to a fury
of love.

"Say you are mine, Mysie! Say you are mine!" he cried, and his voice was
strange and hoarse and dry with the desire within him. He felt her body
yielding as it relaxed in his arms, as if in answer to some unspoken
demand, and in a moment he realized himself and started back, hot shame
surging over his face and conquering the passion in his blood. In that
strange mad moment he had felt capable of anything--powerful,
overmastering, relentless in his desires; and now--weak, shame-stricken
and helpless. Ere he could say anything, Mysie had come to herself with
a shock, and started away over the moor as if possessed by something
that was mysterious and terrible.

That had happened a year ago, and though Robert sought to learn when she
was in the village, and often watched her from a safe place where he was
not seen, delighting his eyes with the sight of her figure, and feeling
again the same hot shame come over him, as he had known that day on the
moor, yet he had never met her near enough to speak to her, but had
worshiped her at a distance and grown to love and desire her more and
more with every day that passed.

He dreamed dreams around her, but was afraid to encounter her again.
This strange mad love burned in his blood, until at times he was almost
sick with desire and love. Every moor-bird called her name; every flower
held the shyness of her face; the clouds of peaceful sunsets showed the
glory of her hair, and the quiet, steadfast stars possessed the wonder
of her eyes. The madness of the passionate moment of possession on the
moor was at once his most treasured memory and his intensest shame.

As for Mysie, since she had not heard any more from Robert nor even seen
him for almost a year, she felt quite flattered by the attentions of
Peter Rundell. It was not that she was in love with either of the young
men. Her nature was of the kind that is in love with love itself, and
was not perhaps capable of a great love, such as had frightened her,
when Robert, taken off his guard, had let her glimpse a strong,
overmastering passion and a soul capable of great things. Already she
dreamed of a grand house of which she would be mistress as Peter's wife,
as she stood in the silence of her own room, pirouetting and smirking,
and drawing pictures of herself in fine garments and stately carriage,
playing the Lady Bountiful of the district.




CHAPTER XIII

THE RED HOSE RACE


"All competitors for the Red Hose, get ready!" called the bell-man, who
announced the events at the sports, and immediately all was stir and
bustle and excitement.

"Wha's gaun to win the day, Andrew?" enquired Matthew Maitland, as they
stood waiting for the runners to emerge from the dressing tent.

"I dinna ken," answered Andrew Marshall. "That's a damn'd unfair
handicap anyway. My neighbor is no' meant to lift it seemingly. Look at
the start they've gi'en him, an' young Rundell starts at the limit."

"Ay!" said Matthew. "It's no' fair. It's some o' Black Jock's doings.
He's meanin' young Rundell to wun it."

"Ay, it looks like it; but it's fashious kennin' what may happen. Rab's
a braw runner," and Andrew spoke as one who knew, for he was the only
person who had seen Robert train.

"Weel, it's harder for him to be a rinner than for young Rundell, a man
wha never wrocht a day's work in a' his life, while Rab's had to slave
hard and sair a' his days.... Though Rundell can rin too," he added,
with ungrudged admiration.

"Ay, he ran weel last year, but they tell me he'd like to get the Red
Hose to his credit, though for my pairt they'd been far better to ha'e
presented it to him, than to gi'e him it that way. Man, he's a dirty
brute o' a man, Black Jock!" and there was disgust in his voice. "Jist
look at Mag Robertson there, flittering aboot quite shameless, and
gecking and smirking at him, an' naebody daur say a word to her. She's a
fair scunner!"

"If she belonged to me, I'd let her ken a different way o't."

"Ay, Andra," was the reply. "But ye maun mind that Mag mak's mair money
than Sanny does. Jist look at her, the glaikit tinkler that she is.
Black Jock's no' ill to please when that pleases him."

Mag Robertson, the subject of their talk, was quite oblivious,
apparently, of the many remarks that were being passed about her, and
she continued to follow Walker, who as a committee member, was busily
arranging matters for the race.

"She's gie weel smeekit, Andra!" observed Matthew in a whisper, as Mag
passed close by. "Did ye fin the smell o" her breath?"

"Ay!" replied Andrew. "She can haud a guid lot before ye see it on her.
She's--" but a shout from the crowd cut his further revelations short.

"Here they come!" cried Matthew excitedly, as the tent opened, and young
Rundell came out with confident bearing, leading the other half-dozen
athletes to the starting place. "Let's gae roon' to the wunnin' post so
as to see the feenish."

The competitors lined up, each on his separate mark, ready for the
signal to start. Rundell, in a bright-colored costume of fine texture,
showed well beside the other racer who started along with him at forty
yards. Peter was slimly built, but there were energy and activity in his
every movement; his legs especially, being finely developed, showed no
superfluous flesh; his chest alone indicated any weakness, but withal he
looked a likely winner.

Robert, on the other hand, while not carrying a great amount of flesh,
was well built. The chest was broad and deep, the shoulders square and
the head held well up, his nose being finely adapted for good
respiration. The legs, by reason of heavy work in early life, were a
little bent at the brawn, but were as hard as nails; they showed
wonderfully developed muscles, and gave the impression of strength
rather than speed.

They presented a fine picture of eager, determined young manhood, clean
and healthy, and full of life and mettle. Each face betrayed how the
mind was concentrated on, the work ahead, every thought directed with
great intensity towards the goal, as they bent their bodies in
preparation for the start.

The pistol cracked and rang out upon the midday air with startling
suddenness, and immediately they were off on a fine start to the
accompaniment of the cheering of the crowd which lined the whole track
in a great circle. The first round ended with the runners much as they
had started, the interval between each being fairly equally maintained.
Semple, however, dropped out, not caring to overstrain himself as he had
some heavy racing next day at another gathering, where a much higher
money prize was the allurement.

Round the others went, the excitement growing among the crowd, who kept
shouting encouraging remarks to the racers as they passed.

"Keep it up, Robin!" cried Andrew Marshall. "Keep it up, my lad. Ye're
daein' fine."

"Come away, Rundell, the race is yer ain," shouted an enthusiastic
supporter of Peter.

"Nae wonner!" answered Matthew Maitland, heatedly. "They've gi'en him
the race in a present. Look at the handikep!"

"An' what aboot it?" enquired the other, not knowing what to answer.

"Plenty aboot it," replied Matthew. "If it hadna' been he was Peter
Rundell, he wadna' ha'e gotten sic a start. Black Jock means him to get
the race, an' it's no' fair. I wadna' ha'e the damn'd thing in that way,
an' if he does win it he'll hae nae honor in it."

"But Rab's runnin' weel," Matthew continued, as he followed the runners
with eager eyes, and stuck the head of his pipe in his mouth in his
excitement, burning his lips in the process. "Dammit, I've burned my
mooth," he ejaculated, spluttering, spitting and wiping his mouth. "But
the laddie can rin. He's a fair dandie o' a rinner."

"He couldna' rin to catch the cauld," broke in Rundell's admirer, glad
to get in a word. "Look at him. Dammit, ye could wheel a barrow oot
through his legs. He jist rummles alang like a chained tame
earthquake."

"What's that?" asked Matthew, somewhat nettled at this manner of
describing Robert's slightly bent legs. "He canna rin, ye say! Weel, if
he couldna' rin better than Peter Rundell, he should never try it. Look
at Rundell!" he went on scathingly, "doubled up like a fancy canary, and
a hump on his back like a greyhound licking a pot. Rinnin'! He's mair
like an exhibition o' a rin-a-way toy rainbow. He's aboot as souple as a
stookie Christ on a Christmas tree!" And Matthew glared at the other, as
if he would devour him at a gulp.

"Look at him noo," he cried, as Robert began to overtake the young miner
who had started equal with Rundell. "He's passed young Paterson noo, an'
ye'll soon see him get on level terms wi' Rundell. Go on, Rob!" he
yelled in delight, as Robert shot past. "Go on, my lad, you're daein'
fine!"

Excitement was rousing the crowd to a great pitch, and yells and shouts
of encouragement went up, and cheers rang out as the favored one went
past the various groups of supporters.

All during the race as the competitors circled the course, excitement
grew, until the last round was reached, when every one seemed to go mad.
Only three remained to compete now for the prize, the others having
given up.

But the shouts and cheers of the crowd seemed strangely far away to the
racers, as each rounded the last corner for the final stretch of about
one hundred yards. They were both spent, but will power kept them at it.
They were not breathing, they were tearing their lungs out in great
gulping efforts, and their hearts as well. Tense, determined,
inevitability seemed to rest upon them.

Louder roared the crowd, hoarser and deeper the cheers, closer and
closer the multitude surged to the winning post, yelling, shouting,
crying and gesticulating incoherently as the two men sprinted along with
great leaping strides, panting and almost breaking down under the
terrible strain of the mile race.

Nearer and nearer they came, still running level, with hardly an inch to
tell the difference; but in a pace like this Robert's greater strength
and hard training were bound to tell. Fifty yards to go, and they came
on like streaks of color, fleeting images of some fevered brain, and one
girl's smile each knew was waiting there at the far end.

The prize for which both were now striving was that for which men at all
times strive, which keeps the world young and sends the zest of creation
wandering through the blood--a pair of dancing eyes, lit by the happy
smile of love; for Mysie Maitland had smiled to them, each claiming the
smile for himself, just before the race started.

And now the last ounce of energy was called up, but the mine-owner's son
failed to respond. Dazed and stupid, his mind in a mad whirl, his legs
almost doubling under him, he found his powers weaken and his strength
desert him, and he staggered just as Robert was about to shoot past him;
but in staggering he planted his spiked shoe right upon Robert's foot,
and both men went down completely exhausted, Rundell unable to rise for
want of strength and Sinclair powerless because of his lacerated foot.

"Guid God! He's spiked him!" roared Andrew in a terrible rage. "The
dirty lump that he is--spiked him just when he was gaun to win, too!"

A howl of execration went up from Sinclair's supporters as he lay and
writhed in agony, while Rundell lay still except for the heaving of his
chest. For one tense moment they lay and the crowd was silent, whilst
each man's heart was almost thumping itself out of place in his body,
stretched upon the rough cinder track.

Then a low murmur broke from the crowd as they saw young Paterson coming
round the track, almost staggering under the strain, but keenly intent
on finishing now that his two formidable opponents were lying helpless.
He had kept running during the last round merely to take the third
prize. Now here was his chance of the coveted Red Hose, and he sprinted
and tore along as fast as he was able, calling up every particle of
effort he could muster, and intent on getting past before the two men
could gather strength to rise.

"Come on, Rob!" roared Andrew Marshall, "get up an' feenish, my wee
cock! Paterson's comin' along, an' he'll win. Get up an' try an' feenish
it!"

Stirred by the warning, Robert tried to rise. He raised himself to his
knees, but the pain in his injured foot was too great, and he fell
forward on his face unconscious, and the race ended with Paterson as
winner. It was an ironical situation, and soon the crowd were over the
ropes, and the two opponents were carried to the dressing tent, where
restoratives were applied under which they soon came round.

It was a poor ending to such a fine exhibition. A terrible anger
smoldered in Robert's breast against the mine-owner's son for his
unconscious action, an action which Robert, blinded by anger at losing,
was now firmly convinced was deliberate, and he felt he would just like
to smash Rundell's face for it.

Robert went home to have his injured foot attended to. He was too
disgusted to feel any more interest in the games that day, and so he
remained in the house, nursing his foot for the rest of the day, which
passed as such days usually do. Everyone talked about his misfortune and
regretted in a casual way the accident which had deprived him of the
coveted honor.

It was in late June, and that night Peter Rundell, as he was returning
from the games after every event had been decided, overtook Mysie on her
way to Rundell House, after having spent the evening at her parents'
home.

"It's a lovely evening, Mysie," he said, as he walked along by her side.
"What did you think of the games to-day?"

"Oh, no' bad," replied Mysie, not knowing what else to say. "It was a
gran' day, an' kept up fine," she continued, alluding to the weather.

"Yes. Didn't I make a horrible mess of things in the Red Hose?" he
asked. Then, without waiting, he went on: "I was sorry for Sinclair.
He's a fine chap, and ought to have won. It was purely an accident, and
I couldn't help myself. I was beaten and done for, and it was hard lines
for him to be knocked out in the way he was, just as he was on the point
of winning, too."

"Oh, but ye couldna' help it," Mysie returned. "It was an accident."

"Yes; and I would rather Sinclair had got in, though. It was a good
race, and Sinclair ought to have got the prize. It was rotten luck. I'm
sorry, and I hope the poor beggar does not blame me. We seem always to
be fated to be rivals," he continued, his voice dropping into
reminiscent tones. "Do you remember how we used to fight at school? I've
liked Sinclair always since for the way he stood up for the things he
thought were right. I believe you were the cause of our hardest battle,
and that also was an accident."

"Yes," replied Mysie, her face flushing slightly as she remembered the
incident, and how Peter had been chosen, when her heart told her to
choose Robert.

"Oh, well," said Peter, "I suppose we can't help these things. Fate
wills it. Let's forget all about such unpleasant things. It's a lovely
night. We might go round by the wood. It's not so late yet," and putting
Mysie's arm in his, he turned off into the little pathway that skirted
the wood, and she, caught by the glamor of the gloaming, as well as
flattered by his attentions, acquiesced.

Plaintive and eerie the moor-birds protested against this invasion of
their haunts. The moon came slowly up over the eastern end of the moor,
flinging a silver radiance abroad, and softening the shadows cast by the
hills. A strange, dank smell rose from the mossy ground--the scent of
rotting heather and withered grass, mixed with the beautiful perfume
from beds of wild thyme.

A low call came from a brooding curlew, a faint sigh from a plover, and
the wild rasping cry of a lapwing greeted them overhead. Yet there was a
silence, a silence broken for a moment by the cries of the birds, but a
silence thick and heavy. Between the calls of the birds Mysie could
almost hear her heart's quickened beat. Blood found an eager response,
and the magic of the moonlight and the beauty of the night soon wrought
upon the excited minds of the pair. Mysie looked in Peter's eyes more
desirable than ever. The moonlight on her face, the soft light within
her eyes, her shy, downcast look, and the touch of her arm on his
charmed him.

"There are some things, Mysie, more desirable than the winning of the
Red Hose," he said after a time, looking sideways at her, and placing
his hand upon hers, which had been resting upon his arm. "Don't you
think so?"

"I dinna ken," she answered simply, a strange little quiver running
through her as she spoke.

"Isn't this better than anything else, just to be happy with everything
so peaceful? Just you and I together, happy in each other's company."

"Ay," she answered again, a faint little catch in her voice, her heart
a-tremble, and her eyes moist and shining. Then silence again, while
they slowly strayed through the heather towards the little wooded copse,
and Mysie felt that every thump of her heart must be heard at the
farthest ends of the earth. Chased by the winds of passion raging within
him, discretion was fast departing from Peter, leaving him more and more
a prey to impulse and the unwearying persistence of the fever of love
that was consuming him.

"Listen, Mysie, I read a song yesterday. It's the sort of thing I'd have
written about you:

  "In the passionate heart of the rose,
    Which from life its deep ardor is feeing.
  And lifts its proud head to disclose
    Its immaculate beauty and being.
  I can see your fine soul in repose,
    With an eye lit with love and all-seeing,
  In the passionate heart of the rose,
    All athrob with its beauty of being."

He quoted, and Mysie's pulse leapt with every word, as the low soothing
wooing of his voice came in soft tones like a gentle breeze among clumps
of briars.

"Isn't it a beautiful song, Mysie?" he said. "The man who wrote that
must have been thinking of someone very like you," and as he said this,
he gave her hand a tender squeeze. Mysie thrilled to his touch and her
heart leapt and fluttered like a bird in a snare, her breath coming in
short little gasps, which were at once a pain and a joy.

"Dinna say that," she said, a note of alarm in her voice as she tried to
withdraw her hand.

But he only held it closer, and bent his lips over it, his manner gentle
but firm.

"Ay, it is true, Mysie; but I am so stupid I can't do anything of that
kind. I'm merely an ordinary sort of chap."

Mysie did not answer, and once again silence fell between them, broken
only occasionally by the cry of the birds or the bleating of a sheep.

"I believe I'm in love with you, Mysie," he said at last. "You've grown
very beautiful. Could you care for me, Mysie?" he asked, looking at her
in the soft moonlight, a smile on his lips, his voice keeping its
seductive wooing tone, and his eyes kindling.

Mysie's experience of life had been gleaned from the love stories of
earls and lords marrying governesses and ladies' maids after a swift and
very eventful courtship. Already she saw herself Peter's wife, her
carriage coming at her order, everyone serving her and she the queen of
all the district. Illiterate but romantic, she was swept off her feet at
the first touch of passion, and the flattery of being recognized!

She did not answer. She did not know what to say; and Peter stole his
arm about her waist, so tempting, so sweet to touch, and they passed
beneath the shadow of the trees as they entered the little wooded copse.
The moonlight filtered down through the trees, working silvery patterns
upon the pathway. The silence, heavy and scented, was broken only by the
far-away wheepling of a wakeful whaup and the grumbling of the burn near
by, which bickered and hurried to be out in the open again on its way to
the river.

Mysie heard the sounds, felt the fragrance of young briars and hawthorn
mingled with the smell of last year's decaying leaves which carpeted the
pathway. She noted the beauty of the foliage against the moon, heard the
swift scurry of a frightened rabbit and the faint snort of a hedge-hog
on the prowl for food.

"What have you to say to me, Mysie?" Peter persisted, his hot breath
against her cheek, his blood coursing through his veins in red-hot
passion. "Could you care for me, Mysie? I want you to be mine!"

"I dinna ken what to say," she at last answered, distress in her voice,
yet pleased to be wooed by this young man. "Wad it no' be wrang to ha'e
onything to dae wi' me? I'm only your mither's servant." She felt it was
her duty to put it this way.

"No, you are my sweetheart," he cried, discretion all gone now in his
eager furtherance of his pleading. "I want you--only you, Mysie," and he
caught her in his arms in a strong burst of desire for her. "Mine,
Mysie, mine!" he cried, his lips upon hers and hers responding now, his
hot eyes greedily devouring her as he held her there in his strong young
arms. "Say, Mysie, that you are mine, that I am yours, body and soul
belonging to each other," and so he raved on in eager burning language,
which was the sweetest music in Mysie's ears.

His arms about her, he made her sit down, she still unresisting and
flattered by his words, he fondling and kissing her, his hands caressing
her face, her ears, her hair, her neck, his head sometimes resting upon
her breast.

Maddened and scorched by the passion raging within him, lured by the
magic of the night, and impelled by the invitation of the sweet dewy
lips that seemed to cry for kisses, he strained her to his breast.

He praised her eyes, her hair, her voice, whilst he poured kisses upon
her, his fire kindling her whole being into response.

Then a thick cloud came over the face of the moon, darkening the dell,
blotting out the silvery patterns on the ground, chasing the light
shadows into dark corners; and a far-off protest of a whaup shouting to
the hills was heard in a shriller and more anxious note that had
something of alarm in it; the burn seemed to bicker more loudly in its
anxiety to hurry on out into the open moor; and the scents and perfumes
of the wood sank into pale ghosts of far-off memories.

When passion, red-eyed and fierce for conquest, had driven innocence
from the throne of virtue the guardian angels wept; and all their
tears, however bitter, could not obliterate the stains which marked the
progress of destruction.

At the end of the copse, when Mysie and Peter emerged, they neither
spoke nor laughed. There was shame in their downcast faces, and their
feet dragged heavily. His arm no longer encircled her waist, he did not
now praise her eyes, her hair, her figure. Lonely each felt, afraid to
look up, as if something walked between them. And far away the whaup
wheepled in protest, the burn still grumbled, and the perfumes, and the
sounds of the glen and all its beauty were as if they had never existed,
and the thick cloud grew blacker over the face of the moon.




CHAPTER XIV

THE AWAKENING


Night after night for a week afterwards, Mysie lay awake till far on
into the morning. She seemed to be face to face with life's realities at
last. The silly, shallow love stories held no fascination for her. The
love affairs of "Jean the Mill Girl" could not rouse her interest. Often
she cried for hours, till exhaustion brought sleep, troubled and
unrefreshing.

She grew silent and avoided company. She sang no more at her work, and
she avoided Peter, and kept out of his way. She often compared Robert
with him now, and loved to let her mind linger on that one mad moment of
delirious joy a year ago, when he had crushed her to his breast, and
cried to her to be his. Thus womanhood dawned for her, and its great
responsibilities frightened her.

Robert, on the other hand, spent a week nursing his injured foot, but
apart from the week's idle time, he suffered very little. He felt sore
at losing the race, but was able now to look upon it as an unfortunate
accident. But that smile which he had seen on the face of Mysie made him
strangely happy, and it helped him to get over his disappointment. He
was impatient to be out upon the moor again. He would wait for Mysie
some night, he concluded, and tell her calmly that he wanted her to
marry him.

His mother's prospects were fairly good now. The youngest boy would soon
be working; besides, two other brothers were at work, while Jennie, his
eldest sister, was in service, and Annie, the younger one, was helping
in the house. He waited, night after night, after his injured foot was
better--lingering on the moor by the path which Mysie must travel. He
lay among the heather and read books, or dreamed of a rosy future, with
her the center of his dreams; but no Mysie came along, and he began to
grow anxious.

He wanted to make enquiries about her, but feared to arouse suspicion of
having too keen an interest in her. By various ways he sought
information, but never heard anything definite.

"I see Matthew Maitland's ither lassie has started on the pit-head," he
said to his mother, as one night they sat by the fire before retiring.

"Ay," answered Mrs. Sinclair. "Matthew has the worst o' it by noo. Wi'
his twa bits o' laddies workin', an' Mysie in service, an' Mary gaun to
the pit-head, it should mak' his burden a wee easier."

"I dinna like the idea o' lasses gaun to work on the pithead," he said
simply. "I aye mind of the time that Mysie an' me wrocht on it. It's no'
a very nice place for lasses or women."

"No," his mother said. "I dinna like it either. Nae guid ever comes o'
lasses gaun there. They lose a' sense o' modesty an' decency, after a
while, an' are no' like women at a' when they grow aulder. Besides, it
mak's them awfu' coorse."

"I wad hardly say that aboot them a'," he ventured cautiously. "Mysie's
no' coorse, an' she worked on the pithead."

"No, Mysie's no' coorse," admitted his mother; "but Mysie didna work
very lang on the pit-head. An' forby, we dinna ken but what Mysie micht
hae been better if she had never been near it, or worse if she had
stayed langer. Just look at Susan Morton, an' that Mag Lindsay. What are
they but shameless lumps who dinna ken what modesty is?" and there was a
spark of the old scorn in her voice as she finished.

"Oh, but I wadna gang as faur as you, mither," he said, "wi' your
condemnations. I ken that baith Susan Morton an' Mag Lindsay are
guid-hearted women. They may be coarse in their talk, an' a' that sort
o' thing; but they are as kind-hearted as onybody else, an' kinder than
some."

"Oh; I hae nae doot," she answered relentingly. "I didna mean that at
a'; but the pit-head doesna make them ony better, an' it's no' wark for
them at a'."

"I mind," said Robert reminiscently, "when Mysie an' me started on the
pit-head, Mag Lindsay was awfu' guid to Mysie; an' I've kent her often
sharin' her piece wi' wee Dicky Tamson, whiles when he had nane, if his
mother happened to be on the fuddle for a day or twa. There's no a
kinderhearted woman in Lowwood, mither, than Mag Lindsay. She'd swear at
Dicky a' the time she was stappin' her piece into him. It was jist her
wye, an' I think she couldna help it."

"Oh, ay, Mag's bark is waur then her bite. I ken that," was the reply.
"An' wi' a' her fauts a body canna help likin' her."

"Speakin' of Mysie," said Robert with caution, "I hinna seen her owre
for a while surely. Wull there be onything wrang?" and then, to hide the
agitation he felt, "she used to come owre hame aboot twice a week, an' I
hinna seen her for a while."

"Oh, there canna be onything wrang," replied Nellie, "or we wad hae
heard tell o' it. But t' is time we were awa' to oor beds, or we'll no'
be able to rise in time the morn," and rising as she spoke, she began to
make preparations for retiring, and he withdrew to his room also.

Still, day after day, he hung about the moorland path, but no Mysie, so
far as he knew, ever came past. She had visited her parents only once
since the games and her mother was struck by her subdued and thoughtful
demeanor. But nothing was said at the time.

Robert grew impatient, and began to roam nearer to Rundell House, in the
hope of seeing her. Always his thoughts were full of Mysie and the
raging passion in his blood for her gave him no rest. He loved to trace
her name linked with his own, and then to obliterate it again, in case
anyone would see it. All day his thoughts were of her; and her sweet,
shy smile that day of the games was nursed in memory till it grew to be
a solace to his heart and its hunger.

He saw likenesses to her in everything, and even the call of the
moor-birds awakened some memory of an incident of childhood, when Mysie
and he had, with other children, played together on the moors. Even the
very words which she had spoken, or the way she had acted, or how she
had looked, in cheap cotton frock and pinafore, were recalled by a
familiar cry, or by the sudden discovery of a bog-flower in bloom.

It was a glorious afternoon in late July. The hum of insect life seemed
to flood the whole moor; the scent of mown hay and wild thyme, and late
hawthorn blossom from the trees on the edge of the moor, was heavy in
the air, and the sun was very hot, and still high in the heavens. The
hills that bordered the moor drowsed and brooded, like ancient gods,
clothed in a lordly radiance that was slowly consuming them as they
meditated upon their coming oblivion.

The heather gave promise, in the tiny purple buds that sprouted from the
strong, rough stems, of the blaze of purple glory that would carpet the
moors with magic in the coming days of autumn. Yet there was a vague
hint, in the too deep silence, and in the great clouds that were slowly
drifting along the sky, of pent-up force merely awaiting the time to be
set free to gallop across the moor in anger and destruction. The clouds,
too, were deeply red, with orange touches here and there, trailing into
dark inky ragged edges.

Far away, at the foot of the hills a crofter's cow lowed lazily, calling
forth a summons to be taken in and relieved of its burden of milk. The
sheep came nearer to the "bughts," and the lambs burrowed for
nourishment, with tails wagging, as they drew their sustenance, prodding
and punching the patient mothers in the operation of feeding. Robert,
noting all, with leisured enjoyment strolled lazily into the little
copse, and lay down beneath the cool, grateful shelter of the trees.

Drugged by the sweetness and the solitude, he fell asleep, and the sun
was low on the horizon when he awoke, the whole copse ringing with the
evening songs of merle and mavis, and other less musical birds, and, as
he looked down the glade, he saw, out on the moorland path, coming
straight for the grove, the form of Mysie--the form of which he had
dreamed, and for which he had longed so much.

The hot blood mounted to his face and raced through his frame, while
his heart thumped at the thought that now, in the quietness of the dell,
he would meet her and speak to her. He would speak calmly, and not
frighten her, as he had done on that former occasion; and he braced
himself to meet her.

Impatiently he waited, and then, as he saw her about to enter the grove,
he rose as unconcernedly as he could, trying hard to assume the air of
one who had met her by accident, and stepped on to the path when Mysie
was within ten yards or so of him.

The color left her face, and her limbs felt weak beneath her, as she
recognized him, and he was quick to note the change in her whole
appearance.

She was paler, he thought, and thinner, and the bloom of a few weeks ago
was gone. Her eyes were listless, and the soft, shy look had been
replaced by an averted shame-stricken one. She was plainly flurried by
the meeting, and looking about trying to find if there were not, even
yet, a way of evading it.

"It's a fine nicht, Mysie," he began, stammering and halting before her,
"though I think it is gaun to work to rain."

"Ay," she responded hurriedly, her agitation growing, as she was forced
to halt before him.

"I've come oot on the muir a wheen o' nichts noo, to try an' meet you,"
he began, getting into the business right away, "an' I had begun to
think you had stopped comin' owre."

But Mysie answered never a word. Her face grew paler, and her agitation
became more evident.

"Mysie," he began, now fully braced for the important matter in view, "I
want you to marry me. I want you to be my wife. You've kenned me a' my
life. We gaed to the school together, and we gaed to work together, an'
I hae aye looked on you as my lass. I canna keep it ony langer noo. I
hae wanted to tell you a lang time aboot it, an' to ask you to be my
wife. My place at hame is easier noo. My mother has the rest o' the
family comin' on to take my place, and her battle is gey weel owre, an'
I can see prospects o' settin' up a hoose o' my ain, if you'll agree to
share it with me. I haven't muckle to offer you, but I think you'll ken
by this time that I'll be guid to you. Mysie, I want you. Will you
come?"

For answer, Mysie burst into tears, her shoulders heaving with the sobs
of her grief, her breast surging and falling, while her little hands
covered her eyes, as she stood with bent head, a pitiable little figure.

"What is it, Mysie?" he enquired, his hands at once going tenderly over
her bent head, and caressing it as he spoke, "What is it, Mysie? Tell
me. Hae I vexed you by speakin' like that? Dinna greet, Mysie," he went
on soothingly, his voice soft and tender, and vibrant with sympathy and
love. "Dinna greet. But tell me what's wrang. I'm sorry if it's me that
has done it, Mysie. Maybe I hae frightened you; but, there now, dinna
greet. I didna mean ony harm!" and he stroked and caressed her hair
softly with his hands, or patted her shoulders at every word, as a
mother does with a fretful child.

"There noo, Mysie, dinna greet," he said again, the soft, soothing note
of vexation in his voice growing more tender and husky with emotion.
"Look up, Mysie, for I dinna like to see you greetin'. It maun be
something gey bad, surely, to mak' you greet like this," and his hands
seemed to stab her with every tender touch, and his soft words but added
more pain to her grief.

But still Mysie never answered. Her tears instead flowed faster, and her
sobs grew heavier, until finally she moaned like a stricken animal in
pain.

"Mysie! Mysie! my dochter, what is it?" unable to control himself
longer. "Surely you can tell me what ails you? What is it, Mysie? Look
up, my dear! Look up an' tell me what ails you!"

"Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" moaned Mysie, the floodgates of her grief now
wide, and her soul in torture.

"Mysie," he cried, taking her head between his hands and raising it up,
"what is it that's wrang with you? Is it me that is the cause o' you
being vexed?"

"Oh, no, no," she moaned, trying to avert her face. "Oh, dinna, Rob!"
she pleaded, and the old familiar name smote him and thrilled him as of
old.

"Tell me what is the matter," he said, a stronger note in his voice, the
old masterful spirit asserting itself again. "What is wrang wi' you? I
can't understand it, an' I wish to try an' help you."

But still she sobbed and there was no answer.

"Look here," he said. "Tell me plainly if I have been the cause of
this."

"No; oh, no," she sobbed, again hiding her eyes with her hands.

"Very weel, then," he went on. "Will you no' tell me what is wrong? I
canna understand it unless you tell me. Are you in ony trouble o' ony
kind? Speak, Mysie." Then, his voice becoming more pleading in its
tones, "Wad you be feart to be my wife, Mysie? I aye thocht you cared
for me. I hae loved you a' my days. You maun ken that, I think. Speak
up, Mysie, an' tell me if you care for me. I want you, an' I maun ken
what you think o' it. Come, Mysie, tell me!"

"Oh, dinna ask me, Rob," she pleaded. "Dinna ask me!"

"What is the matter then?" he cried. "There's something wrong, an'
you'll no' tell me. Very well, tell me what you mean to do. I hae asked
you a fair question. Are you going to marry me? I want yes or no to
that," and there was a touch of impatience creeping into his voice.

"Come on," he urged, after a short silence, broken only by Mysie's sobs,
"gie me an answer. Or, if you wad raither wait a wee while, till this
trouble has blawn by that is bothering you, I'm quite agreeable to
wait."

"It'll never blaw by, Rob," she sobbed. "Oh, dinna ask me ony mair. I
canna be your wife noo, an' I jist want to be left alane!"

The pain and despair in her voice alarmed him. It was so keen and
poignant, and went to his heart like a knife.

"Oh!" he gasped in surprise, as he strove to call his pride to his
assistance. It was so unlike what he had anticipated that it amazed him
to have such a disappointing reply. Then, recovering somewhat:--"Very
well!" with great deliberation, while his voice sounded unnaturally
strained. Then the effort failing, and his pride breaking down: "Oh,
Mysie, Mysie," he burst out in poignant agony again relapsing into the
pleading wooing tones that were so difficult to withstand, "How I hae
loved you! I thocht you cared for me. I hae built mysel' up in you, an'
I'll never, never be able to forget you! Oh, think what it is! You hae
been life itsel' to me, Mysie, an' I canna think that you dinna care!
Oh, Mysie!"

He turned away, his heart sore and his soul wounded, and strode from the
copse out on to the moor, a thousand thoughts driving him on, a thousand
regrets pursuing, and a load of pain in his heart that was bearing his
spirit down.

"Oh, dear God!" moaned Mysie, kneeling down, her legs unable to support
her longer, "Oh, dear God, my heart'll break!" and a wild burst of
sobbing shook her frame, and her grief overpowering flowed through the
tears--a picture of utter despair and terrible hopelessness.

Robert tore away from the dell, his whole calculation of things upset.
To think that Mysie could not love him had never entered his head. What
was wrong with her? What was the nature of her terrible grief?

He kicked savagely at a thistle which grew upon the edge of the pathway,
his pride wounded, but now in possession of the citadel of his heart;
and on he strode, still driven by the terrible passion raging within
him; resolving already, as many have done under like circumstances, that
his life was finished. Hope had gone, dreams were unreal and vanishing
as the mist that crawled along the bog-pools at night.

At the crest of the little hill, just where it sloped down to the
village, he stood and looked back.

Good God! Was he seeing aright! The figure of a man, who in the gray
gloaming looked well-dressed, was approaching Mysie, and she was slowly
moving to meet him. A few steps more, and the man had the girl, he
thought, in his arms, and was kissing her where they stood.

Was he dreaming? What was the meaning of all this? "Oh, Christ!" he
groaned. "What does it all mean?" and he rubbed his eyes and looked
again, then sat down, all his pride and anger raging within him as he
watched, kindling the jungle instinct within him into a raging fire, to
fight for his mate--his by right of class and association. He doubled
back, as the two figures turned in the direction of the copse--the
resolve in his mind to go back and forcibly tear Mysie from this unknown
stranger. He would fight for her. She was his, and he was prepared to
assert his right of possession before all the world.

In a mad fury he started forward, a raging anger in his heart, striding
along in quick, determined, relentless steps, his blood jumping and his
energy roused, and all the madness of a strong nature coursing through
him; but after a few yards he hesitated, stopped, and then turned back.

After all, Mysie must have made an appointment with this man. She
evidently wanted him, and that was her reason for asking to be left
alone.

"Oh, God!" he groaned again, sitting down. "This is hellish!" and he
began to turn over the whole business in his mind once more.

Long he sat, and the darkness fell over the moor, matching the darkness
that brooded over his heart and mind. He heard the moor-birds crying in
restlessness, and saw the clouds piling themselves up, and come creeping
darkly over the higher ground, bringing a threat of rain in their wake.
The moan in the wind became louder, presaging a storm; but still he sat
or lay upon the rough, withered grass, fighting out his battle, meeting
the demons of despair and gloom, and the legions of pain and misery, in
greater armies than ever he had met them before.

Again he groaned, as his ear caught the plaintive note of a widowed
partridge, which sat behind him upon a grassy knoll of turf, crying out
on the night air, an ache in every cry, the grief and sorrow of his
wounded, breaking heart.

It seemed to Robert that there was a strange sort of kinship between him
and the bird--a kinship and understanding which touched a chord of ready
feeling in his heart. The ominous hoot of an owl in the wood startled
him, and he rose to his feet. He could not sit still. Idleness would
drive him mad. He strode off on to the moor, away from the track, his
whole being burning in torture, and his mind a mass of unconnected
fancies and pains.

Over the bogs and through the marshes, the madness of despair within
him, he heeded not the deep ditches and the bog-pools. They were the
pits of darkness, the sty-pools, which his soul must either cross, or in
which he must perish. He tore up the hills into the mists and the rising
storm, the thick clouds, full of rain, enveloping him, and matching the
terrible fury of his breast.

On, ever on, in the darkness and the mire, through clumps of whin and
stray bushes of wild briar. On, always on, driven and lashed into action
by the resistless desire to get away from himself. He knew not the
direction he had taken. He had lost his bearings on the moor; the
darkness had completely hidden the landmarks, and even had he been
conscious of his actions, he could not have told in which part of the
moor he was.

"Oh, God!" he groaned again, almost falling over a bush of broom; and
sitting down, he buried his face in his hands, and, forgetful of the
wind and the rain, which now drove down in torrents, sat and brooded and
thought, his mind seeking to understand the chaos of despair.

What was the meaning of life? What was beyond it after death? Would
immortality, if such there were, be worth having? Men in countless,
unthinkable millions, had lived, and loved, and lost, and passed on. Did
immortality carry with it pain and suffering for them? If not, did it
carry happiness and balm? To hell with religions and philosophies, he
thought; they were all a parcel of fairy tales to drug men's minds and
keep them tame; and he glared impotently at the pitiless heavens, as if
he would defy gods, and devils, and men. He would be free--free in mind,
in thought, and unhampered by unrealities!

No. Men had the shaping of their own lives. Pride would be his ally. He
would lock up this episode in his heart, and at the end of time for him,
there would be an end of the pain and the regret, when he was laid among
the myriad millions of men of all the countless ages since man had
being.

This was immortality; to be forever robed in the dreamless draperies of
eternal oblivion, rather than have eternal life, with all its
torments--mingling with the legions of the past, and with mother
earth--the dust of success and happiness indistinguishable from the dust
of failure and despair. Time alone would be his relief--the great
physician that healed all wounds.

The wind blew stronger and the rain fell heavier, the one chasing, the
other in raging gusts, and both tearing round and lashing the form of
the man who sat motionless and unaware of all this fury. The wind god
tried to shake him up by rushing and roaring at him; but still there was
no response. Then, gathering re-inforcements, he came on in a mad
charge, driving a cloud of rain in front of him as a sort of spear-head
to break the defense of fearlessness and unconcern of this unhappy
mortal. Yet the figure moved not.

Baffled and still more angry, the wind god retired behind the hills
again to rest; then, driving a larger rain-cloud before him, with a roar
and a crash he tore down the slope, raging and tearing in a wild tumult
of anger, straight against the lonely figure which sat there never
moving, his head sunk upon his breast.

Beaten and sullen, the god again retired to re-collect his strength. He
moaned and growled as he retired, frightening the moor-birds and the
hares, which lay closer to earth, their little hearts quivering with
fear. Young birds were tucked safely under the parent wing, as terror
strode across the moor, striking dread into every fluttering little
heart and shivering body. Low growled the wind, as he ran around his
broken forces, gathering again new forces in greater and greater
multitudes.

Just then, with an oath, the figure rose and faced the storm, striding
again up the slope, as if determined to carry the war into the camp of
the enemy.

A low growl came rumbling from the hills, as the wind god rushed along,
encouraging his legions, threatening, coaxing, pleading, commanding
them to fight, and so to overcome this figure who now boldly faced his
great army.

The advance guard of the storm broke upon him in wild desperation,
rushing and thundering, howling and yelling, sputtering and hissing,
spitting and hitting at him, and then the main body struck him full in
the face, all the bulk and the force of it hurled upon him with terrible
impetuous abandon, and Robert's foot striking a tuft at the moment, he
went down, down into a bog-pool among the slush and moss, and decaying
heather-roots, down before the mad rush of the wind-god's army, who
roared and shouted in glee, with a voice that shook the hills and called
upon the elements to laugh and rejoice.

And the widowed partridge out upon the moor, creeping closer to the lee
side of his tuft of moss, cried out in his pain, not because of the fury
of the blast, but because of the heart that was breaking under the
little shivering body for the dead mate, who had meant so much of life
and happiness to him--cried with an ache in every cry, and the heart of
the man responded in his great, overpowering grief.




CHAPTER XV

PETER MAKES A DECISION


Peter Rundell often wondered what had become of Mysie. For a day or two
after the evening of the day of the games, he had shunned the
possibility of meeting her, because of the shame that filled his heart.

His face burned when his thoughts went back to the evening in the grove
on the moor. He wondered how it had all happened. He had not meant
anything wrong when he suggested the walk. He could not account for what
had occurred, and so he pondered and his shame rankled.

Then an uneasy feeling took possession of him and he felt he would like
to see Mysie.

A week slipped away and he tried to find a way of coming in contact with
her, but no real chance ever presented itself.

A fortnight passed and he grew still more uneasy. He grew anxious and
there was a hot fear pricking at his heart. Then at last, one day he
caught a glimpse of her, and his heart was smitten with dread.

She was changed. Her appearance was altered. She was thinner, much
thinner and very white and listless. The old air of gayety and bubbling
spirits was gone. Her step seemed to drag, instead of the bright patter
her feet used to make; and his anxiety increased and finally he decided
that he must talk with her.

There was something wrong and he wanted to know what it was. He tried to
make an excuse for seeing her alone but no chance presented itself, and
another week went past and he grew desperate. Then luck almost threw her
into his arms one day in the hall.

"Mysie," he whispered, "there is something I want to discuss with you.
Meet me in the grove to-night about ten. I must see you. Will you come?"

She nodded and passed on, not daring to raise her eyes, her face flaming
suddenly into shame, and the color leaving it again, gave her a deeper
pallor; and so he had to be content with that.

All day he was fidgety and ill at ease, torn by a thousand dreads, and
consumed by anxiety, waiting impatiently for the evening, and puzzling
over what could be the matter. He felt that for one moment of mad
indiscretion, when allowing himself to be cast adrift upon the sea of
passion, the frail bark of his life had set out upon an adventure from
which he could not now turn back. He was out upon the great ocean
current of circumstances, where everything was unknown and uncharted, so
far as he was concerned. What rocks lay in his track, he did not know;
but his heart guessed, and sought in many ways of finding a course that
would bring his voyage to an end in the haven of comfort and
respectability. Respectability was his god, as he knew it was the god of
his parents. Money might save him; but there was something repugnant in
the thought of leaving the whole burden of disgrace upon Mysie. For,
after all, the fault was wholly his, and it was his duty to face the
consequences. Still if a way could be found of getting over it in an
easy way it would be better. But he would leave that till the evening
when he had learned from Mysie, whether his fears were correct or not,
and then a way might be found out of the difficulty.

But the day seemed long in passing, and by the time the clock chimed
nine he was in a fever of excitement, and pained and ill with dread.

Yet he was late when it came the hour, and Mysie was there first and had
already met Robert before he reached the grove.

When Robert had gone away, and she sat crying upon the moor, she felt
indeed as if the whole world was slipping from her and that her life was
finished. Only ruin, black, unutterable, stared her in the face. Oh, if
only Robert had spoken sooner, she thought. If only that terrible
beautiful night with its moonlight witchery had not been lived as it had
been! If only something had intervened to prevent what had happened!
And she sobbed in her despair, knowing what was before her and learning
all too late, that Robert was the man she loved and wanted.

Then when her passionate grief had spent itself, she rose as she saw
Peter coming hurriedly to meet her.

"What is the matter, Mysie?" he asked with real concern in his voice,
noting the tear-stained face and her over-wrought condition. "What is
it, Mysie?"

But Mysie did not answer just then, and they both turned and passed into
the grove, walking separately, as if afraid of each other's touch, and
something repellent keeping them apart.

They sat down, carefully avoiding the place where they had sat on that
other fateful occasion, nearly a month before, and a long silence
elapsed before words were again spoken.

"Now, Mysie," said Peter at last breaking the silence, and bracing
himself to hear unpleasant news, "I want to know what is wrong. What is
the matter?" and he feared to hear her tell her trouble.

But again only tears--tears and sobs, terrible in their intensity as if
the frail little body would break completely under the strain of her
grief.

"Mysie," he said, and his voice had a note of tender anxiety in it,
"what is it, dear? Tell me."

"You shouldn't need to ask," she replied between her sobs. "You
shouldn't need to ask when you should ken."

Again a long silence, and Peter felt he had got a heavy blow. A
sickening feeling of shame smote his heart at the knowledge hinted at--a
knowledge he had feared to learn.

"Is it--is it--am I the cause of it, Mysie? Is--is it--?" and his voice
was hoarse and dry and pained.

She nodded, and Peter knew beyond all doubt that he was the cause of the
misery.

Again a long silence fell between them, in which both seemed to live an
eternity of silence and pain. Then clearing his throat, Peter spoke.

"Mysie," he said, "there is only one thing to be done then," and there
was decision in his voice and a desire which meant that he was going to
rise to a height to which neither he nor Mysie ever expected he would
rise. "We must get married."

She looked at him, with eyes still wet, but searching his face keenly.

"Ay. It's a' richt sayin' that now, efter the thing's done," she said
bitterly.

"But it is the only thing, Mysie, that can be done," he replied quickly.
"I can't think of anything else."

"You should hae thought aboot that afore. It's nae use now," she said
bluntly.

"Why, Mysie," he asked in surprise. "Why is it no use? Wouldn't you like
to marry me?"

"No," she replied firmly. "I would not! Do you think I have no thought
o' mysel'? If nothing had happened, you would never hae thought aboot me
for your wife. But now that you've done something you canna get oot o'
you'd like to mak' me believe you want to help me bear the disgrace,
while a' the time you don't want to. But it's no' my disgrace," and
there was heat creeping into her voice. "It is yours, an' you should hae
thocht aboot a' that afore," and her voice was very angry as she
finished.

"You are wrong, Mysie," he replied mollifyingly. "I love, you and I told
you that before it happened, and I also hinted that I wanted to marry
you."

"Ay, but that was just at the time. Maybe if nothing had happened, an' I
had never been in your company again, you'd soon hae forgotten."

"No, Mysie, you are wrong. I love you, and I've brought you to this, for
which I am sorry, so we must be married," he said decisively.

"Why?" she asked, and her eyes met his honestly and fairly.

"Because it is the right thing to do," he replied quietly.

"Is that a'?" she asked.

"Is it not enough? What else is there to do?" Mysie was silent, and
after a while Peter went on;--"It is a duty, dear, but I am going to
face it, and shoulder the responsibility. It is the right thing to do,
and it must be done."

"Ay, an' you are gaun to dae it, just as a bairn tak's medicine; because
you are forced. I asked if that was a', and it seems to be. But what if
I don't have onything mair to dae with you?"

"You would not do that, Mysie," he said hurriedly, and incredulously. It
had never entered his mind that she would refuse to marry him, and he
looked upon his offer as a great service which he was doing her. "Why,
what could you do otherwise?" he asked looking blankly at her.

"I could work as I hae always done," she said sharply. "You surely think
you are a catch. Man, efter what has happened I feel that I wudna care
than I never saw you again. You hae little o' rale manliness in you. You
thocht it was gran' to carry on wi' a workin' lassie, maybe," and there
was bitter scorn in her voice, "an' now when you hae landed yourself
into a mess you are grinning like a bear with the branks an' wantin' to
dae what is richt as you call it," and Mysie was now really in a temper.

"Mysie, you must not speak like that," he broke in, in earnest tones.
"You know I love you, and loving you as I do, I want to shield you as
much--"

"Ay, but you want to shield yourself first," she said.

"No, dear, it is only of you I am thinking. I love you very much and
want to do what is right. Even although this had not happened, I was
going to ask you to be my wife. Will you marry me, Mysie?"

"What'll your folks say?" she asked bluntly. "You ken that I'm no' the
wife you would have gotten nor the yin your folk would like you to get,"
she said, searching his face with a keen look. "I'm no' born in your
class. I'm ignorant an' have not the fine manners your wife should have,
an' I doot neither your faither nor your mither wad consent to such a
thing."

"But I won't ask them," he replied. "I am a man for myself, and do not
see why they should be asked to approve my actions in this."

"Ay, that's a' richt; but what aboot your ain feelings in the matter?
Am I the lass you wad hae ta'en, Peter, if this hadna happened?" and
there was a world of hungry appeal in her voice as she finished. It was
as if she wanted to be assured that it was for herself alone that he
really wanted to marry her.

"Why should you not?" he enquired.

"That's no' the question," she said, noting the evasion. "You ken as
weel as I dae that it wad be an ill match for you. You've been brought
up differently. You've had eddication, an' an easy life. You've been
trained faur differently, an' you canna say that you'd no' tire o' me. I
have not as muckle learning as wad make me spell my ain name, an' I
could never fill the position o' your wife with the folk I'd have to mix
with."

"That's all right, Mysie," he said, ready to counter her argument. "You
have not been educated, that is true, but it is only a question of
having you trained. If one woman can be educated and trained so can
another. This is what I propose to do: I go back to Edinburgh in a
fortnight to finish my last year. My father has put the colliery into a
company, and he has a large part of the management on his shoulders. He
expects when I come home next year to gradually retire. I shall be the
controlling power then, and he will slip out of the business and end his
days in leisure."

"Ay, but you are thinking a' the time aboot the disgrace," she said.
"Your whole thought is about your position, an' you hae never a real
thought aboot me." She was somewhat mollified; but there was still a
hard note in her voice, and not a little distrust too. "Are you sure you
are no' proposin' this just because o' the trouble? I don't want peety!
I am pairtly to blame too," this with a softer note creeping into her
voice, and making it more resigned. "If it's no' oot o' peety for me, I
could bear it better. But I'll no' hae peety. I can look after mysel'
an' face the whole thing, even though I ken it'll break my mither's
heart."

"I know what it is for you, Mysie," he said. "I am trying to look at the
whole thing from your point of view. That's why I have planned to give
you some sort of a training, and make it as easy for you as possible. It
is for your position I am worrying and when I come into my father's
place I will be able to put all things right for you, and make you
really happy."

"But you have not faced the main bit yet," she said as he ceased
speaking. "Where do I come in? You hae got this to face now, an' it'll
no' wait a' that time."

"Yes, I know," he replied, "I'm just coming to that. At first it won't
perhaps look too nice to you, but remember, Mysie, I want to face the
matter honestly and you'll have to help me. Very well," he went on. "As
I said, I go back to Edinburgh in three weeks at most--I'll try and go
in a fortnight, and you must go with me--not traveling together. We must
keep all our affairs to ourselves, and not even your parents or mine
must know. When I go away you'll come the day after. You can travel over
the moor to Greyrigg station, take the 4:30 train from there and I can
meet you at Edinburgh. I'll get a house next week when I go to arrange
for my term. I shall tell no one. You can live in the house I get and I
can continue perhaps in lodgings, and I shall come and visit you as
often as I can."

He stopped for a little and then resumed:--"I shall buy books for you
and come and teach you the things you'll need to learn, or I can get
someone to do it, if you'd like that better. Then when you are
thoroughly trained, I can bring you home to Rundell House and all will
be well."

"An' what aboot--what aboot--" she paused, averting her face. "Are you
no' forgettin' that it'll tak' a lang time for me to learn a' I'll need;
for I'm gey ill to learn."

"No, Mysie," he replied reassuringly. "When you arrive in Edinburgh, we
can go next day to be married before the Sheriff. It's all right, Mysie
dear," he assured her as he saw the questioning look in her eyes. "Don't
think I'm trying to trap you. I want to make what amends I can for what
has happened. You'll be my wife just as surely as if the minister
married us. If you are not content with that we can easily get married
with a minister after we decide to come back here."

"But wad that be a true marriage?" she asked, scarcely able to credit
what he told her. "Wad I get marriage lines?"

"Oh, yes. It would be legal, and you'd get marriage lines. Now what do
you say?"

"I dinna like the thocht o' no' tellin' my mither. Will I hae to gang
away, an' no' tell her?"

"Oh, you must not tell anyone," he replied quickly. "No one must know or
all our plans will go crash, and we'll both be left to face the shame of
the whole thing. So you must not tell."

"Mither will break her heart," she broke in again with a hint of a sob.
"She'll wonder where I am, an' worry aboot me, wi' nae word o' me! Am I
just to disappear oot o' everybody's kennin' altogether? Oh, dear! It'll
break my mither's heart," and she cried again at the thought of the pain
and anxiety which her parents would experience.

So they sat and talked, he trying to soothe and allay her anxiety and
she, at first openly skeptical, and then by and by allowing herself to
be persuaded.

All this time they had been too engrossed in their own affairs to notice
how the wind had risen and that a storm was already breaking over the
moor. Then suddenly realizing it, they started for home.

It was nearing midnight, and the clouds being thick and low made the
mossy ground very dark. The rain was coming down heavily and everything
pointed to a wild night.

"I'm sorry I did not bring a coat with me," said Peter, taking the
windward side of Mysie, so as to break the storm for her. "I had no idea
that it was going so rain when I came away," and they plowed their way
through the long rough grass, plashing through the little pools they
were unable to see, while the wind raged and tore across the moor in a
high gale.

He had a key in his pocket and when they arrived at Rundell House he
noiselessly opened the door, and they entered, slipping along like
burglars.

When Mysie reached her room, she sat down to think matters over for
herself, forgetful of the fact that she was wet. She sat a long time
pondering in her slow untrained way over the arrangements which had been
come to, her mind trying to get accustomed to the thought that she was
going to be Peter's wife and to leave Lowwood.

But somehow the thought of being his wife did not appeal to her now, as
it had done when she had pictured herself the lady of the district with
her dreams of everything she desired, and fancying herself the envy of
every woman who knew her.

The secrecy of the business she did not like; but she told herself it
would all come right; that it was necessary under the circumstances and
that afterwards when she had been taught and trained in the ways of his
people she would come back and all would be well.

Then in the midst of all this looking into the future with its doubts
and promises, came the thought of Robert, and her pulses thrilled and
her blood quickened; but it had come too late.

Would she rather be at Rundell House as Peter's wife or sitting in a
one-roomed apartment sewing pit clothes perhaps, or washing and
scrubbing in the slavery in which the women folk of her class generally
lived? Ah, yes, as Robert's wife that would have been happiness. But it
was all too late now. She had turned aside--and she must pay the penalty
of it all.

Long she sat, and cried, and at last realizing that she was cold and
shivering, she took off her clothes and crawled off to bed, her last
thought of Robert as he had left her, the pain in his eyes and the awful
agony in his voice: "Oh, Mysie, how I hae loved you! An' I thocht you
cared for me!" rang in her ears as she lay and tossed in sleepless
misery.

In the morning she was in a high fever and unable to rise out of her
bed. She had a headache and felt wretched and ill. In her exhausted
state, weakened by worry and her resistance gone, the drenching, the
chill and the long sitting in her lonely room had overmastered her
completely.

She raved about Robert, crying to him in her fevered excitement, and he,
all unconscious, was at that time at his work, tired also and exhausted
by his terrible night upon the moor.

When he stumbled and fell into the mossy pool, his mind became more
collected and, scrambling out, he stood to consider where he was, trying
to find his bearings in the thick darkness.

The low whinnying of a horse near by gave him a clew and he started in
the direction of the cry, concluding that it was some of the horses
sheltering behind a dyke which ran across the moor from the end of the
village.

He crawled and scrambled along, and after going about twenty yards he
came to the dyke, at the other side of which stood the cowering horses.

"Whoa, Bob," he said soothingly, and one of them whinnied back in
response as if glad to know that a human being was near. He moved nearer
to them, and began to stroke their manes and clap their necks, to which
they responded by rubbing their faces against him and cuddling an
affectionate return for the sympathy in his voice.

"Puir Bob," he said, tenderly, as he patted the neck of the animal which
rubbed its soft nose against his arm. It seemed so glad of the
companionship and reached nearer as Robert put out his other hand to
stroke sympathetically the nose of the other horse, as he also drew
near.

"Puir Rosy," he said. "Was you feart for the wind and the rain? Poor
lass! It's an awfu' nicht to be oot in!" and they rubbed themselves
against him and whinnied with a low pleased gurgle, grateful for his
kindness and company as he patted and stroked the soft velvet skins, and
they rubbed themselves against him as if each were jealous lest his
attentions be not equally divided.

He stood for a short time, thus fondling and patting them, then keeping
to the dyke, he made his way along it and he thus came out right at the
end of the village, and knowing his way now with confidence, he was soon
at the door of his home. Cautiously opening it, afraid he would awaken
the inmates, whom he concluded must all be asleep, he slipped in
quietly, bolting the door behind him, and reached the fire.

"Dear me, Rob," said his mother. "Where in the name o' goodness hae you
been the nicht! I sat up till after midnight aye expectin' you'd be in,
sae I gaed awa' to my bed to lie wauken till you should come in. You are
awfu' late."

He did not answer but stooped to take off his boots, and Mrs. Sinclair
was soon out of bed and upon the floor.

"Michty me, laddie! You are wringin' wet! Where have you been? Rain and
glaur to the e'en holes! Get thae wet claes off you at yince, an' I'll
get dry shirts for you, an' then awa' till your bed!" she rattled on,
running to the chest in the room and coming back with dry clothes in her
arms. "My, I never kent you oot o' the hoose as late as this in a' your
life! Have you been oot in a' that rain?"

"Ay," he answered, but venturing nothing more, as he went on changing.

"It's been an awfu' nicht o' wind and rain," she again observed,
glancing at his dripping clothes, and conveying a hint that explanations
were desirable.

"I canna understand at a' what way you hae bidden oot in a' that rain,
Lod's sake? It's enough to gie you your daeth o' cauld. You are wet to
the skin, an' there's no a dry steek on you? Hae you been oot in it a'?"
and her curiosity she felt was too crudely put to be answered.

Robert knew that she was bent on having an explanation, and that if he
gave her any encouragement at all she'd soon have the whole story out of
him.

"Yes," he said curtly, "but I'm no' gaun to talk ony the nicht. I'm gaun
to my bed for an oor before risin' time."

"You'll never gaun till your work the day," she said in warm concern.
"You'll never be able. You'd better tak' a rest, my laddie. A day will
no' mak' muckle difference noo. We're no sae ill aff, an' I wadna like
to hae onything gaun wrang. Gang away till your bed, an' dinna bother
aboot your work. A guid rest'll maybe keep you frae getting the cauld."

"I'm a' richt, mither," he replied as airily as he could. "Dinna worry;
an' be sure an' wauken me for my work. I'm na gaun to bide in when there
is naething wrang. You gang awa' to your bed," and she knowing that was
the last word, did not speak further, and as he withdrew to his room,
she went back to bed wondering more and more at the mystery of it all.

But he did not sleep. Torn by worry and in spite of his earlier
resolution to think no more about it he lay and thought and wondered
about Mysie, and the man he saw, joining her at the end of the grove;
and when Nellie opened the door to call him that it was "rising time,"
Robert answered to the first cry, and his mother was more amazed than
ever; for he generally took a good many cries, being a heavy sleeper.
But being sensible she kept her wonder to herself, knowing if it were
anything which she had a right to know he'd tell her in his own good
time.




CHAPTER XVI

A STIR IN LOWWOOD


"My! Div you ken what has happened?" asked Mrs. Johnstone, bursting in
upon Mrs. Sinclair one day about two weeks later. "My, it's awfu'!" she
continued in breathless excitement, her head wagging and nodding with
every word, as if to emphasize it, her eyes almost jumping out with
excitement, and her whole appearance showing that she had got hold of a
piece of information which was of the first importance. "My, it's
awfu'," she repeated again lifting her hands up to a level with her
breast, and then letting them fall again, "Mysie Maitland has ran away
frae her place, an' naebidy kens where she has gane to. An' Mrs.
Rundell, mind you, has been that guid to her too, givin' her her caps
an' aprons, an' whiles buyin' her a bit dress length forby, an' she
gi'ed her boots and slippers, an' a whole lot o' ither things to tak'
hame for the bairns--things that were owre wee for the weans at Rundell
Hoose but were quite guid to wear. My, it's awfu'! Isn't it?"

"Mysie Maitland!" exclaimed Mrs. Sinclair in astonishment. "When did
this happen? Where has she gane? Are you sure you hinna made a mistake?"
and Mrs. Sinclair was all excitement, hanging in breathless anxiety upon
the tidings her neighbor brought.

"I hae made nae mistake, Nellie Sinclair," returned Leezie, "for it was
her ain mother wha telt me the noo. I was at the store, an' when I was
comin' hame I met Jenny hersel' gaun awa' tae Rundell Hoose. She was
greetin' an' I couldna' get oot o' spierin' at her what was wrang, an'
she telt me her ain self."

"You dinna mean tae tell me that Mysie Maitland has disappeared? In the
name o' a' that's guid, what has happened to bring aboot sic news?"

"Aye, it's true, Nellie," replied Mrs. Johnstone, feeling very important
now that she knew Mrs. Sinclair had not heard the news.

"When did this happen?" asked the latter, still incredulous. "Are you
sure that's true? Dear me! I dinna ken what the world's comin' to at
a'!"

"Ay, it's awfu'! But it's true. You never ken what thae quate kin' o'
modest folk will dae. They look that bashfu' that butter wadna' melt in
their mouths; an' a' the time they are just as like to gang wrang as
ither folk."

"But wha said Mysie Maitland has gang wrang?" enquired Mrs. Sinclair,
flaring up in Mysie's defense. "I wadna' believe it, though you went
down on your bended knees to tell me. A modester, weel-doin' lassie
never lived in this place!"

"Weel, I dinna ken whether she has gane wrang or not; but she has ran
awa', an' it is gey suspeecious conduct that for ony lassie that is
weel-doin'. She is jist like the rest of folk."

"It canna' be true," said Mrs. Sinclair, still unable to believe the
news. "I canna' take it in."

"Ay, but it is true," persisted her neighbor with assurance. "For I tell
you, it was her ain mother what telt me hersel'. It seems she has been
missing since the day afore yesterday. She gaed awa' in the afternoon to
see her mither, an' as she hadna been keepin' very weel for a day or two
an' no comin' back that night, Mrs. Rundell jist thought that Jenny had
keepit her at home for a holiday. But she didna turn up yesterday, an'
thinkin' maybe that the lassie had turned worse, Mrs. Rundell sent owre
word jist the noo, to ask how she was keepin'; an' Jenny was fair
thunder-struck when the man came to the door to ask. Puir body! Jenny's
awfu' puttin' aboot owre the matter. I hope," she added, with the first
show of sympathy, "that naething has happened to the lassie. That wad be
awfu'!"

"Dear keep us!" exclaimed Nellie. "I hope nothing has happened to her."

"God knows!" replied Mrs. Johnstone piously, for want of something else
to say. "It's awfu'!"

"Do they ken naething at a' aboot her at Rundells'?" again enquired Mrs.
Sinclair.

"No' a thing they ken, ony mair than you or me. She left her bits o'
claes, jist as if she meant to come back. Her new frock was in her
drawer jist as she had put it by efter tryin' it on. An' a braw frock it
is. She has nothing except what she was wearin' at the time she gaed
oot. Her guid boots jist yince on her feet are in her room, a' cleaned
jist as she took them off the last time she had them on. I canna'
believe it yet. My! it's awfu'! It'll be a sair, sair heart her
faither'll hae when he hears about it. He had aye an' awfu' wark wi'
Mysie, an' thought the world o' her. If he got Mysie richt he ay seemed
to think that a' else was richt. I hope nae harm has come to her. I
dinna ken what the world's comin' to at a', I'm sure? My, it's awfu',
isn't it?" and Mrs. Johnstone went out to spread the news, leaving Mrs.
Sinclair more mystified and astonished than ever she had been in her
life.

Mysie missing! She could not understand it, and always she tried to
crush back the suggestion which was plainly evident in Leezie's
statement that Mysie had "gang wrang." It could not be that, for Mysie
was never known to have dealings with anyone likely to betray her like
that. It was a hopeless puzzle altogether, and she could not account for
it.

It was nearing "lousing time" and Mrs. Sinclair was busy getting the
dinner ready, and water boiled to wash the men coming in from the pit,
and she wondered how Robert would take the news.

She knew, having guessed, as most mothers do guess, that Mysie held a
sacred corner in Robert's heart; though noticing the silence during the
last two weeks, and his renewed attention to books and study, she
wondered if anything had come between Mysie and himself. Had he at last
spoken to her and been discouraged? She could hardly harbor that
thought, for she felt also that Mysie's heart enshrined but one man, and
that was Robert. Yet what could be the meaning of all this mystery?

It was true Mysie and Robert had never walked out as young men and
women of their class do; but she knew in their hearts each regarded the
other with very warm affection, and thinking thus she worked about the
house preparing things and running occasionally over to Maitland's
house, to see that the dinner was cooking all right, and giving little
attentions wherever they were needed, in Mrs. Maitland's absence.

She did not mention the news to Robert when he came in, but she watched
him furtively as she worked about the house getting the water into the
tub for him to wash, before placing the dinner on the table; but she
guessed from his face that he must have already heard of it on his way
home.

He was silent as he pulled off his rough blue flannel shirt and stooping
over the well-filled tub of hot water, he began to lave the water over
his arms, and the upper part of his body.

At last, Mrs. Sinclair could hold herself in no longer, and looking
keenly at the half-naked young man as he straightened himself, having
washed the coal-dust from his hands and arms, he began to rub his breast
and as much of his back as he could reach, she said, "Did you hear aboot
Mysie, Rob?"

"Ay," he returned simply, trying to hide his agitation and his blanching
face. "I heard that she had disappeared frae her place, an' that nae
news o' her could be got. Is it true, mither?"

"Ay, it's true, Rob," she replied. "But I hinna got ony richt waye o' it
yet. Jenny's awa' owre to Rundell Hoose, an' we'll no' ken onything till
she comes back. It's an awfu' business, an' will pit her faither an'
mither a guid lot aboot. I wonder what'll hae ta'en her."

"It's hard to ken," he replied in a non-committal voice. "Hae you ony
idea, mither, as to what has brought this aboot?"

"No, Rob, I canna' say; but folks' tongues will soon be busy, I hae nae
doot, an' there will be a lot o' clip-clash, an' everybody kennin'
nothing, will ken the right way o't, an' every yin will hae a different
story to tell."

"Ay, I hae nae doot," he said, again stooping over the tub flinging some
water over his head, and beginning to rub the soap into a fine lather
upon his hair. "Everybody will ken the right wye o' it, and will claver
and gossip, when they wad 'a be better to mind their ain affairs, an'
let ither folk alane."

His mother did not speak for a little, but went on with her work. There
was something on her mind about which she wanted to speak, and she
bustled about and washed, and clattered the dishes; and every plate and
spoon, as they were laid dripping from the basin of warm water, plainly
indicated that something troubled her.

Finally, when the last steaming dish had been laid upon the table, and
she had begun to wipe them dry, she cleared her throat, and in a
somewhat strained sort of voice asked, "Dae you ken, Rob, onything aboot
Mysie?"

"No, mither," he replied at once, as he ceased rubbing the white foaming
lather on his hair, and again straightened himself up to look at her, as
she spoke; his head looking as if a three inch fall of snow had settled
upon it, giving the black dirty face and the clean eyes shining through
the dust, a weird strange appearance. "What makes you ask that?"

"Oh, I dinna ken, Rob, but jist thought you micht hae kent something,"
she answered evasively.

"No, I dinna ken onything at all aboot her, mither," he said. "If I had
kent onything, dae you think I'd hae kept quiet?"

"Oh, I dinna mean that, Rob," she replied with relief in her voice, "but
I thought that you might hae heard something. That Leezie Johnstone was
in here the day, an' you ken hoo she talks. She was makin' oot that
Mysie had gane wrang, and had ran awa' tae hide it."

"Leezie Johnstone had little to do sayin' onything o' the kind," he said
with some heat in his voice. "There never was a dirty coo in the byre
but it liket a neighbor. I suppose she'll be thinkin' that a' lasses
were like her. These kind of folk hae dam'd strange ideas aboot things.
They get it into their heads it is wrang to do certain things when folk
are no married, but the cloak of marriage flung aboot them mak's the
same things richt. They hinna the brains o' a sewer rat in their
noddles, the dam'd hypocrites that they are!"

"Dinna swear, Rob!" said Mrs. Sinclair, interrupting him. "Do you ken,"
she went on, her astonishment plainly evident in her face and voice,
"that is the first time I ever heard you swear in a' my life!"

"Well, mither, I am sorry; but I couldna' help it. Folk like that get my
temper up gey quick; because they get it into their heids that marriage
makes them virtuous, even though they may be guilty o' greater excesses
after than they were before marriage."

"Ay, that's true, Rob!" she agreed. "But it is a sad business a'
thegether. I wonder what has come owre the bit lassie. God knows where
she may be?"

But Robert was silent, and no matter how much she tried to get him to
speak, he would not be drawn into conversation, but answered merely in
short grunts; but she could see that he was very much disturbed at what
had happened. After a few days the sensation seemed to pass from the
minds of most of the villagers, who soon found something new to occupy
them, in connection with their own affairs.

About this time much interest was being manifested in mining circles.
The labor movement was beginning to shape itself into solidarity towards
political as well as industrial activity. Robert Smillie and the late J.
Keir Hardie, and many other tireless spirits, had succeeded in molding
together the newly created labor party, infecting it with an idealism
which had hitherto not been so apparent, and this work was making a deep
impression upon the minds of the workers, especially among the younger
men.

The Miners' Union had been linked up into national organizations; and a
consolidating influence was at work molding the workers generally, and
the miners particularly, imbuing them with a newer hope, a greater
enthusiasm and a wider vision.

About a fortnight after the news of Mysie's disappearance, Keir Hardie
paid a visit to Lowwood, and a large crowd gathered to hear him in the
village hall. Smillie also was advertised to speak, and great interest
was manifested, and much criticism passed by the miners.

"I don't give in wi' this dam'd political business," said Tam Donaldson,
who was frankly critical. "I've aye stood up for Smillie, but I dinna'
like being dragged intae this Socialist movement. A dam'd fine nest o'
robbers an' work-shy vermin. Trade Union officials should attend tae
Trade Union affairs. That's what we pay them for. But it looks to me as
if they were a' that dam'd busy trying to get intae Parliament, thet
they hinna time to look after oor affairs."

"I'm kind o' suspeecious aboot it mysel', Tam," said Robert quietly, as
they made their way to the hall that night. "I'm no' sure jist yet as to
what this Socialism is, it looks frae the papers to be a rotten kind o'
thing an' I'm no' on wi' it. But I'll wait an' hear what Hardie an'
Smillie say aboot it, afore a' make up my mind."

"To hell wi' them an' their Socialism," said Tam with some heat. "I want
a shillin' or twa on my day. It's a' yin damn to me hoo mony wives they
gie me. I canna' keep the yin I hae. What the hell wad a workin' man dae
wi' three wives? An' they tell me they're goin' to abolish religion too.
Not that I'm a religious man mysel', but I'm damn'd if I'd let them
interfere wi' it. If I want religion I've a guid richt to hae it; an'
forby, if they abolish religion, hoo wad folk do wi' the funerals? I can
see hoo they'll do wi' marriages, for there's to be nane. You've to get
your wife changed every two-three years, an' the weans brought up by the
State as they call it. But the puirhouse is a dam'd cauld step-mother,
an' I'd be up against that."

Thus discussing the subject, they reached the hall to find it packed,
everyone being keen to see and hear this man, who was making such an
uproar in the country with his advocacy of Socialism.

Robert was chairman, and had labored hard to prepare a few remarks with
which to open the meeting. He wanted to be non-committal, and his
reading and self-teaching had been of immense service to him. His
mother's influence in the molding of his character, unconsciously to
himself, had made his mind just the sort of soil for the quick rooting
of the seed to be sown that night.

It was certainly a great occasion. Robert thought as he looked at this
man, that he had never seen anyone who so typefied the spirit of
independence in his bearing. His figure was straight, the eyes fearless,
yet kindly and gentle; but the proud erect head, the straight stiff back
which seemed to say "I bend to no one" impressed Robert more than
anything else in all his make up.

Yet there was nothing aggressive about him with it all; but on the
contrary, an atmosphere of kindliness exuded from him, creating a
wonderful effect upon those with whom he came in contact. The wild
stories of this turbulent agitator, which everyone seemed to hear, and
be acquainted with, made the audience hostile to begin with. It was not
a demonstrable hostility; but one felt it was there, ready to break out,
and overwhelm this stormy petrel of the political world.

Yet they patiently waited for Hardie to begin, tolerating Smillie, and
even applauding his ringing denunciations of the wrongs they suffered,
but critically waiting on his attempts to switch them on to Socialism.
Then came Hardie, halting and stammering a little as he began his
address. The audience thinking this was due to his searching for a way
to delude them, became more suspicious and critical, and ready to stop
him, if he tried any tricks upon them; but broad-minded enough and fair
enough to give him a hearing, until he trespassed upon them too much.

So it was in this atmosphere that Socialism first was heard in Lowwood;
but soon the speaker became less halting as he warmed to his subject,
until not only was he fluent, but eloquent, and powerful, winning his
audience in spite of themselves.

They sat and listened, and were soon under his sway, watching his every
gesture and thawing under his spell, as they watched the fine head
thrown back with its inimitable poise, the back straight and stiff, the
eyes aglow with the light of the seer, and the hands gracefully rising
and falling to emphasize some point.

What a change soon came over them! Gradually as the speaker developed
his subject the faces changed, and they were soon responsive to his
every demand upon them. The clear ringing voice, insistent, strong, yet
catching a cadence of gentleness and winsomeness that moved them to
approval of everything he said.

There was deep humanity about him, that was strangely in contrast with
the monster he had been to their fancy before they saw and heard him.
This was not the politics of the vulgar kind, of which the newspapers
had told; on the contrary, every man in the hall felt this was the
politics to which every reasonable man subscribed. It was the politics
of the fireside, of sweetness and light, of justice and truth, of
humanity and God.

In burning words he denounced the wrongs under which the people
suffered, winning them by his warm-blooded championship of their cause,
appealing to them to forsake the other parties, form an independent
party for themselves; and sketching in glowing words the picture of the
world as it might be, if only a saner and more human view were taken by
those who ruled.

It made an indelible impression on Robert's mind. The way was so simple,
so clear, so sure, that if only men like Hardie could go round every
town and village in the land, he believed that a Utopia might be brought
into being in a very few years; that even the rich people, the usurpers,
would agree that this state of affairs might be brought about, and that
they'd gladly give up all they had of power over the lives of others, to
work cooperatively for the good of all; and already he was deciding in
youth's way, he would give his life, every moment of it, to help Hardie
and Smillie, and all those other great spirits to win the world to this
state of affairs. Body and soul he would devote to it, and so help to
make the world a brighter and happier place for all human beings.

His was the temperament that having found an ideal would storm the gates
of Heaven to realize it; or wade through hell, suffering all its
penalties to gaze upon the face of that he sought.

So the meeting ended in great enthusiasm, and the audience was amazed
and pleased to find that this man Hardie was not the vulgar-minded,
loud-mouthed ignorant agitator of which the press had told them; but was
just one of themselves, burning with a sense of their wrongs, with
ability to express their thoughts in their own words, and with an
uncompromising hatred of the system which bred these wrongs in their
lives.

Tam Donaldson and Robert compared notes after the meeting was over in
the following conversation:

"What do you think o' it, Tam?"

"Christ! but it was great," was the reply.

"What aboot the three wives noo, Tam?"

"Oh, for ony sake, dinna rub it in, Rob. I feel that small that I could
hide myself in the hole of my back tooth. Man, do you ken, I jist felt
as if we were a' back in the Bible times again, wi' auld Isaiah
thundering oot his charges and tellin' the oppressors o' the people what
he thought of them. The white heid o' Hardie maun hae been gey like
Isaiah's. Or sometimes it was like John the Baptist, comin' to tell us
o' the new world that was ready to dawn for the folk! Man, it was
hellish guid, and frae this day I'm a Socialist. I've always been
fightin' the oppressors o' the workers, an' only wish I had a tongue
like Hardie, so that I could gang roon' the hale country tellin' folk
the rale God's truth aboot things. Guid God! Rob, it was better than
goin' to the kirk!"

"Ay, it was gran', Tam. I'm goin' to read up this Socialism; for it
seems to me to be worth it."

"So will I. I hae got twa or three bits o' books that I bought, an' I'll
swallow them as quick as I can. Lod! It seems as if a new world had
opened up a' thegether the night. I'm that dam'd happy, I could rin
roon' an' tell everybody aboot it! But I suppose we maun gang awa' hame
to bed; for we'll hae to gang to oor work the morn, though it's dam'd
cauld comfort to think o' gaun oot to the pit, when we could hae better
conditions to work in if only folk had the sense to do right."

Thus they parted, full of the subject which had stirred them so much
that night.

Robert went home, full of vision of an emancipated world, his whole
heart kindled and aglow with the desire to be a spokesman like Hardie on
behalf of the workers, and thoroughly determined to devote the rest of
his life to it.

"There's nae word o' Mysie yet," said Nellie, when he came in, and her
words seemed to shock him with their unexpectedness.

"Is there no'?" he replied, trying hard to bring his mind back to the
realities. "What kind o' word did Jenny get frae the polis?"

"Oh, they ken naething aboot her," said Nellie. "A' that is kenned is
jist what we heard already. The polis hae been searchin' noo for a
fortnight an' nae trace o' her can be got. Mr. Rundell has pit it in the
papers; but I hae my doots aboot ever seeing her again. Mysie wasna' the
lassie that wad keep her folk in suspense. She wad ken fine that they'd
be anxious. Matthew an' Jenny are in an awfu' way."

"Ay. I believe they will," he replied, and a deep silence followed.

After a time, as the silence seemed to become oppressive, and for the
sake of saying something, Mrs. Sinclair said: "What kin o' a meetin' had
you the night?"

"My! we had an awfu' meeting, mither," he said in reply, his eyes
kindling with enthusiasm at the memory of it. "Smillie was askin' for
you, an' he's comin' owre to see you the morn afore he goes awa'."

"Oh, he had mind o' me then," she said, pleased at this information.

"Ay, an' he talked rale kindly aboot my faither to Hardie, mither.
Smillie's a fine man, an' I like him," he said with simple enthusiasm.

"He is that, Rob. I've aye liked Bob for the way he has had to fecht.
Lod, I dinna ken hoo he has managed to come through it a'. He's been a
gran' frien' to the miners. What kin' o' a man is Hardie?"

"He's yin o' the finest men I ever met," he answered in quick
enthusiasm. "You would hae enjoyed hearin' him, mither. It's an awfu'
peety that the weemin dinna gang to the meetin's. I'm shair there's no'
a woman in the place but wad hae liket him. My! if you had jist heard
him, strong, sturdy, and independent. Efter hearin' him, it fair knocked
the stories on the heid aboot him bein' oot to smash the hame, an'
religion an' sic like. He's clean and staunch, an' a rale man. Nae sham
aboot him, but a rale human bein', an' after listenin' to him tellin'
what Socialism is, it mak's you feel ashamed that you ever believed
things that you did believe aboot it. It's that simple an' Tam Donaldson
is fair carried awa' wi' it the night."

"I'm glad you had a guid meetin'," she said, her interest kindled too.
"Tell me a' aboot it," and Robert told her, sketching the fine picture
which Hardie had given to his memory to carry, as long as life lasted
for him.

"I've been appointed delegate to the Miners' Council," he said after a
while. "I'll hae to gang to Hamilton once a month to attend the
conferences."

"Oh!" she said in surprise, and with pride in her voice. "What way hae
they sent you?"

"I don't ken," he answered, "but I was a wee bit feart to take it. It's
only the very best men that should be sent there to represent the
branches, an' I thought they might hae sent an older man, wi' mair kind
o' thought about him, an' mair experience."

"Oh, weel, Rob," she said with pride, "ye are maybe as guid as ony o'
them, and a hantle better than some o' them. I hope you'll dae well and
aye act fair."

"I'll dae my best," he said simply. "Mony a time we hae been selt wi'
place-seekers, an' maybe there are some still at it," he went on, "but I
can say this, mither, if ever I get an inklin' o' it, I'll expose them
to every honest man. We want men who can look at things withoot seem'
themsel's as the center o' a' things. My, if you had only seen Hardie,"
he broke off. "He was grand."

Thus they talked for an hour before retiring, but all the time Robert's
mind occasionally kept wondering about Mysie, and he went to bed, his
heart troubled and aching to know the fate that had overtaken the girl
he had loved and lost.

All night long he tossed unable to sleep, as he tried to think what had
happened to her, his mind and heart pained at the thought of something
that boded no good to her.

He again lived over in his mind all that had happened that night upon
the moor, when he saw the man going to meet her after his own meeting
with Mysie.

He was pained and puzzled what to do. Had the stranger any connection
with her disappearance, he asked himself? Should he tell of that? And
yet she had been to her father's house since then, so that it would be
of little value to mention it, he thought.

Perhaps she had run away with the man. That was quite a likely thing to
happen, and if Mysie wanted him no one else had anything to do with it.
Still, she might have told her people, he thought. But perhaps she might
do that later on.

But Mysie and her fate would not be banished from his mind, and he lay
and tumbled and tossed, a terrible anxiety within him, for youth is apt
to pity its own sufferings, and give them a heroic touch under the spell
of unrequited love.

Thus the night passed and morning came, and he had not slept, and he
went to his work debating as to whether he should inform the police or
not about the man he had seen in the company of Mysie. But no decision
was ever come to.




CHAPTER XVII

MYSIE RUNS AWAY


It was a gray, sultry summer night, with one small patch of red near the
western horizon when Mysie, making the excuse of going to the village to
visit her parents, had stolen over the moorland path on her way to join
the evening train for Edinburgh at a neighboring village station.

She had left early, so as to have plenty of time on the way, and also
because she was really ill, and could not hurry.

She had forced herself to work, so as not to attract attention to her
weak state during the past few weeks. Peter, who had already gone some
days before, had now everything ready for her, and this was her final
break with the old life.

She knew she was ill, but thought that when she got to Edinburgh, with
good medical attention and treatment, she would soon be all right again.
Perhaps a rest and the change would help her as much as anything; and
she'd soon get well and strong, and she would work hard to fit herself
for the position she was to occupy as Peter's wife.

But her legs did feel tired, as she trudged over the moor, and her steps
dragged heavily. She sank down for a few moments upon a thyme-strewn
bank to rest; the scent of the wild moorland bloom brought back the
memory of that evening in the copse. She shut her eyes for a moment, and
heard again the alarmed protest of the whaup, and the grumble of the
burn; saw again the moonlight patterns upon the ground, as it flittered
through the trees, like streams of fairy radiance cast from the magic
wand of night and, above all, heard Peter's voice, praising her eyes,
her hair, her figure.

Her cheeks burned again, and her heart throbbed anew--she heard his
tones, hoarse, vibrant and warm, as his breath scorched her cheek. She
felt his arms about her, the contact of his burning lips upon her own.

Then the calm which follows the wake of the storm, the consciously
averted eyes, and the very conscious breathing, which had in it
something of shame; the almost aversion to speak or touch again, and
over all, the deep silence of the moor, broken only by the burn and the
whaup, and the thick cloud, kindly dark, that came over the moon.

But, behind it all, the remorse and the agony that would never die; the
anxiety and uncertainty, and the secret knowledge for which each had
paid so high a price.

She rose from the bank and went slowly along the lovely moorland path.
Her breath was labored and the cough troubled her. She was hot, and
besides the tired sensation in her limbs, there was a griping feeling
about her chest that made breathing difficult.

She reached the station just a minute before the train was due, and
entered an almost empty compartment, glad to be seated and at rest.

The train soon moved out of the station, and an intense desire took hold
of her to go back. The full consciousness of her action only seemed to
strike her now that she had cut the last tie that bound her to the old
life, and involuntarily she rose to her feet, as if to get out. A man
sitting in the opposite corner, thinking she was going to close the
carriage window, laid a restraining hand upon her.

"Don't close it," he said, "fresh air is what we all need, though we may
not in our ignorance think so. But you take it from me, miss, that you
can't get too much fresh air. Let it play about you, and keep it always
passing through your room, or the railway carriage when traveling, and
you'll never be ill. Look at me," he continued aggressively, almost
fiercely, and very pompously, "the very picture of health--never had a
day's illness in my life. And what is the reason? Why, fresh air. It is
the grand life-giver. No, miss, leave the window open. You can't get too
much of it. Let it play about you, draw it deeply into your lungs like
this," and he took a great deep draught, until Mysie thought he was
going to expand so much that he might fall out of the carriage window,
or burst open its sides. Then, he let it out in a long, loud blast, like
a miniature cyclone, making a noise like escaping steam; while his eyes
seemed as if they had made up their minds to jump out, had the blast and
the pressure not eased them at the last critical moment.

Then he stood panting, his shoulders going up and down, and his chest
going out and in, like a pair of bellows in a country blacksmith's shop.

"Nothing like fresh air, miss," he panted. "You take my tip on that.
I've proved it. Just look at me. I'm health itself, and might make a
fortune by sitting as an advertisement for somebody's patent pills, only
I feel too honorable for that; for it is fresh air that has done it.
Fresh air, and plenty of it!" and he turned his nose again in the
direction of the window, as if he would gulp the air down in gallons--a
veritable glutton of Boreas.

Mysie could not speak. She was overwhelmed by the blast of oratory upon
air, and a woman who sat on the far side of a closed window, with
tight-drawn lips and smoldering eyes, looked challengingly at this fresh
air fanatic, observing with quiet sarcasm: "A complexion like that might
make a fortune, if done with colors to the life, in advertising some
one's 'Old Highland'!"

The fresh air apostle gasped a little, looking across at the grim set
mouth and the quiet, steady eyes, as if he would like to retort; but,
finding no ready words, he merely wiped his forehead, and then subsided
helplessly in his corner seat, as the lady rose, and, going over to the
window, said to Mysie, as she closed it: "It is a little cold to-night,
after the scorching heat of the daytime, and one is apt to catch cold
very readily in a draught at an open carriage window. There, we'll all
feel more comfortable now, I fancy. It is a little chilly." The poor
worm who had always lived and thrived upon fresh air felt himself
shriveling up in the corner, and growing so small that he might easily
slip through the seam at the hinges of the carriage door.

Mysie merely lay back in her corner without speaking. She had never
traveled much in the train; and this journey, apart from its
eventfulness, was sufficient in itself to stupefy her with its newness
and immensity. She had never before had a longer journey than to the
county town, which cost sixpence; and here she was going to Edinburgh! a
great city, of which she had all the dread of the inexperienced,
unsophisticated country girl. A slight shiver soon began to creep down
her back, and gradually she became cold; but she sat never speaking, and
the other two occupants were so engrossed in thinking out maledictions
against each other, that they had no thoughts to bestow upon her.

The wild, bleak moors rolled past, as the train rushed onward, and the
telegraph poles seemed to scamper along, as if frightened by the noise
of the train. She gazed away to the far horizon, where the sun had left
a faint glow upon the western clouds, and she tried to think of
something that would not betray her nervousness, but her mind was all
chaos and excitement, and strange expectation.

What would be waiting for her at the end of the journey? Suppose Peter
failed to be at the station, what would she do in a strange city? What
if he were ill, and would not come? Or if he was doing this
deliberately, and did not mean to meet her? Thus, torn by anxiety, and
worried almost to death by nameless other fears, she spent the hour-long
journey which seemed like a day, making herself ill, so that she could
scarcely leave the carriage when the train steamed into Princes Street
Station.

"Have you any luggage that I can assist you with?" asked the fresh air
man, as Mysie seemed reluctant to get out, now that she had arrived at
her destination.

"No," she replied simply, forgetting to thank him for his kind
consideration, and rising slowly to her feet, she followed the stream of
passengers down the platform, keeping a keen look-out for Peter.

"Here we are, Mysie," he said cheerily, striding towards her, with real
welcome in his voice, and she clung to him like a child, so glad that he
had been true to his word. "I have a cab waiting," he rattled on
brightly. "Just come along, and we'll soon be at your digs, and we'll
talk as we drive along," and he piloted her to a waiting cab; and
getting in beside her, it moved off, as she heard him say "Grassmarket"
to the driver.

But she had little interest in anything, now that Peter was here. She
felt a sense of security in his company that she had never felt before.
She trusted him, now that all her bearings were lost. The fear of the
city, and the strangeness of her experiences, made her turn to him as
her only prop upon which she could lean; and she clung to his arm as
they drove along, the cab rattling over the stones and through what
seemed to Mysie interminable streets of houses.

"Did you manage to get away all right, without anyone knowing?" he
asked, as he felt her trembling hands upon his arm.

"Yes, I think sae," she replied. "I never saw onybody. I jist let on
that I was gaun hame, an' gaed owre the muir, an' got the train. I didna
see onybody that I kent."

"That was right, Mysie," he said. "I was afraid you might decide at the
last moment not to come."

"I did feel awfu' frightened," she confessed, "an' I could fain hae
bidden at hame; but I can never gang hame noo," she added with a slight
tremor in her voice, at the realization of all it meant. "I can never
gang hame noo!" and the tears gathered in her eyes as she spoke.

What a noise, and what a multitude of houses, she thought. She would
never be able to go out and find her way back. She would get lost in all
this noise and hurry and confusion.

"I have taken a little house for you, Mysie," said Peter, in explanation
of his plans. "I have also a woman engaged to help you for a time, to
look after you till you get acquainted with the place; and I'll come
home to you every evening, and spend as much of my time with you as I
can, superintending your lessons. I am going to teach you myself for a
while, and we'll live together and be as happy as we can. But first of
all, you must get better," he said, as a fit of coughing seized her.
"You've got a bad cold. Luckily, the old man allows me plenty of money,
so that we need not worry."

Mysie sat lost in wonder at it all, and presently the cab stopped, and
Peter helped her out, paid the fare and, taking her arm, led her up a
long flight of stairs--stairs that seemed to wind up and up till she
felt dizzy, before he came to a halt at one of the many doors opening on
the landing, entering which she found herself in a neat little room and
kitchen, simply furnished, but clean and tidy.

"This is Mrs. Ramsay, my landlady," he said as they entered, leading
Mysie forward to where a middle-aged woman of kindly demeanor stood with
a smile of welcome for them. Mrs. Ramsay stepped forward and began to
help Mysie to take off her hat. With a few words she soon made the girl
feel more at ease, and then left them to get tea ready.

"Is that the woman you stay wi'?" asked Mysie, as Mrs. Ramsay went to
the other room.

"Yes, she's my landlady," he replied.

"An' does she bide here too?"

"Well, she'll stay just as long as you think necessary. Whenever you
think you can get on without her, let me know. Her daughter is looking
after her own house till she returns. She's a good, kindly soul, and
will do anything to help you."

"Are you gaun to stay here now, too?"

"Well, that is for you to say, Mysie," he said seriously. "Certainly I
should like to stay with my wife, for we'll be married to-morrow. But if
you would rather stay alone, I can easily remain in my digs, and just
attend to your lessons In the evening."

"If you stay here, will she need to stay too?"

"Of course that will all lie with you, Mysie," he replied. "Perhaps it
might be better for her to stay and help you for a few weeks, and by
that time your cold may be better. But you can think it over to-night
and tell me your decision in the morning."

Mrs. Ramsay's return cut short any further conversation, and they all
sat down to tea, a strange little party. Mysie did not eat much. She was
too tired, and felt that she would rather go to bed. She looked ill and
very wretched, and at last Peter went out, leaving the women together.

"I'll be round for you by half-past ten in the morning, Mysie," he
said, as he was going. "So you must be up, and be as bright as you can.
So take a good long sleep, and you'll feel ever so much better in the
morning. Mrs. Ramsay will see you all right," and he was off before
Mysie realized he was going.

It was all so strange for Mysie. She was lost in wonder at it all, as
she sat quietly pondering the matter while Mrs. Ramsay washed the dishes
and cleared the table. The noises outside; the glare of the street,
lamps, the tier upon tier of houses, piled on top of each other, as she
looked from the window at the tall buildings, and the Castle Rock, grim
and gray, looking down in silence upon the whole city, but added to
Mysie's confusion of mind.

Shouts from a drunken brawl ascended from the street; the curses of the
men, and the screams of women, were plainly audible; while over all a
woman's voice, further down the street, broke into a bonnie old Scots
air which Mysie knew, and she could not help feeling that this was the
most beautiful thing she had heard so far.

The voice was clear, and to Mysie very sweet, but it was the words that
set her heart awandering among her own moors and heather hills.

  Ca' the yowes tae the knowes,
  Ca' them where the heather grows,
  Ca' them where the burnie rows,
         My kind dearie, O!

This was always the song her father sang, if on a Saturday night he had
been taking a glass. It was not that he was given to drinking; but
sometimes, on the pay night, he would indulge in a glass with Andrew
Marshall or Peter Pegg--just a round each; sufficient to make them happy
and forgetful of their hard lot for a time. She had seen her father
drunk on very few occasions, as he was a very careful man; but
sometimes, maybe at New Year's time, if things were going more than
usually well, he might, in company with his two cronies, indulge in an
extra glass, and then he was seen at his best.

On such occasions Mysie's mother would remonstrate with him, reminding
him with wifely wisdom of his family responsibilities; but under all her
admonishings Matthew's only reply was:

  As I gaed doon the water side,
  There I met my bonnie lad,
  An' he rowed me sweetly in his plaid,
         An' ca'd me his dearie, O!

and as he sang, he would fling his arms around Mysie's mother and turn
her round upon the floor, in an awkward dance, to the tune of the song,
and finally stopping her flow of words with a hug and a kiss, as he
repeated the chorus:

  Ca' the yowes tae the knowes,
  Ca' them where the heather grows,
  Ca' them where the burnie rows,
          My kind dearie, O!

So that, when the words of the old song floated up through the noise of
the street, Mysie's heart filled, and her eyes brimmed with tears; for
she saw again the old home, and all it meant to her.

"There now," said Mrs. Ramsay, noticing her tears, and stroking her hair
with a kindly hand. "Mr. Rundell has told me all about it, and I am your
friend and his. I deeply sympathize with you, my dear, for I know how
much you must feel your position; but Mr. Rundell is a good-hearted
young man, and he'll be good to you, I know that. Don't cry, dearie. It
is all right."

Thus the words of an old song, sung by a drunken street singer, brought
a stronger and deeper stab to the heart of this lonely girl, than to the
exile in the back-blocks of Maori-land, or on the edge of the golden
West, eating his heart out over a period of years for a glint of the
heather hills of home, or the sound of the little brook that had been
his lullaby in young days, when all the world was full of dreams and
fair romance.

In a sudden burst of impulsiveness, Mysie flung her arms round the neck
of the older woman, pouring out her young heart and all its troubles in
an incoherent flood of sorrow and vexation.

"There now, dearie," said Mrs. Ramsay, again stroking Mysie's hair and
her soft burning cheek. "Don't be frightened. You must go to your bed,
for you are tired and upset, and will make yourself ill. Come now, like
a good lass, and go to your bed."

"Oh, dear, I wonner what my mither will say aboot it," wailed the girl,
sobbing. "She'll hae a sair, sair heart the nicht, an' my faither'll
break his heart. Oh, if only something could tell them I am a' richt,
an' safe, it would mak' things easier."

"There now. Don't worry about that any more, dearie. You'll only make
yourself ill. Try and keep your mind off it, and go away to bed and
rest."

"But it'll kill my mither!" cried Mysie wildly. "Her no' kennin' where I
am! If she could only ken that I am a' richt! She'll be worryin', an'
she'll be lyin' waken at nicht wonderin' aboot me, an' thinkin' o' every
wild thing that has happened to me. Oh, dear, but it'll break her heart
and kill my faither."

It needed all Mrs. Ramsay's tact and patience to quieten and allay her
fears; but gradually the girl was prevailed upon to go to bed, and Mrs.
Ramsay retired to the next room. But all night she heard Mysie tossing
and turning, and quietly weeping, and she knew that despair was
torturing and tearing her frightened little heart, and trying her beyond
endurance.

Mysie lay wondering how the village gossips at home would discuss her
disappearance. She knew how Mag Robertson, and Jean Fleming, and Leezie
Johnstone and all the other "clash-bags," as they were locally called,
would talk, and what stories they would tell.

But her mother would be different--her mother who had always loved
her--crude, primitive love it was, but mother love just the same, and
she felt that she would never be able again to go back and take up her
old life--the old life which seemed so alluring, now that it was left
forever behind.

Thus she tossed and worried, and finally in the gray hours of the
morning her thoughts turned to Robert, who had loved her so well, and
had always been her champion. She saw him looking at her with sad eyes,
eyes which held something of accusation in them and were heavy with
pain--eyes that told he had trusted her, had loved her, and that he had
always hoped she would be his--eyes that told of all they had been to
each other from the earliest remembered days, and which plainly said, as
they looked at her from the foot of her bed: "Mysie! Oh, Mysie! What way
did you do this!"

Unable to bear it any longer, she screamed out in anguish, a scream
which brought good Mrs. Ramsay running to her bedside, to find Mysie
raving in a high fever, her eyes wildly glowing, and her skin all afire.
The good lady sat with her and tried to soothe her, but Mysie kept
calling on Robert and her mother, and raving about matters of which Mrs.
Ramsay knew nothing; and in the morning, when Peter arrived expecting to
find his bride ready, he found her very ill, and his good landlady very
much frightened about the whole matter.




CHAPTER XVIII

MAG ROBERTSON'S FRENZY


"I want to ken what has gone wrong with you?" said Mag Robertson,
speaking to Black Jock, whom she had called into her house one morning
as he returned from the pit for his breakfast.

"There's naething wrang wi' me," he said with cool reserve. "What dae
you think is wrang?"

"Ay, it's a' right, Jock," she said, speaking as one who knew he
understood her question better than he pretended. "I can see as far
through a brick wall as you can see through a whinstone dyke."

"Maybe a bit farther, Mag," he said with a forced laugh, eyeing her
coolly. "But what are you driving at?"

"You'll no' ken, I suppose?" she retorted. "Sanny has told me a' aboot
it this morning afore he gaed to his work. My! I'd hardly hae looked for
this frae you," she went on, her voice suddenly becoming softer and more
soothing as if she meant to appeal to his sense of gratitude if any
remained within him. "Efter what we've been to yin anither, I never
expected you'd dae this. I aye thocht that you'd be loyal as we hae been
tae you. We hae made oursel's the outcasts o' the district for you, an'
noo you wad turn on us like this. No, I never thocht it o' you at a'!"

"What are you ravin' at this morning?" he asked, in a quiet voice, as if
he meant to force her into being more definite. "I don't ken I'm sure
what you are drivin' at."

"Dae you no?" she broke in quickly, loosing hold of herself as she saw
that her method of attack was not going to succeed. "I hae been
suspectin' something for a while. You hinna been in owre my door for
three weeks an' that's no your ordinar. But I have seen you gaun in tae
Tam Granger's nearly every nicht in that time. An' I can put twa an' twa
together. Dae you think we dinna ken the reason that Sanny has lost his
contracts an' the reason why Tam Granger has stepped into them? Oh, ay,"
she cried, her voice rising as she continued. "I can see hoo things are
workin'! I ken a' aboot it. Wee Leebie, I suppose, will be afore some o'
us noo. The stuck-up limmer that she is. She gangs by folk as brazened
as you like, wi' her head in the air, as if she was somebody. You wad
think she never had heard o' Willie Broonclod, the packman, that she
sloped when she left doon the country. Nae wonder she has braw claes to
glaik aboot in; for they were gey easy paid. The dirty glaiket limmer
that she is. I wonder she disna think shame o' hersel'."

"What the hell's a' this to me?" asked Walker abruptly breaking in upon
her tirade.

"I suppose it'll no' mean onything to you," she returned. "But I just
wanted to tell you, that you're no her first, for Willie Broonclod gaed
to her lang afore she cam' here, an' she's left him wi' a guid penny
that he'll never get. But her man's a contractor noo, makin' big money,
an' Jock Walker ca's in to see her whenever he's needfu' an' there's
naething sae low as a packman noo for her. The brazen-faced stuck-up
baggage that she is. Does she think I dinna ken her? Her, with her hair
stuck up in a 'bun' an' her fancy blouses an' buckled shoon, an' a'!"
Mag was now very much enraged and she shouted and swore in her anger.

"Ach, gang to hell," he said with brutal callousness. "You're no' hauf a
woman like Leebie. She's a tippy wee lass, an' has a way wi' her. She
has some spirit, an' is aye snod and nate," and there was a tantalizing
smile about his lips that was plainly meant to irritate Mag.

"I was guid enough a gey lang while, an'--"

"Ay, but you've haen a damn'd guid innins," he interrupted. "A dam'd
guid innins, an' I canna see what the hell you hae to yowl at."

"A guid innins, you muckle black-hearted brute!" she cried. "By heavens,
an' I'll see that you get yours afore I hae done wi' you. Dinna think
though I hae been saft wi' you a' along, that I'll ay be like that. Oh,
no, I can stand a lot; but you'll find oot that Mag Robertson hasna selt
her a' tae you, without driving a hard bargain afore she lets you alone.
You can gang back to your tippy wee baggage! Gang to hell, baith you an'
her, an' joy be wi' you baith! But I'll put a sprag in your wheel afore
you gang far. Mind that! By ---- I will! She'll nae toss her heid as she
gangs past me as if I was dirt. Her, an' her fine dresses that she never
payed for wi' money an' her fal-lals. By heaven! But you hae a fine
taste!" She finished up exasperated beyond all control by his coolness.

"Ay, it wad seem so," he laughed brutally. "When I look at you, I begin
to wonder what the hell I was lookin' at. You're like a damnationed big
lump o' creesh," and he laughed in her face, knowing this would rouse
her more than ever. Then as she choked and spluttered in her anger he
said: "But what the hell odds is't to you, you baggage?" and his eyes
and voice were cold and brutal beyond expression. "Leebie Granger is
young," he went on insultingly, in a collected even voice which he
strove to make jaunty in tone. "She's as fresh an' young. An' you're
auld, an' fat an' as ugly as hell, an' if I dae gang to Leebie you hae
damn all to dae wi' it. As I said, you've had your innin's, an' been gey
well paid for it, an' I dinna gie a damn for you."

"Dae you no'?" she cried now livid with anger and losing all control
over her words and actions, her eyes flashing with maddened rage and the
froth working from her lips. "I'll let you ken or no'. I'll tear the
pented face off your new doll; and I'll sort you too, you dirty black
brute that you are."

"Gang to hell!" he shouted, starting out of the door so suddenly that he
almost ran into the next door neighbor who hearing the noise had crept
noiselessly on tiptoe to the door the better to hear all that was going
on.

"What the hell's wrang wi' you?" he demanded turning in rage upon the
eavesdropper. "Have you naething else to dae than that? Gang in an' get
your dirty midden o' a hoose cleaned an' I'll see that you don't stay
lang in Lowwood to spy on ony mair folk!" and cowering in shame the
poor woman backed into the door and shut it, making up her mind that her
man would be sacked that day, and wondering where they would flit to, so
as to find work and a house.

Walker strode up the row with Mag Robertson shouting behind him and the
neighbors all coming to the doors as they passed, and craning their
necks, while keeping their bodies safe hidden within the doorways of
their homes.

"We're surely gettin' an entertainment the day," observed one fat old
woman to another woman two doors away, as they both looked after Mag as
she followed Walker up the row, shouting her worst names at him, and
vowing what she'd do with Leebie Granger, when she got hands on her.

"Ay," replied the other woman stealing along the wall to the doorway of
the older woman, and slipping inside as if she were afraid of being
detected. "It's a hell o' a business when blackguards cast oot."

"Wheest, Annie, dinna swear," remonstrated the old woman. "I dinna like
to hear folk swearin' at a'. I wonner the Lord disna open the grun' to
swallow the half o' the folk noo-a-days; for I never heard sic swearin'
a' my life."

"Och, there's nae harm meant," returned Annie, taken aback by the old
woman's admonition. "It's jist a habit that folk get into an' they canna
help it. But listen to her," she broke off, alluding to Mag Robertson
again. "She micht think shame o' hersel', the shameless lump that she
is. She'd hae been faur better to hae keepit her mouth shut, Phemie."

"That's true, Annie," replied Phemie. "Listen to her. My, she's no'
canny an' she's fairly givin' him a bellyfu'. But they're a' yae swine's
pick an' no' yin o' them decent. I wadna be in her shoon for a' the
money that ever was made in Lowwood. She micht hae kent hoo it wad end.
Hark at her. My, but it's awfu'."

"Keep in, Annie," Phemie admonished as they both craned their necks to
look up the row as she saw Walker turning to face Mag. "Dinna let him
see you or your man will get the sack. My! but she's layin' it in tae'
him. What a tongue."

"Lord bless us! He's strucken her, Phemie," said Annie, clutching her
neighbor's shoulder as she spoke. "My, he's gaen her an awfu' blow on
the mouth an' knocket her doon. Come inside for as sure as daith it'll
end in a coort case, an' I'm no wanting to be mixed up in it," and they
went inside and shut the door, looking at each other with frightened
eyes. Then Annie, stealing to the window and lifting the curtain a
little at the side, gazed sideways up the row, reporting to Phemie
everything that happened.

"He's kicking her, Phemie. Eh, the muckle beast that he is. My God,
he'll kill her afore he's finished wi' her. He's hitting her on the face
every time she tries to rise an' gaein' her anither kick aye when she
fa's doon again. Oh! my God, will naebody interfere. He'll kill her as
sure as death," and she stepped back with blanched face sickened at the
spectacle she had described.

"Here she comes, Annie," said her neighbor after a few moments. "My!
what a face. Dinna look you at her," cried Phemie in alarm pushing back
Annie who had moved near to the window to get a better view. "In God's
name, woman, dinna you look at her. You shouldna ha' looked at onything
that has taken place. If onything is wrang wi' your bairn when it is
born I'll never forgi'e' mysel' for lettin' you look at this business at
a'. Gang awa' back an' sit down an' try an' forget a' aboot what you hae
seen. Dinna look up till she gangs back intae the hoose," and the old
woman kept Annie sitting back at the bedside in the corner farthest from
the window until Mag staggered to her home, her face streaming with
blood.

Not a soul was in sight as Mag returned; but many a pair of eyes watched
her from behind curtained windows, and expressions of sympathy were
common even though her relations with Walker were common knowledge in
the village, and had been censured by everyone in consequence for her
misdeeds. They all knew why Mag had "opened out" on Walker that morning
and the reason she had been set aside for another who pleased his fancy.

Tam Granger and his wife had recently come into the district from a
neighboring village, where Leebie's name had been coupled with a local
draper's or packman's in some scandal. Black Jock had soon got into
contact with them and finding them willing tools he had deserted Sanny
and Mag Robertson. All the contracts were taken from Sanny and given to
Tam, and it was this that had made Mag watch for Walker coming in for
his breakfast, determined to have it out with him, with the result which
is chronicled above.

The encounter between Mag and Black Jock was the talk of the village.
Mag was mad with rage, and having washed her bruised face, she ramped
out and in all day, washing the floor, clattering among dishes and
scouring pots and pans. She was working off her anger and swearing and
threatening, until most of the other women in the row grew afraid, and
kept as much as possible within doors the rest of the day.

When the men returned from work the whole episode had to be gone through
and described to them by their wives.

When Sanny Robertson came home that afternoon, he found Mag with swollen
lips and half closed eyes and a face bruised all over. He did not have
to wait long for explanations. She railed and swore and raged until one
wondered from where she got all the energy, and all the strength. It was
amazing why she did not collapse altogether.

Sanny sat quietly listening without comment, then washed himself and sat
smoking by the fire for a time. He was a quiet go-as-you-please man, not
given much to talking. But finally he could stand it no longer, and he
took hold of his wife by the shoulder, saying.

"Noo, jist you listen, an' for God's sake shut your mooth. It'll no dae
a bit o' guid ravin' like that. We are in a bigger hole noo than ever we
hae been in a' oor lives, an' mind that. I've made up my mind what I am
gaun tae dae. Sae listen. I'm gaun straucht awa' ower to Rundell's the
morn, at the time when Mr. Rundell gangs hame frae the office for his
breakfast, an' I'll tell him everything aboot the contracts. Then I'm
gaun awa' doon the country tae look for work, an' I'll flit oot o' here
an' tae hell wi't. Noo shut up an' gae me peace and quateness for an
hoor, so that I can think oot things. You get awa' tae bed. Maybe by
richt I should gang doon tae Black Jock an' stap a knife in him--if for
nae ither thing than the way he has treated you the day, I should dae
that. But I'm no gaun to dae it the noo. I'm no' blaming you for what
has happened; for I'm mair to blame than you are. But I'll be even wi'
that black beast, an' put an end to his rotten career, someway or
another. Sae aff you gang to your bed, an' gie me a quate hoor tae
mysel'," and there was such a quiet authoritative ring in his voice that
Mag dared not disobey it, and she went quietly off to bed while he sat
by the fireside smoking and thinking, and feeling that his home that
night must surely be the most unhappy place on God's earth.

About midnight he knocked the ashes from his pipe, and placing it on the
mantelpiece, went to bed and soon fell asleep, but Mag, an insane
decision taking shape in her brain, lay and brooded and tossed till well
on in the morning, when she rose, kindled the fire, "redd up" the house,
prepared the breakfast and awoke her husband to partake of the meal she
had prepared.

Never a word was spoken between them, and at last Sanny, after washing
and dressing, walked out without a word, but fully determined in his
heart to get equal with Walker before the day was over.

He went straight to Rundell House, and ringing the bell asked to see the
mine owner.

He was shown into a room and Mr. Rundell came to him almost before he
had been comfortably seated.

"Well, Sanny," he began genially. "What brings you here this morning?"

"A business that I'd rather no' been comin' on," replied Sanny uneasily
shifting on his chair.

"Oh, nothing serious, I hope, is it?"

"Ay, it's serious enough," returned Sanny. "Mair serious than you think,
Mr. Rundell; an' I dinna ken what you'll think o' me after I hae telt
you."

"Oh, well, in that case," said the mine owner, becoming serious, and
speaking with slow deliberation. "Just let me hear what it is all about,
and we'll see how matters stand after you have told me," and he sat
down in a chair opposite Robertson as he spoke.

"I hae lost my contracts, sir," began Sanny, not knowing how else to
open up the subject. "But I'm gaun to tell you the hale story just in my
ain way, so I want you to sit quate and no' interrupt me; for I hinna
jist the knack of puttin' things maybe as they should be put. But I'll
tell you the hale story an' then leave you to do as you like, an' think
what you like."

"Very well, Sanny. Just go on. I did not know you had lost them. But
just let me hear about the trouble in your own way."

"For gey near twenty year," began Sanny, "I've had maist feck o' the
contracts in your pits back and forrit--me an' Tam Fleming. Walker an'
us were aye gey thick, an' though it maybe was putten doon to you that
oor offer to work ony special job was the cheapest, I may tell you that
I never put in an offer in my life for yin o' them. Walker an'--an'"
here Sanny stammered a little, "Walker an' oor Mag were gey thick, an'
I'm ashamed o' this part o' the story; for I should hae been man enough
to protect her frae him. But the money was the thing that did it, Mr.
Rundell, an' I'm no' gaun to mak' excuses noo aboot it. But every
bargain I had, I had to share the pay, efter the men was payed, penny
aboot, wi' Walker. That was ay the bargain. He gaed us the job at his
ain feegure, an' we shared the profits wi' him.

"Noo, jist keep yoursel' cool a bit," he said, holding up his hand as
Rundell made to speak. "We did gey well," he resumed in his even
monotone, like a man who was repeating something he had learned by
heart. "But gey soon I found that I was expected to spend a good share
o' my pay in drink, while Walker took a', an' never spent a penny. So it
was, that for a' the money we made we've been gey little the better o't,
an' very much the worse o' it. Without exception we shared penny aboot
with Walker on every bargain we got, an' I ken he has a guid bank
balance, while I hae nane.

"Noo, this is a rotten story frae end to end o't," he went on after a
short pause to wipe his face with a handkerchief. "I allowed him to
ruin my wife's character. I kent it was gaun on a' the time; but like
mony mair I hae kent, a manager's favor was mair to me than the honor o'
a wife. I let him tak' a share o' the money I made, an' spent my ain to
keep him up on drink. But noo it's ended a'. A wheen o' weeks syne, a
man ca'd Tam Granger came to the place and his wife being young an'
fresh, an' guid-looking, besides being free, Walker's fancy was ta'en
wi' her. So you ken what it means, when a gaffer carries on like that,
an' the man is saft enough as weel as the woman being willin'. Tam got
my contracts this week, an' I have to gang back into a common place and
howk coals.

"Weel, the wife couldna' stand being slighted like thet, an' Granger's
wife had been tantalizin' her too, you ken hoo women rave when they are
slighted. So she opened oot on Walker yesterday mornin' an' followed him
up the row, the hale place being turned oot to hear her exposure o' him.
She fair gaed mad wi' anger I think, an' lost a' control o' hersel' an'
she followed him shouting so that a' the neighbors could hear her
tauntin' an' jibin' at him, till he could staun it nae langer, an' he
turned an' struck her, knockin' her doon on the green, an' then kickin'
her, till she's a' bruised ower the body. She has an' awfu' lookin' face
too, an' she came in bleeding like a sheep.

"So that's the hale ugly story, Mr. Rundell. As I said I'm gaun to mak'
nae excuses. There's nane tae mak'; an' I'm cheap served for it a'. I
should hae stood by the wife and protected her. But I'll dae it noo.
She's mine, an' if she's no guid it is me that is to blame. I'm leavin',
an' I'm gaun awa' doon the country the morn to look for work; but I
thocht I'd tell you the whole rotten story first, then I'll get Walker,
an' hae a reckonin' wi' him an' be off the morn. I'll pay off that
black-hearted brute this day afore I leave Lowwood an' then my
conscience will be easier."

Mr. Rundell sat stupefied and amazed at the story just told him by
Robertson, and just as both men sat staring at each other and before
another word could be said, a miner burst into the room, almost
exploding with excitement, crying:--

"Oh, Mr. Rundell, you've to come to the pit at once. A woman has flung
herself doon the shaft."

"Guid God! That'll be oor Mag," cried Sanny, starting up and out at the
door, running in the direction of the pit and stumbling every few yards
in his excitement.

When Sanny had left the house that morning to go and interview Mr.
Rundell, Mag, with the insane decision she had made overnight still
holding her mind, dressed herself in her best clothes, and without
hesitation set off to the pit.

On her way down the row she stepped into Leebie Granger's house very
excited though she had been fairly quiet all morning; so quiet in fact
that Phemie Grey and Annie Watson could not help remarking upon it.

"She's been awfu' quate a' mornin', Phemie," said Annie, going into her
neighbor's house. "She has worked away there as if she was gaun to clean
the hale place, scrubbing oot the floor, although she washed yesterday;
an' noo, she has on her Sunday best, wi' her new hat on too, an' she's
awa' into Leebie Granger's. I wonner what'll hae ta'en her noo."

"Guid kens," replied Phemie, "but she's fair off her heid. Dae ye ken
she's just like a daft body. Did you see the look in her e'en?" and so
they discussed poor Mag, who had drawn their attention by the
strangeness of her behavior.

"Oh, dinna be feart, Leebie," began Mag as she saw Leebie's apprehensive
look. "I'm no' gaun to meddle wi' you, although I swore yesterday that I
would. You've only done what I did before you. You are young, an' mair
pleasin' than I am noo, an', as he said, I hae had a good innins. But,
Leebie, you'll hae to look for another fancy man. He'll no' be lang
yours. I'll see to that. Him an' me will gang oot thegither, if I can
manage it. We've baith been rotten, an' it's richt that we should gang
baith at once, an' rid the place o' a dam'd bad sore. Guid day, Leebie.
It's a dam'd puir life to leave, an' while it maybe is a woman's lot in
life to sell hersel' for ease and comfort, it's a' bad for her when she
does it in a way that the world says is a wrang way; for she soon finds
that her life isna worth a tinker's curse. She sells hersel' an' it's no
worth while complainin' if the bargain turns oot a rotten yin.

"If every woman had plenty of honest work, there wad be nae fancy women,
for they wadna ned do it. Guid day, Leebie. Maybe you'll think I'm
strange a wee an' maybe so I am. You micht think I'm daft; an' maybe so
I am. But after a while when you get time to think, you'll maybe feel
that you hae heard mair soond sense oot o' Mag Robertson when she was
mad than ever she spoke when she was supposed to be wise. Guid day,
Leebie. Think ower a' I have said. I'm no gaun to hurt you; but I'm gaun
to tak' Black Jock oot o' your clutches as shair as daith. You've had
your innins too; but it has been a dam'd short yin. I've had mine, an'
the game is feenished noo. It's time the hale thing was totaled up so
that we can see wha is the winner. I've been maybe playin' a losin'
game, Leebie, but noo we'll ken afore lang. Guid day, Leebie. I'm off,"
and she was out of the door leaving Leebie speechless with fear and
amazement.

Mag flew down the brae to the pit almost running, while Leebie and other
neighbors looked after her with a strange dread at their hearts.

When Mag arrived at the pit she asked a boy if Walker was up the pit yet
for his breakfast.

"I dinna' think so," replied the boy. "He's kind o' late this mornin';
but there's the bell chappit three," he said as the signal was made from
the bottom that men were about to come up. "That'll likely be him coming
up."

The boy had no sooner spoken, than with a mad rush Mag darted forward,
and opening the gates at the "low scaffold," where no one was near,
being situated below the pit-head proper, with a loud scream she hurled
herself down the shaft.

"God Almichty!" roared the engineman who saw all from the engine house,
as he rushed out of the door, calling to the pit-head workers. "Mag
Robertson has flung hersel' doon the shank!" and immediately all was
consternation.

The engine keeper had just been in the act of signaling down to Walker,
who was ready to ascend when he saw the flying figure dart forward and
fling herself into the yawning abyss.

Walker, standing at the foot of the shaft waiting for the answering
signal from above, heard the noise and the rush of Mag's body as it
bumped from side to side in its mad descent, and starting back, he was
just in time to get clear as the mangled mass of rags and blood and
pulpy flesh fell with a loud splashy thud at the bottom, the blood
spattering and "jauping" him and the bottomer, and blinding their eyes
as it flew all over them.

"In the name o' Heavens what's that?" yelled Walker, screaming in terror
and jumping aside from the bloody upturned face, with the wide, staring
eyes, which he seemed to recognize, as the other parts of the body lay
about, still quivering and twitching, and a horrible sickness came over
him and terror flooded his mind.

"Bell, three, quick!" cried Walker, frantic with desperation in his
voice. "Bell three, dammit. An' let us up out o' here. Hurry up, hell to
you," and he drew the bell himself, and without waiting on the signal
back from above, jumped into the cage, averting his face from those
horrible eyes, which lay staring at him out of the darkness.

"Chap it awa', man!" he yelled at the bottomer, his voice rising to a
scream. "Chap it, an' let us up to hell oot o' this," and the bottomer,
no less frightened than he, tore at the bell, and jumping in himself
just as the cage began slowly to ascend, clung to the bar, shivering
with terror.




CHAPTER XIX

BLACK JOCK'S END


When Walker reached the surface, he was like a madman. He raved and
swore and frothed like a churn, running here, there and everywhere
nearly collapsing with rage, which sprang from terror.

Usually cool and calculating, steady and active-minded, he seemed to
have lost all grip upon himself. He had been drinking heavily the night
before and was none too sober in the morning when he was called upon to
go to work. Mag Robertson's attack the night before had sent him to the
drink, and being a heavy drinker he was in a bad state the following
morning. Mr. Rundell found him swearing and raving in a great passion,
sacking men and behaving like a maniac.

"Look here, Walker," he began at once, his quick temper rising anew as
he thought of the story Sanny Robertson had told him. "I'll give you
twenty-four hours to get out of here and away from the place; and if you
are not gone in that time I shall inform the police. I know the whole
story regarding the setting of the contracts. Sanny has told me, and if
I was doing right I would not give you a single minute."

Walker seemed to calm down all at once, and his eyes became cringing as
those of a kicked cur as he stood before the angry mine-owner.

"But I hinna telt you a' he has done," said Sanny Robertson, who came up
just then in time to hear Mr. Rundell's words. "The dirty black-hearted
brute murdered Geordie Sinclair. He telt me himsel' one nicht at the
time when we were drinkin' together. He kent a' aboot Geordie workin' on
the boss ground an' sent him to his death to get rid of him because in a
soft moment I had telt Geordie hoo the contracts were set. He was feart
Geordie wad tell you. He's a black-hearted murderer, an' noo he has
added Mag's death to his list o' damnation. Tak' that! an' that! you
dirty villain! I'll save the hangman the bother o' feenishin' you!" and
Sanny was upon Walker tearing at him like a cat, and clawing his face
with his nails, punching, biting and kicking him as hard as he could
drive his hands and feet.

The attack was so sudden that Walker went down, and Sanny was on top of
him before anyone could intervene.

"I'll tear the thrapple oot o' you, you dirty swine!" he squealed, as he
tugged at Black Jock's throat.

Mr. Rundell and a couple of laborers soon pulled Sanny up, though he
struggled to maintain his hold upon the throat of his adversary.

"Let me at him," he yelled, striving to get free. "Let me at him, an'
I'll save the hangman a guid lot o' bother stretchin' his dirty neck!
Oh, you swine! You dirty murderin' beast!" he shrieked, as he tried to
break away from the restraining hands which held him.

But Sanny was soon overpowered, and Walker, bounding to his feet, was
off up the railway towards his home, terror filling his heart, and his
mind reeling with fear.

Mr. Rundell quickly organized a band of men to descend the shaft and
recover Mag's body, and soon the whole village was in possession of the
news, and the excitement was intense.

They gathered her up, a mass of dirty, pulpy flesh, scraping the remains
together and shoveling them into a rude improvised box, the head and
eyes being the only part of the body that resembled anything like a
human being.

"Hell to my sowl, but this is the warst job that ever I got," said
Archie Braidhurst, as he scraped a mass of blood and bones, mud and
rags, together. "It's a hell o' a daith to dee."

"Ay, puir lassie," replied Adam Lindsay. "She's made a splash at the
hinner end. Mag ay cried that it was best to mak' a splash aboot the
things you did; but, by sirs, she has made yin this time. What an awfu'
mess!"

"Splash!" echoed Archie with a grim laugh. "She's gane a' into jaups.
She maun hae thocht she was a juck-pool. I would like to dee like a
Christian when I dee, and no' shuffle oot like a scattered explosion, or
a humplick o' mince."

"Oh, for Heaven's sake shut your mooth, an' let us get her gathered up
an' get oot o' here. Dammit, hae ye nae common sense, swearin' an'
jokin' about sic a thing! It's enough to tempt Providence, an' had it
no' been for the tumblerful o' whisky that Mr. Rundell gied us I dinna
think I could hae faced it. It's awfu'!"

"What the hell are ye girnin' at?" asked Archie, turning round on him.
"Are ye feart Mag bites ye? Man, she's got a' her bitin' by noo,
although I admit she's made a hell o' a mess at the end. Pit your shovel
in here an' lift this pickle, an' no' stand there gapin' like a grisly
ghost at the door o' hell! Fling it into her gapin' mouth, if you think
she's goin' to bite you!" and the others laughed uneasily at Archie's
sardonic humor.

It was a nerve-trying experience for most of them, and they felt sick
with horror of it, in spite of the whisky and their grim jokes. The pit
was put idle, and the men went home. A gloom brooded over the whole
place.

Black Jock saw Mag Robertson's eyes staring at him, as he hurried over
the moor. He had not even stopped to wash himself, but merely stowing
some money into his pocket, was off, not deigning to answer his
daughter's enquiries as to what was wrong, or where he was going. Every
wild bird upon the moor seemed to shout at him in accusation; every
living thing seemed to scream out in terror as he approached.

He laughed a harsh laugh, like the cry of a wild beast, and the sheep
scampered away in fear. The wind moaned out of the gray clouds, which
lay thick upon the hidden hills, and there was an early iciness in its
breath as it groaned past; A soft, slushy sound rose from the moor at
every step, until it seemed that even earth protested. Eerie and sad the
moor was, gray and threatening the hills. Laughing at intervals that low
gurgle which sprang from fear, as some wild bird would start up at his
approach, he plodded on.

He did not know where he was going. He had no particular objective. He
did not know what line he would pursue. He only wanted to get away from
the scene of the tragedy, and those terrible eyes staring, which seemed
to follow him from behind every bush or clump of heather, till in the
gray mist it seemed as if the moor were alive with them.

Eyes everywhere. Eyes that never winked or moved. Eyes that never
trembled with recognition or glimmered with life. Dead eyes, cold eyes,
immovable and clear--horribly clear they were--eyes that simply stared,
neither showing accusation nor denunciation; but there they were at
every tuft of yellow grass, behind every moss-hag, and staring like
pools of clear silent death, which struck horror to his heart. He
bounded sideways as a partridge on whirring wing flew away at his
approach, and almost dropped dead with fright as a muircock, with loud
protesting voice, seemed to scream: "'way back! 'way back! 'way back!"
and then, drawing out into a low grumbling command, as it came to earth
a few hundred yards away, still muttering its orders to him, as he
momentarily stood to recover from his fright.

The whinny of a horse upon the hillside, the low cry of a young cow, the
bleat of a sheep, all added to his feeling of dread, until the sweat
streamed down his body, as he swung along the moor.

At last he came to a little village, about six miles from Lowwood, and,
entering the inn, he called for a supply of whisky.

"It's kind o' cauld the day," the landlady said in an affable way, as he
stepped into the bar.

"Warm enough where I have been," he replied bluntly. "Gie's something to
drink in whusky!"

"So it wad seem," she said in reply, noting his beaded forehead, as he
wiped it with a colored handkerchief.

"You've surely been gey hard ca'd wherever you hae been," and there was
a note of curiosity in her voice.

"I want a drink," he broke in abruptly, "an' it doesna matter a damn to
you whether I hae been hard ca'd or no'. You're surely hellish keen to
hae news. Dis a' your customers get the Catechism when they come in
here?" he queried. "If they do, I may as well tell you to begin with,
that I came in for whusky, an' no' to staun' an examination."

She saw at once that he resented her leisurely way and her attempt at
affability, and she hastened to apologize.

"Look dam'd sharp," he growled, as she attended to his order. "I want
whusky and plenty o' it."

"You are in an unco' hurry," she replied, getting nettled, as she filled
a glass. "It doesna' do to be so snottery as a' that."

"Well, dammit, look alive. I'm dying for a drink. Bring in a bottle," as
she placed a glass before him filled with whisky, "an' tak' the price o'
your dam'd poison aff that!" and he flung down a sovereign upon the
table.

"Look here," said the landlady, "I'll tak' nane o' your snash, so mind
that. If folk come in here to be served, they've got to be ceevil."

"Oh, there's nae harm," he said apologetically, with a forced laugh,
"but I'm in a hurry, and I want a drink."

"Weel, I maun hae ceevility. So if you don't gi'e the yin, you'll no'
get the ither."

"That's all right," he said. "Keep the sovereign. I may need more. Tell
me when it is all spent," and he filled a bumper and drained it without
a halt.

"Weel, ye may be dirty at many a thing," she observed, as she noted his
action, "but you're a gey clean drinker o' whusky anyway," and she left
him with his bottle to fuddle alone.

"A gey queer body that," she mused, as she returned to the bar. "Lod!
he's like a wannert thunder-storm, growlin' and grumblin', as if he had
got lost frae the rest o' his company. But he seems to hae plenty o'
siller anyway," she concluded, "an' he can drink whusky wi' anybody I
ever seen try it."

By and by a village worthy came in, and he was at once hailed by Black
Jock, and invited to have a glass.

"What are you drinkin', chappie?" he enquired.

"Same as you," was the reply, while a smile of pleased anticipation
hovered round the worthy's face at this unexpected good fortune. "I jist
ay tak' a moothfu' o' whusky. As a maitter o' fact, I was brocht up on
the bottle, and I hae never been spained yet."

"Right you are, cocky! Drink up! You're the man I am lookin' for to help
me to spend an hour or twa."

"That'll suit me a' to bits," was the reply, "an' you are jist the man I
hae been lookin' for. It's a guid thing we hae met, or we'd baith hae
been unhappy."

So the hours passed, and each newcomer was invited to join the company,
until it grew so large that the "big room" was requisitioned, and it
soon held a laughing, joking, drinking, good-natured set of as drouthy
individuals as ever met together in company. Every worthy for miles
around seemed to get the news of the free drinks, and whisky and beer
flowed like water, and the company grew more and more cheerful and
happy.

Bottle after bottle of drink was consumed, and as the company got
hilarious, a song was sung or a story was told, until the whole place
had the air of a fair day about it.

Jock spent his money freely, and his company drank his health as freely
as he paid for the drinks. So the merry hours went past, and the
darkness came on. Yet for all the whisky that Walker consumed, he never
seemed to get drunk. He was certainly a bit intoxicated, but was in that
condition described by one of the company next day as being "sensibly
drunk."

"Come on, damn you, you son of a tinkler," he urged. "Drink up, an' let
us mak' a nicht o't," and thus urged they drained their glasses, and had
them refilled again and again.

"Gie's a sang, Geordie," cried one of the company across the room to an
old shaggy-faced individual, who sat and laughed and drank with happy
demeanor, rubbing his bristly chin, which resembled the back of a
hedgehog, with dirty gnarled fingers which seemed made for lifting
glasses, having a natural crook in them, into which the glass as
naturally fitted. "You hinna sung anything yet. Gie's yin o' your ain
makin'."

"Lodsake, I canna sing," said Geordie, with the air of a man who wanted
to be told he could sing.

"Ach, you can sing fine," was the chorused reply from nearly everyone in
the company.

"Come on, Geordie, you ken you can sing fine. Man, there's no' a better
singer in the place, auld and a' as ye are."

"Och, I canna sing noo, Charlie," replied Geordie, clearing his throat,
"but I'll confess that I hae seen the day when I could lilt it wi' the
best o' them."

"Oh, but we a' ken fine that you can sing. Man, it's a treat to hear
him," said Charlie, turning to Black Jock. "He could wile the bird aff
the bush. Gie's yin o' your ain, Geordie. It's aye best to hear you at
yin o' your ain."

"Oh, weel," said Geordie with a show of reluctance, as he rose to his
feet, making a noise in his throat, like the exhaust pipe of an engine,
"seein' that you are all so pressin' on the maitter, I'll gi'e ye a bit
verse or twa."

A roar of applause greeted Geordie as he sat down, and words of
appreciation broke from everyone in the room.

"Dam'd guid, Geordie! Fill up your glass. That deserves a richt guid
dram!" cried Black Jock, as he reached across the table and poured a
bumper for Geordie. "Wha's gaun to sing next? Come on, chaps; let us
mak' a nicht o't!"

"Hear, hear," said Geordie. "I'm just feelin' in gran' fettle for a
nicht. Tammas Fairly will gie's a bit verse maybe. He can sing a fair
guid song."

"Me sing!" exclaimed Tam. "Gae awa'! Ye ken fine I canna sing like you,
Geordie," and there was a hint of assumed bashfulness in Tam's voice as
he spoke.

"Come on, Tam. There's to be nae jookin' oot o' it. It's to be a sang
roon' aboot, so you micht as weel begin noo, an' get your turn by."

"Ay, come on," chimed in Walker. "Let us enjoy oorsel' the nicht, when
we are in a mood for it. Guid kens when we may ever spend a nicht
thegither again. Come on, Tam, get up!"

"Oh, weel," said Tam with bashful reluctance, "I'll do my best," and
clearing his throat, Tam sang.

"Hear, hear!" roared Black Jock. "That deserves a bumper too, Tammas.
Fill up your glass. An honest dram's afore a' the simperin' Judies that
ever held up their gabs to be kissed!" and filling another round, they
drank, and roared, and cried their appreciation.

The fun waxed fast and furious, as song after song was sung, which
sometimes were capped by a rough story or a questionable joke from
someone in the company.

"But you havena gi'en us a sang yoursel'!" observed Charlie, turning to
Black Jock, after most of the company had obliged with an effort.

"No, I havena gi'en you a sang," he replied with a coarse laugh, "but I
hae paid for a' the drinks, an' I suppose that'll please the maist o'
you better than a dizzen sangs frae me."

"Quite true," said Geordie. "You're a gentleman, an' I never met a
better. I only hope we'll hae the pleesure o' meetin' you here again
afore lang. It's been yin o' the best nichts I hae spent for a lang
time."

"That's true, Geordie," said Charlie. "He has gi'en us yin o' the best
nichts I hae ever spent. In fact I never min' o' haein' a better, an' to
celebrate it, if nane of you hae ony objections, I'll sing anither
sang."

"Hear, hear," cried Walker heartily. "Order for the sang," and he tapped
the table loudly with a bottle, as he called for quietness amid the din.

"Order for the sang, boys!" bawled Geordie, "Charlie is gaun to favor
the company," and as the noise immediately ceased, Charlie sang a song
about the fascinating women.

"That's a guid yin, Charlie," roared Walker, thumping the table as he
roared. "I hae had a lang experience o' weemin' bodies," and he winked
across to Geordie as he spoke, "an' I can say they are rale
blood-suckers. They're like whisky, gran' at the time, but you sing
sorry next day, an' fin' oot what a fool you hae been. They hing on to
you like leeches, an' mak' a mess o' things at the en'. Though you had a
face like a crocodile as long as you had plenty of cash, they'd lick
your feet; when your money's done, they're awa' like swallows at the
first nip o' autumn frost!"

"Ay, it's a dam'd funny world," he went on in a lower tone, as if half
speaking to himself. "A fu' purse an' you've plenty o' frien's, an' a
woman when you need her, but if your purse is toom, your heart may
grien a hell o' a lang while afore yin wad ever come near you."

Thus the evening passed till some were lying below the table, unable to
sit up and take their round; and finally the closing hour arrived, and
all had to disperse.

Black Jock, again left to himself, deserted by all his company, and in
spite of all the drink he had consumed walking fairly steadily, stepped
out upon the country road, neither caring nor knowing in which direction
he went. His head bent forward upon his breast, or rolling occasionally
from side to side, seemed too heavy for his neck to support, as he
swayed from the center of the road to its margin.

The horrible staring eyes began again to infest his journey, and seemed
to accompany him wherever he went. He could not get away from them. Out
in the lonely night, the whole sky merry with stars, was alive with
staring eyes, that glared down upon him from above with a cold sinister
light. They looked at him from the hedgerows; they glared at him from
behind every bush or knoll by the wayside; they glowered at him from
behind the trees; and they even perched upon his shoulders and peeped at
him in accusation.

"Damn you!" he growled, striking at them as if he would brush them from
his sight; but still they followed and accused no matter where he
turned. He grew more and more irritated and alarmed, as they seemed to
multiply with every minute that passed; and he quickened his pace, but
in spite of his speed, they still pursued and multiplied.

Driven mad by the persistence of their stare, he rushed from side to
side of the road, striking at them, hitting out with his hands, and
kicking with his feet; but still they grew in numbers and in immensity.

He shook himself as if to free his body from them; he rushed ahead,
swearing and muttering; he growled and shouted, sometimes pleading to be
let alone, and sometimes roaring defiance to the night air; but still
the eyes held him relentlessly, implacably, and ever growing in numbers,
until it seemed as if the whole countryside were alive with them. They
came nearer and receded again; they swarmed round him in legions, then
withdrew behind the hedges to stare at him with wide-open lids. They
drew him onward, and he advanced cautiously. Then they rushed at him,
and retired again, as if driven back; but still they were there, just
round the bend of the road, just behind that bush, just over that hedge,
and behind that tree, glaring and looking at him, and ready to rush
forth again as soon as they thought he was sufficiently off his guard.

"Back!" he roared again, striking out with his fist as they rose only a
couple of yards ahead. "Back! an' be damned to you," as a whole swarm
larger and larger, so that they lighted up the night, came rushing round
him.

They were hissing and roaring at him this time. They had hitherto been
silent, and he seemed to hear at first a low murmuring whisper, as if
they consulted together as to the best way to attack him. Then the
whisper grew to a louder swishing sound like the noise Mag had made as
her body hurtled from side to side on falling down the shaft. It grew
louder and louder, like the wind coming through far-off trees, gradually
swelling to a roar. The eyes grew in numbers and got larger with the
noise; and finally, with terror clutching at his heart and an oath upon
his lips, he turned to run back, only to find that they had all merged
into two wide, horribly glaring fiery eyes which were bearing down upon
him with the speed and noise of an express train. They were on him
before he could turn, as if they now realized that he was fully at their
mercy, and with the courage of desperation he flung himself bodily upon
them and went down crushed beneath the heavy mass of a motor driven with
reckless speed by a young man rushing to catch a train.

Walker was down before the young man realized what had happened and the
hoot of the horn had merely spurred Black Jock to the last desperate
leap to death, the lights of the motor having taken on the shape of all
the pursuing eyes that had followed him that night.

When he was taken from beneath the wheels, his neck broken and his body
smashed, Black Jock had paid the last penalty, and the eyes which
destroyed him flashed out accompaniment to his departing soul. And the
winking skies, still merry with the stars of night, looked down unmoved,
while the night-birds on the moor answered one another in their flight,
and called a last farewell to the spirit of Black Jock.




CHAPTER XX

THE CONFERENCE


The storm which had been brewing in the industrial firmament grew more
threatening and the clouds grew blacker until it seemed as if nothing
could prevent a commotion on a big scale.

The demand for a fuller life and more security was being made by the
miners all over the country. Organization was proceeding apace, and a
new idea was being glimpsed by the younger men especially, which filled
their hearts and fired their imagination.

"Do you think the time has come now, Bob?" asked Robert Sinclair,
speaking to Smillie one day, as they proceeded by rail to a conference
together, "when the whole Federation can try its power in a demand for
something real?"

"What do you mean by something real, Robert?" asked Smillie, with a keen
look at the young, eager face turned towards him.

"Some guarantee of comfort in our lives," was the reply. "You know that
we have none now. You and others of us have been teaching the miners to
work towards the day when a standard of ease and comfort will be assured
to all. We have worked for it, and the miners now are looking for
something tangible."

"Yes, I know; but do you think, Robert, that the time has come to put it
to the test?" and Smillie had gone on to tell of some of the
difficulties they were faced with.

So they talked and discussed, exchanging opinions and hopes; and all
over the mining world their dreams were being voiced, and had helped to
make the coming crisis.

Conferences were held, and the whole matter threshed out from every
angle. The miners were united as they had never been before and the
whole of the British miners were determined to use their organization to
enforce their demands.

It was a triumph for Smillie's genius, the climax of his dream, to have
them united as one body to fight what he called their real enemies. One
federation linked together by common ideals, with common interests bound
by common ties, united by traditions, by creed, by class, by common
tastes shared, by suffering and hardship. It was his monument, and
perhaps he regarded it with no little pride.

When Robert was appointed delegate to the council of his Union from his
branch, he set himself to master thoroughly, in every detail, its
machinery, and very soon his voice was raised in the debates, and it
amazed even himself to find what a power he seemed to possess over his
fellows. He soon learned to state his case in simple unaffected language
which took a marvelous hold upon his hearers, while at times his warm
glowing imagination would conjure up a living picture that hit with
irresistible force, and made a lasting impression upon those who
listened.

He gradually became more fluent, and studied how best to impress his
comrades. His earnestness and enthusiasm were unquestioned, and
sometimes were even found to be a serious obstacle to the older type of
leader, men for the most part lacking imagination, and whose older and
more prosaic outlook could not understand the younger man, whose zeal
they regarded with impatience.

But Smillie soon recognized Robert's talent and his worth, and gave him
more scope than he otherwise might have done.

Robert's admiration for his chief was unbounded, though it did not keep
him from differing from Smillie at times on matters of detail. On
principles they were generally at one with each other and while it was
rarely that they differed, the occasions upon which they did so were
remembered by all who heard. Smillie soon realized that there was an
unshakable will behind the young man, and watched him under every
difficult occasion with a certain amount of pride, as he grew in
individuality and resource. Robert was not a frequent speaker, but was
always listened to with respect when he did speak.

An industrial crisis was upon the country and everyone was expectant,
and wondering how it would all end. Keir Hardie's preaching of the
working class gospel was a big factor in Robert's development and the
latter was soon in demand for platform lectures, stirring up the workers
and pleading with them to organize, and teaching them economics through
historical allusion and industrial evolution until he soon became
recognized as one of the coming forces in the working-class movement. He
was as yet very impulsive, and while such a trait had generally a
powerful appeal on the average audience of the working class type, it
often put him into somewhat compromising situations, when dealing with
the more sober and serious work of the organization. Still he was
showing up well, and only time and experience were needed to cure his
defects. So the year ended, and the cloud grew more and more
threatening.

January brought the crisis to a head, and the Government, recognizing
that nothing could avert a strike and as the foreign situation was
passing through a critical period, requested that a conference should be
called in London, and invited the miners and the mine-owners to come
together so that the Prime Minister and other statesmen could be present
to try and adjust the grievance. It was a historic gathering and one
that marked an epoch in the history of the industrial movement.

Delegates were present from almost every Miners' Lodge in Great Britain,
while the owners were also fully represented.

The Prime Minister acted as chairman of the gathering and he was
supported on the platform by other members of the Government, while
Smillie and other well-known leaders represented the men and a number of
the owners represented the Coal Masters' Association.

The platform party was an imposing one. Men of big reputation were
there, and Robert felt himself wondering, as he looked at them, how
ordinary they looked after all, and he began to speculate as to the
qualities they possessed which had given them such importance.

"That's the Chancellor o' the Exchequer," said one of the delegates to
Robert, pointing out the individual named. "He's a wee eatin'-an'-spued'
lookin' thing when you see him sittin' there, isn't he?"

"Ay," answered Robert casually, as he surveyed the group. "I was just
wondering how it was they had a' gained such reputations. In appearance
they are not much to boast about."

"Ach, they're jist a lot o' oily tongued wheedlers," was the reply, "an'
that wee ferrit-eyed yin is the worst o' them a'. Just wait till he
begins to speak, an' you'll think he's a showman. He can fairly pit on
the butter, an' he'll send us a' away hame in the belief that we're the
finest set o' men he ever met, an' mak' us feel that if we decide to do
anything against what he recommends, the hale country will gang to
ruin."

"Oh," said Robert, as his fellow delegate paused, "I've read aboot him."

"Ay, but wait till you hear him. We can a' come up here as angry as
hell, ready to string him up to the nearest lamp-post; but after he has
spoken an' slaivered ower us for a while, we begin to feel differently,
an' finally gang awa hame wi' our minds made up that we are the salt o'
the earth. Man, it tak's a' the sting oot o' bein' dune, to be dune sae
well an' sae completely."

"Yes, but when you know that why do you allow yourselves to be
wheedled?"

"Ach, man; it's a' right askin' that question; but efter thae chaps get
round aboot you, wi' their greasy tongues, an' their flatterin' ways,
you jist begin to think that it's nae use to bother ony mair aboot
resistin'. Look at that auld fermer-collier lookin' chiel, wi' his white
heid an' his snipe-nose an' a smile on his face that wad mak' you
believe he was gaun to dae you some big service. That's the smile that
has made him Prime Minister. You'd think frae his face that he was just
a solid easy-gaun kindly auld fermer, who took a constant joy in givin'
jeelie-pieces to hungry weans. But when he speaks, and gets a grip o'
you, he's yin o' the sooplest lawyers that ever danced roun' the rim o'
hell withoot fallin' in. He'd do his faither, that yin. He wad that."

Robert looked at the various individuals as they were described, keenly
interested and feeling that this comrade of his was describing much of
what he himself had felt about these men, and wondered more and more as
to what it was that had given them their power.

"They're a fine rogues' gallery when you see them a' sittin' there,"
went on the other. "They ken we are up here the day determined to demand
our terms, an' that's the way they are a' turned out. Just you wait till
they begin, an' you'll see a fine bit o' play actin'. They'll play us
aboot as auld Tom Tervit wad play a trout in the Clyde. They hae ony
amount o' patience, an' they'll gae you onything but the thing you want.
They'd promise us the kingdom o' Heaven; an' they'll give us plenty o'
line to run wi'; but a' the time they'll be lookin' for a chance to land
us. An' they'll do it. Jist you wait."

"Well, it will be our own fault if we let them," said Robert, shortly,
as he listened. "I would not let any of them do that. If we have our
minds made up on what we want, I can't see why we should be wheedled
like that."

"Neither do I," was the reply. "But it is aye done for all that. Then
there's that ither chiel--I think he's on the Local Government Board or
something. He's a corker, wi' a face like yin o' they pented cupids that
the lasses send to the young men on picture postcards. Look at his nice
wee baby's mooth, an' the smile on it too. It wad dazzle a hungry
crocodile lookin' for its denner. His e'en are aye brighter than ony I
ever saw--an' speak! Guid God! He could speak for a hale June day. He's
gran' at makin' your flesh creep. He blinds you wi' sparks, an'
fire-works, his words are that hot an' glowin', an' he fair dumbfounders
you wi' fine soundin' sentences an' lang words. He's a corker I can tell
you! But here, they are gaun to begin," he broke off hurriedly as the
Prime Minister rose to his feet. Then in a sly whisper, he added:--"Just
you pay attention, an' tell me after if you can tell how we hae been
dune. They are here to do us the day, as sure as daith."

The Prime Minister's speech was a masterly plea for compromise; but
through it all, it seemed as if he was laying the blame upon the miners
for the critical stage which had been reached. He appealed and cajoled,
asked them to take long views, and talked fine platitudes about
self-sacrifice, and the spirit of brotherhood, which could alone bring
peace and contentment. The country was in danger, and it would be a
terrible crime if the miners forced a strike; for only upon the great
white solitudes of self-sacrifice and mutual help, whose peaks towered
away into the realms of eternity, could real satisfaction be gained, and
much more of a like kind.

Then followed other ministers, who took their cue from their chief; but
there was no hint that any of them had ever made a serious attempt to
understand the problem which has arisen to confront them so seriously.

They talked, or so at least it seemed to Robert, who sat in the body of
the hall with the rest of the delegates, to the miners as if they were
children, naughty and spoilt; and of course such an attitude could never
bring about any form of agreement to sensible men, who deal every day
with the life at the rough, raw edges of things.

So it was, when four of them had spoken after the Prime Minister, and
none of them had shown any attempt to grapple with the subject under
dispute, Robert felt more and more the truth of his fellow-delegates'
description. It was all a masterly bit of wheedling and the Chancellor's
effort especially was designed to win them over to a compromise
settlement.

He began jocularly with a broad jest which set the delegates all rocking
with laughter, telling how glad he was to be there to talk over with
them the difficulties which had arisen. It always gave him pleasure to
meet them and to get to know their point of view; because usually their
good sense and their large stock of prudence made them amenable to
listening to a reasoned argument.

He was glad they always recognized there were two sides to most
disputes, and he felt sure whatever the outcome of this conference might
be they would not allow their good sense to stand in the way of a
possible settlement. Gradually he worked into more serious lines, and
with vivid language, putting the case for the opposite side, gently
bringing their minds by degrees further and further away from the
point--the real point of issue.

Then finally when sufficiently developed, he gathered all the threads
together, and in a great burst of poetic eloquence and fiery fervor he
swept along like a tornado in a grand burst of superb oratory, his eyes
rolling and flashing, his hands and head poised into beautifully
effective gesture, and appealed to them in great rolling, fiery
sentences that completely swept the conference like a whirlwind, and sat
down amid a great burst of applause which broke with splendid
spontaneity from the assembled delegates, and the winning golden smile
upon his face which Robert's companion had described earlier in the day.

Robert could hardly analyze his feelings. He felt he did not know
whether to admire or condemn, but all the time he felt a slow rising
indignation within him, and that the Conference was being swung away
from what they had met to discuss. Perhaps it was his companions'
conversation that did it. He could not tell; but unable to contain
himself longer his impulsive nature getting the upper hand, he bounced
to his feet, pale and excited, though trying hard to curb and control
himself, and in a low tense voice, which at first halted a little,
electrified the gathering by a speech wrung from his very soul.

"Mr. Chairman," he began, in this unexpected incident, "I have listened
very attentively to the speeches just delivered by yourself and the
other honorable gentlemen."

Here some of the other delegates intervened to tell him that he was not
expected to speak, but the Prime Minister, for some reason unknown, told
him to go on and so he proceeded.

Then Robert proceeded to pour out his soul, stating the miners'
grievances and their rights as men. How they were always put off with
promises, and defeated in dialectics and the game of wits. As he spoke
he felt the assembly gradually thaw, then become liquid, finally it
seemed to join the torrent of his eloquence, and sweep on, blotting out
all resistance.

When at last he sat down a wild burst of applause rent the air, as he
sat down pale and excited; but glad that he had got the chance at last
of speaking what he felt to the enemies of his class.

For fully five minutes the delegates went wild in their cheering and
applause. Again and again it broke out afresh, when it had spent itself
a little, and seemed to be dying down, but the memory of it always
stirred them to fresh outbursts until at last, taking advantage of a
lull, the Prime Minister suggested that he and his colleagues would
prefer that the conference should stand adjourned till the next day, and
this was agreed to by the delegates, who were not averse to the holiday.

Congratulations were showered upon Robert from all sides. Even men who
differed from him on most things grasped his hand and shook it, and told
him how proud they were of his little speech.

Robert heard and saw all their pleased enjoyment but was vaguely
troubled in his heart, wondering how Smillie would have taken it, and
this pained him more than the pleasant things the other delegates said
to him.

"Man, Sinclair," said the one who had sat next to Robert in the
Conference, when they got out on to the street, "you've fairly upset the
hale jing bang o' them the day. Lod! But I was like a balloon in a high
wind, fair carried away wi' you. I never thocht you could have done
that. I was in the opinion that Smillie was the only yin that could
stand up to that set o' rogues. It was great. It was that."

Robert laughed uneasily and bashfully as he answered, "I couldn't help
it, Davie," then adding as an afterthought, "Maybe I hae put my fit in
it. I wonder how Smillie took it a'."

"Ach, well, it disna matter a damn, onyway. You did fine, an' I canna
see how Smillie has onything ado wi' it. However, we hae a hale day to
oorsel's now, what dae you say to gaun to the length of Kew Gardens?
It's a gran' place, an' I hae a sister oot there in service."

"Oh, I don't mind. I don't know onything aboot London and as you are
nae stranger, I might as well gang wi' you, as bother onybody else to
show me roun'."

"There's some of thae chaps'll fairly enjoy this," said Davie, nodding
in the direction of some of the delegates. "That's the way they agreed
to adjourn sae already. They jist leeve for the conferences. It's the
time they like. They booze and get their horns oot for a day or two, an'
I can tell you, Rab, it's maybe jist as well that they dinna bring their
weemin folks wi' them. However, it tak's a' kinds of folk to mak' a
world, I suppose, so let's off, and see as muckle o' London as
possible," and they set off and were soon swallowed up in the great
Metropolis.




CHAPTER XXI

THE MEETING WITH MYSIE


When the London Conference ended, the delegates hurried back to put the
terms of the suggested agreement before the men, and as they journeyed
the whole topic of conversation was of the Conference, and of the terms
which had been suggested as a basis for settlement of the dispute.

"Well, you can a' say what you like," put in Davie Donaldson, who had
sat beside Robert in the Conference, "but in my opinion we hae been
diddled again. The wee showman wi' the ferret een was too mony for us,
an' he jist twisted us round his wee finger as he liked."

"Ach, but you are never content," replied another who was of an opposite
opinion. "It doesna matter what kind o' terms you get, you're never
content."

"I'm no' content wi' thae terms ony way," persisted Davie stubbornly.
"What the hell's the use o' makin' a demand for something, an' sayin'
afore you gang that you mean to hae it, an' then to tamely tak' the hauf
o' it, an' gang awa' hame as pleased as a wheen weans wha have been
promised a penny to tak' castor oil? I'd be dam'd afore I'd tak' that."

"You're owre ill to please," said the other. "You're never satisfied wi'
a fair thing. Didn't you hear as weel as me that there was a danger o'
war breakin' oot at the present time, an' we couldna possibly hae a
strike at a time like this."

"War!" retorted Davie, heatedly. "They'll aye hae a war or something
else to fricht you wi', when you show that you mean business. Wha the
hell hae we to quarrel wi' onyway, I'd like to ken?"

"Oh, it micht be France, or Germany, or Russia, or some ither o' thae
cut-throat foreign nations."

"An' what are you gaun to quarrel aboot?" yelled Davie still more
heatedly.

"What the hell do I ken?" was the answer.

"Then, if you don't ken, why the damn should you quarrel? It's a dam'd
silly thing to fecht at ony time, but it's a dam'd sicht sillier to
fecht withoot haein' a quarrel at a'," cried Davie, now fairly roused.
"That's jist hoo they diddle us. They diddle the workers o' France an'
ither countries in the same way. Maybe the French Government is telling
the French colliers that there is a danger o' a war wi' Britain at this
minute, to keep them quate; an' if they are, do you an' me ken anything
aboot what the war will be for? No' a thing does yin o' us ken. Wars are
no' made by workin' folk at all! They are made wi' the ither crowd, an'
they laugh in their sleeves when they hae sent us awa' back to our work
an' oor hames as quate as mice," and Davie looked round in triumph,
asking with his eyes, and in the tones of his voice, for confirmation of
his views from the others.

Thus they talked and discussed, exchanging opinions about all things in
strong but expressive language, as the train sped northwards bearing
them home. District meetings were organized, and the leaders put
persuasively the arguments for the acceptance of the terms laid down.
All through the crisis the men had behaved admirably, for they had
learned to trust Smillie, even when they felt doubtful of his policy.
Robert took a big share in the organizing of these meetings and in
addressing them. He flung himself into this work whole-heartedly. The
terms certainly did not please him; but, as the majority at the London
Conference had decided to recommend them to the men, he thought it his
duty to sink his personal opinions, and in the interests of discipline
and the unity of the organization--as he had already had his say and had
been found in the minority--he put all his efforts into trying to get
the men to accept the suggested terms, and go forward as one united
body. His persuasive powers of appeal, and his straight, direct way of
argument, commended him to his comrades. By the time that the ballot had
been carried through in the various districts, it was mid-February, and
the Scottish delegates met in Edinburgh to give the result of the
voting among the rank and file.

Robert attended the Conference, and while he had appealed to the men to
accept the terms of the London Conference, he secretly hoped that the
ballot vote of the men would decide to fight; for, like Davie Donaldson,
he believed they had again been side-tracked. He wondered how Smillie
regarded the matter. He had not had an opportunity of talking with
Smillie to learn his opinion, but he felt sure that his leaders did not
like the terms either.

If, however, the men had agreed on acceptance, he could not help
matters; but a direct refusal from the rank and file would, he thought,
be an intimation to the more reactionary leaders that the spirit of
revolt was growing, and would give the rebels the chance for which they
were looking. But he would soon know, he thought, as he hastened to the
Synod Hall, where the Conference was to be held; for the result of the
ballot was to be announced at the end of the first part of the
Conference.

There was some routine business to get over when it opened, and after a
while the President rose and gave the result of the ballot, which showed
a considerable majority for acceptance, and this brought the adjournment
for dinner.

Robert felt that he wanted to spend a quiet five minutes or so before
the Conference resumed; so he hurried through with his dinner and then
strolled out into Princes Street Gardens, which attracted him very much.
His mind seemed to want peace and quietness, and as he walked along,
turning over the situation and examining it from all points of view, the
fluttering of early mating birds among the shrubs soon shifted his
thoughts to other things; and, as they romped and courted, and fought
among the bushes, his thoughts went back to the moor at home, and the
little wood, and the memories of other things.

The vague stirrings of power within him had become more pronounced
during the last six months, and he felt conscious of a growing sense of
importance. It was not that he was conceited, but his mental muscles, as
it were, seemed to have gained in power from the strenuous exertions
which they had lately undertaken.

He knew that he possessed talents far above the average of his class. He
was sensible of a certain superiority, yet it was not from the
contemplation of this that he drew his elation. He saw the issue quite
clearly and knew the pathway which must be trodden. He was not
personally ambitious for the sake of making an impression or gaining
power. He knew that in too many cases men had in the past made their
position a sinecure in the Labor Movement and he condemned their action.
The Movement must be served and not lived on. Not personal betterment,
but the betterment of the whole lot. Whatever it demanded of service
from anyone should be given willingly, no matter in what direction the
call were made.

Musing thus, he strolled along among his hopes of the future. His life's
work lay here, working for his own class--for humanity. There was
nothing else to win him; for like most young men in like circumstances
he had already concluded that now, since Mysie was not to be his, there
was nothing else to which he could better devote his life.

Where was Mysie, he wondered? What had happened to her? She had
completely gone out of everybody's knowledge, and no one seemed to know
anything about her.

He moved slowly along and at the thought of Mysie his former decision
seemed a cold one and he felt that she still held a big place in his
life. Moving towards a seat a little way ahead so that he might enjoy
this mood, the figure of a girl started up as if to go, and immediately
he rushed forward, all his pulses afire, and his whole being stirred
beyond words.

"Mysie!" he exclaimed, jumping forward, "Guid God! where have you come
from? Where have you been?" and his hands were holding hers, and his
eyes greedily scanning her face as if he would look into her very soul,
and read the story of the last few months.

"Oh, Rob," she said, with a gasp, "I didna think I wad meet you here."

"Sit down," he said hurriedly, as he recovered himself. "Sit down and
rest. You're ill. What's the matter? Where have you been? Tell me all
about it!" There were tears in Mysie's eyes too, as she weakly sat down,
unable to do anything else. She had recognized him as he approached, and
had started up to get away; but he had also recognized her, and she was
too late.

"Hoo is my mither an' my faither?" she enquired, after a short silence,
as she tried to recover herself. "Hoo are they a' at hame?" the greedy
heart hunger for loved ones drove her to the impatient enquiry. "Did
they miss me muckle, Rob? Were they awfu' vexed at what I did? Tell me
a' aboot it then, I want to ken."

"But you must tell me first aboot yoursel', Mysie," he replied
evasively, searching in his mind the best way to adopt in telling her of
the things he knew would wound her. "Come, Mysie," he urged, "you surely
can trust me. I have always been your friend, and I only wish now to
hear all about you. Why did you go away?"

She saw him look at her, and a quick flush overspread her thin, pale
cheeks as she detected his look. He had no need to ask further.

"Oh, Rob, I wish--I wish I had died a year syne!" and a wild burst of
sobbing came over her as she spoke.

"Dinna greet, Mysie," he said, as his hand reached out and began to
stroke her hair tenderly. Then after a short pause, "Wha was he, Mysie?
Tell me, an' I'll tear the black heart oot o' him!"

But Mysie only cried, uncontrollably, and hid her face in her hands; for
the homely doric on Robert's tongue touched her and it came readier to
him in moments like these, and the tender touch of his hand upon her
head gave her comfort, soothing her, and staying her grief, as a child
is quieted by the loving hand of a mother.

"I'll tell you a' aboot it, Rob," she said at last after a short time.
"An' I hope you'll no' tell onybody. There's naebody to blame but mysel'
for a' that has happened, an' I maun bear the punishment if there is
punishment gaun," and bit by bit, with many an effort to compose herself
as she spoke, she told him the whole sad story from beginning to end.

"There was naebody to blame, Rob--naebody but mysel'! I should hae kent
better. But I never thocht it wad hae turned oot as it has done. I hae
been gey ill, an' I maun say that Peter has been awful guid to me. He's
done his best to get me better, so that he can marry me afore it
happens. I lay for nearly six months, an' I wasna carin' whether I died
or no'! I was fair heartbroken, an' didna mind what happened. This is
the first day I hae been oot. He cam' this mornin' frae his lodgings tae
ask me tae gang oot a wee while in the sunshine, seein' that it was sic
a guid day, and Mrs. Ramsay brocht me oot here, and warned me to sit
till she cam' back. When I saw you comin' I got up to run awa', but I
dinna ken whaur to run to; for this big toon is a' strange to me, an'
I'm feart."

"Oh, if I had only kent! You maun keep yoursel' as free frae worry as
possible, an' try an' get better," he went on, trying to speak as
lightly as possible. "Keep up your spirits, an' you'll maybe soon be a'
better."

"Aye, Rob," she said, "but it's no' easy. An' I hae been gettin' waur
instead o' better. I ken mysel' that I'm no' improvin', an' I often
think it wad hae been better if I had died. When folk don't want to
live--when they've nothing to be happy aboot they are better to dee!"

"But you maunna talk like that, Mysie," he said again. "You'll get
better yet, an' be as happy as ever you were. It is only because you are
ill noo an' you sae weak, that mak's you talk like that. An' forby you
maun mind that there are ither folk wha'll be vexed if you dinna get
better. Your faither and your mither wad like to see you weel an' happy,
an' oh, Mysie, Mysie, I want you to get weel!" he broke out
passionately--pleadingly, the misery in his voice going to her heart as
it cried to her, ached for her, and suffered for her. "Wad you hae
married me, Mysie, if I had asked you afore you went awa'?" and his
hands were again stroking tenderly the brown hair and patting the thin
cheeks as he spoke and plead.

"Ay, Rob," she answered simply, "I wad hae married you. I sometimes
think yet that I'll never marry onybody else. As a lassie I aye dreamed
in my ain mind that I'd be your wife. It's awfu' hoo the things that
folk want maist are aye the things they never get!"

"Mysie, wad you marry me yet?" he asked, impulsively. "Jist this minute?
An' I'll tak' you hame, an' naebody will ken onything. I'll take a' the
blame, an' you can say that it was me. I'll nurse you back to health
again wi' my mither's help an' naebody need ken the richt wye o' it!"

"No, Rob," she said after a short pause. "I couldna dae that. It wad
neither be fair to you or me, nor to onybody else."

"But, Mysie," he went on in the low tender voice that was so difficult
to withstand, "you don't like Peter weel enough to be his wife. You say
you never intended to be onybody's wife but mine; an' what wye should
you no' do as I propose? You ken I'll never do onything else but love
you. You ken that, Mysie!"

"Ay, Rob," she answered, "I ken a' that. Naebody kens it better than me
noo; and that's what mak's it sae awfu' hard to refuse. But it wadna be
richt at a', an' that's a' that can be thocht aboot it. You maunna ask
me ony mair."

"But I will ask you," he cried in another burst of passion, "an' I'll
keep on askin' you. You ken you are mine, an' naebody else has a richt
to you. I love you, Mysie! Oh, can you no' see, lassie, that it wad be
a' richt if you'd do as I want you?"

"No, no, Rob. Dinna say that. It wadna be richt at a', an' I'd be doin'
anither wrang thing if I did."

"But you said jist the noo, that you sometimes thocht you wadna marry
onybody else?"

"Yes, I ken I said that," she replied. Then with pain in her voice as it
grew more pitiful, "Dinna ask me, Rob, to do that. I ken it wadna be
richt, an' you munna ask me ony mair; for though I said that I sometimes
thocht I wadna marry onybody else, I canna marry you noo. Oh! if only my
mither kent, it would break her heart, an' my faither wad dee o' the
disgrace! What do they think o' me, Rob? Tell me a'--hoo are they, an'
if they miss me very much."

"Your faither and mither nearly broke their hearts," he said simply,
"an' at nicht your mother lies an' thinks an' wonders what has come owre
you. You ken hoo a mither grieves an' worries aboot her bairns. She
never thocht o' sic a thing happening in her family. She was aye sae
prood o' them a'. I heard her say ane day to my mither that she dootit
you maun be deid, or you wad hae sent her word; and that you wadna hae
gane wrang. She never, she said, kent o' you takin' up wi' men, an' was
sure that naething o' that kind had happened."

"Did she really think that, Rob?" asked Mysie, glad to know that her
mother had believed in her virtue, yet pained. "Rob, if only mithers wad
be mair open wi' their lassies an' tell them o' the things they
shouldna' do, an' the dangers that lie afore them. But tell me aboot
them a'. What did my faither say aboot it? How are they a' keepin'?"

This was the question which Robert had feared most, for although Matthew
Maitland had said very little, everybody knew that he grieved sorely
over his daughter's disappearance, and at the time was lying very ill.
He was fast nearing the end, which most colliers of the day reached--cut
off in middle life, made old by bad ventilation in the mines, and black
damp. His condition was almost despaired of by the doctor, and when
Robert left Lowwood that evening for Edinburgh, he was in a very
critical state. Two months before, the oldest boy, who was some two
years younger than Mysie, had been taken suddenly ill, and had died
after a few days' illness.

How was he to tell Mysie of this? How tell her that John was dead, and
her father perhaps dying? How tell of her mother eating out her heart in
the hungry longing for news of the missing girl, and killing herself
with work and worry?

"Your faither's no' very weel, Mysie," he began evasively, his eyes
turned away from her, in an attempt at hiding what he felt.

"What's wrang wi' him, Rob?" she asked, the quick alarm in her voice
cutting his heart as she spoke.

"He hasna been workin' for fully a fortnicht," he replied.

"But what's wrang?" she persisted. "Is he ill?"

"Mysie, I'd raither onything than be the means o' painin' you, for you
are no' in a fit state to be worried."

"You maun tell me, Rob," she cried fiercely, her face showing
excitement. "What is it that is wrang? Is he awfu' ill?"

"He's lyin' gey bad, Mysie, an' when I cam' awa' this mornin', I didna
like the look o' him at a'. He was kind o' wanderin' in his mind, an'
speakin' to you an' John, jist as he used to speak when we were a'
bairns thegither. He was liltin' some o' thae auld sangs he used to sing
to us. But dinna greet, Mysie, you'll mak' yoursel' waur. You are no
very strong, you ken, an' if you worry it'll mak' you waur. You should
raither try an' bear up, an' get strong, an' maybe gang an' see him.
He'd be awfu' prood to see you, an' so wad your mither."

"No, no," she cried. "I canna gang. It wad kill them to see me noo, an'
I couldna bear't, if they should be angry wi' me. I couldna face their
anger, Rob."

"Weel, Mysie," he said, drawing a long breath, as if to face a stiff
proposition, "there is no other way out of it, but that you'll hae to
marry me now--just this minute, an' gang back wi' me. If you do that, I
can tak' you back wi' me, an' gang to your faither an' say that it was
me that was responsible. It can be done, Mysie, if only you'll agree to
it. Come, Mysie!" he cried in a burst of passionate pleading. "I want
you. Mysie, Mysie! Say that you'll come."

Robert looked at her pale, thin, emaciated face with greedy pleading in
his eyes. He saw the thin-looking, hungry body as it shook with her
sobs, and that terrible cough, which seemed as if it would carry her
away before his eyes. "Say you'll come, Mysie!" he pleaded, his hands
held out appealingly. "Say you'll come, an' it'll be so easy."

"No, no," she sobbed vehemently, "I canna do that. Dinna ask me ony
mair, Rob, I canna do that. It wadna be fair."

A hopeless look came into his eyes as he listened to her words, for he
knew that Mysie could never consent to his proposal. Frail as she was,
and torn by her wish to agree, yet he knew she meant it, when she said
no.

"Where do you live, Mysie?" he enquired at last, thinking to find some
way of helping her. "Wad you gie me your address, so that I'll ken where
you bide?"

"No, I dinna want to tell you, Rob. You'd better gang awa' noo. Mrs.
Ramsay will soon be comin' for me. Gang awa' an' leave me. I want to be
a wee while by mysel'. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I wish I could dee an' leave
it a'!"

Robert stole away on tiptoe, as if he were afraid longer to intrude upon
her grief--his mind in a whirl, and his heart heavy with sorrow. He
returned to the Conference to find that the debate was in full swing,
and that Davie Donaldson, was laying about him in vigorous style,
denouncing the leaders for recommending the terms to the men, and
telling them that the "wee chocolate-moothed Chancellor had again
diddled them."

But he felt no interest in Davie's denunciation, and could not smile at
his picturesque language. His mind would revert to the gardens in
Princes Street, and he saw the thin white figure on the seat, the
picture of hopeless misery, her frail form torn with sobs; and heard the
wail in her voice as she moaned, "Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I wish I could dee
an' leave it a'!"

Some of the young delegates wondered why Sinclair remained silent in
such an important debate. They had succeeded in raising a question which
at any other time would have brought him to his feet; but he sat
impassive and silent, and above all the clash and glamor, above the
applause and the interruptions, above all the witty sallies which
brought unexpected laughter, he saw only the thin, white lonely
figure--the dejected and outcast, the poor plaything of fate, and heard
the heart-breaking cry, "Oh, dear! I wish I could dee an' leave it a'!"
and in every syllable there was a stab of pain.

The Conference ended, and the delegates made homeward. The terms had
been agreed to, so far as Scotland was concerned, and all pointed to
peace.

"You didna speak the day, Sinclair, and I fairly thocht you wad hae been
into the fecht," said one delegate to Robert, as the train moved away
from the station.

"No, I wasna feelin' up to the mark," he returned, in a tone that
hinted that he did not want to be troubled, and he sat back in his
corner in silence. In the gray quick gloaming the moors and the hills,
viewed from the train, seemed to him a country without hope. There was
sadness in it, and pain, and the gray wintry sky brooded of sorrows to
come.

Occasionally a few sheep would start away from where they had been
grazing close to the railway, startled by the noise of the train. Thin
wisps of gray ragged clouds hung low, as if softly descending upon the
hills, in fateful sinister storms, and a fiery flash of yellow left a
strip of anger on the western horizon, where the sun had gone down a
short time ago.

Gray mists and grayer moors, with occasionally a solitary tree standing
out in the distance, as if to accentuate the loneliness and the sorrow
of the world in their ragged branches, which seemed ready to pierce the
sky in defiance of the anger of the, as yet, unleashed storm.

On rushed the train, and through the mists there kept coming before his
eyes the white lonely figure, moaning in fatal grief--grief inexorable
and unrelenting, while the flying wheels groaned and sobbed and clicked,
with the regular beat of a breaking heart, as if they were beating out
the sorrows of the world, and over all they sang the dirge of the broken
life of a maid. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I wish I could dee an' leave it
a'!"




CHAPTER XXII

MYSIE'S RETURN


When Mrs. Ramsay returned she found Mysie in a fainting condition,
thoroughly exhausted, and on the point of collapse. Mrs. Ramsay saw, by
her red swollen eyes, that she had been weeping. With the help of her
daughter the kind woman, who had done so much for Mysie during the past
few months, got her to the street, and procuring a cab, got her back to
the house, much alarmed by the patient's condition.

All night Mysie tossed and raved in a high fever and delirium, while
Mrs. Ramsay sat by her bedside, trying to soothe and quieten the
stricken girl. As she seemed to get no better the older woman grew more
alarmed.

"Oh, my puir faither!" moaned the girl. "Oh, mither, I am vexed at what
has happened. Oh, dear, I wonder what I'll do!"

"There now, dearie!" said Mrs. Ramsay in warm sympathetic tones, as she
stroked the burning hands and brow. "Try and quieten down and go to
sleep. You were getting on very well, you know, and making fine
progress, but you'll make yourself worse than ever if you carry on like
that. There now, dearie! Try and get to sleep, and you'll soon be better
again!"

But Mysie was silent only for a moment, and the low moan soon broke from
her lips again, like the wail of some stricken thing at night upon the
moor, and still she tossed and tumbled feverishly in her bed.

In the morning the doctor came and shook his head. Mysie was ill, very
ill. Her condition was serious, and it was little he could do. Only care
and good nursing and try to keep her from worrying. He left a
prescription, and Peter soon had the necessary medicine, and later the
patient grew calmer, and finally sank into a deep sleep; and so the old
fight had to be fought over again, to get her strength restored and her
vitality increased.

Mysie did not mention another word of home. She lay quiet, hardly even
moving and seldom speaking; but the burning fire that consumed her was
apparent in her hectic cheeks and glowing eyes, and one could see that
her mind was away, never dwelling upon her surroundings, but was
wandering among the heather hills and quiet valleys, where the call of
the curlew and the shout of the lapwing stir the primitive impulses of
those who love the haunts of the moorland life, and weave so much
romance into the lives and souls of the country bred people, who never
grow to love the ugly towns, but whose hearts remain with their first
love--the moors, and the hills, and the mountain brooks for ever.

She seemed to grow a little stronger as the days passed. She took her
medicines regularly and without protest; but deep down in her heart she
felt that she would never get better, and her only desire, that had been
shaping itself ever since Robert had told her of her father's condition,
was to be strong enough, to go home to Lowwood, just to see her parents,
her brothers and sisters, once more; then she could die in peace. If
only she could do that, she would not care what happened. Nothing else
mattered; but she must get home. Nothing would prevent her from doing
that.

It was the instinct of the wounded animal, dragging itself home to
die--home to its home in the kindly earth, away from contact with other
things--just to be alone, to nurse its suffering and its misery, till
the last shred of strength had gone, and the limbs stiffened out, while
the glazing eyes looked forward as the pain increased, across the
barriers of other worlds to a land of plenty--a land of green shrubs,
and sweet waters bubbling from scented hillsides, overhung with blue
skies which never brewed storms. A land of bud and bloom and blossom,
scented and sweet, with every desirable weed and tasty herb--a land of
life full and beautiful, of warm suns, calling up dreams from a
blossoming mist of bluebells, creating the freshness and the happiness
of youthfulness in every living thing. A land where far vistas and wide
horizons, bounded by green hills, brought visions from the inner self,
with joyous abundance through lusty life, and glorious passionate
being--a land sweet and fruitful, and never-ending in its beauty and its
means of happiness!

Slowly the days passed, and her strength gradually increased little by
little, until a month had gone past, and she was able to be about the
house again; but this determination in her heart to go home grew
stronger with every day that passed, and it seemed to give her strength
and vitality, and her hope became more definite and more sure.

She pictured her home again, as she had known it; the little kitchen,
with its white scrubbed floor and a few newspapers spread over its newly
washed surface to keep it clean from muddy feet; the white-washed jambs
of the fireside, and the grate polished with blacklead; the clear-topped
fender, with its inscription done in brass in the center, "Oor ain
fireside"; the half-dozen strong sturdy, well-washed chairs; the
whitewood dresser, with its array of dog ornaments and cheap vases, and
white crocheted cover; and the curtains over the two beds in the
kitchen. All these things she loved to think about, and she saw them
pictured in her mind as real as they'd ever been to her when her own
life was centered in them, and her fancy took delight in these secret
joys. It was her home she saw always, the humble "but and ben" with the
primitive conditions of life, the crude amenities, the sweet joys of
simple unaffected people; but it was her home.

One day, Mrs. Ramsay had gone out on an errand that detained her some
time, Mysie seized suddenly again in a more intense form by her desire
to go home, feverishly dressed herself, and hastily scribbling a note of
thanks to her good friend and nurse, she stole out on to the street, a
poor, forlorn, weak girl, but thoroughly determined to go home to where
her heart called her.

Out upon the street, she grew frightened. She did not know anything
about the city, nor in which direction to turn. She had no idea how far
it was to the station. She was helpless and alone, and very much
excited.

A boy passed her, whistling as she had often heard her own brothers
whistling, and hastily calling to him she accosted him thus:

"Could you tell me hoo far it is to the station?"

"Whit station?" asked the boy, and she suddenly remembered it was
Princes Street, and mentioned it. "Oh, ay; it's no' faur," he said
airily, as he pointed in the direction of it. "Jist gang alang that
way," and he turned away as if to leave her.

"Wad you tak' me to it, an' I'll gie you a shillin'?" she asked, and he
eagerly turned at once to close the bargain.

"Oh, ay," he agreed, "I'll soon tak' you there," and the two set off;
and guided by the boy, whose knowledge of the city seemed to her
wonderful in one so young, they arrived at the station, with Mysie very
tired and half-fainting with excitement.

"Hae you a ticket?" asked the boy, judging from her appearance that she
needed to be reminded of such things.

"No, I forgot I hadna got yin," replied Mysie. "I wonder where I'll hae
to gang to get yin. Hoo much will it be, think you?"

"Oh, I dinna ken," said the boy. "Come alang here to the bookin' office,
an' ask a ticket for the place you want to gang to, an' the clerk will
soon tell you the price o't."

Luckily Mysie had a few pounds in a purse which Peter had given her some
time ago, in case she might want to go out, he said, and buy something
she might want. Going to the booking office, and guided by her little
friend, she timorously made known her wants, and a ticket was given her;
and she returned under her youthful escort, who enquired the time of the
trains leaving of a porter, and conducted her to the platform, and
helped her into the train, which soon started off on the homeward
journey.

"Thenk you," said the boy, his eyes glowing with pleasure at the two
shining half-crowns which Mysie had given him, and he waved his hand to
her as the train steamed out of the platform.

"Going home, going home," sang the wheels as the train rushed along.
"Going home," with every beat of her heart they answered her with their
cheery monotone. "Going home," they gurgled, as they freely ran down the
gradients. "Going home, going home," as they ran along the flat moor.
"Going home, going home," they panted up the inclines, but still joyous
in the thought of getting there.

Home, aye, home, they were taking her. Home to the cheery fireside, with
the homely fare and the warm hearts! To the cosy corner by the fender at
her father's feet, to the music of her mother's clicking needles as she
knitted; to the sweet comfort of the love and kindness of brothers and
sisters; to the warmth of glowing smiles and loving hearts. Home! Home!
Oh, God! Comfort of weary and battered humanity, dragging its wounded
and broken life to the shelter and the sanctity of love. So rose her
hopes, and her heart sang as the brooding night lowered and the wind
rose, bringing the rain lashing from the spring clouds to burnish the
moor with storms. Home to the hearts that loved her first, and would
love her to the end.

At last the train steamed into the little station from which she had
first gone to the great city, and everything looked just the same as
upon that night, when she had stolen across the moor to run away where
she expected to hide her shame, and try and redeem that one mistaken
impulse, which had been so thoughtlessly indulged, and so terribly paid
for in suffering and tears. The station-master looked at her keenly as
she passed. She seemed so frail and weak looking to be abroad in such a
night; but she passed on and out upon the country road that ran across
the moor, where the darkness always lay thickest, and where the terrors
of the timid were greatest, and the storms raged fiercest.

On she battled, already feeling weak and tired; but always the thought
of home waiting for her impelled her onward. Home was waiting over
there--waiting just two miles off, where she could see the twinkling of
the lights from the pithead at which she had worked, and where she had
been so happy at the dreams conjured by six and sixpence per week. Down
rushed the wind from the hills, careering along the wide moor, driving
the rain and hail in front, as if he would burst the barriers of the
world and go free.

She halted and turned her back upon the blows, as if she would fall; but
there were light and warmth, and love and cheerfulness over there, if
only she could hold out till she reached them.

She turned again, and a sheep scampered across the moorland path just in
front, and the soft bleat of an early lamb soothed the quick excited
leap in her heart. The rain ceased, and a pale glitter of the rim of a
moon, like the paring of a giant's nail in the sky, glinted from behind
the dark cloud, and flung a silver radiance over the bog-pools around,
which glittered like patches of fairy silver upon a land of romance.

She was wet, but not cold. The fever in her blood raged and she
staggered forward again, slowly and tottering. A smile was playing about
her lips and eyes. Her lips were parted, and her breast rose and fell
like the heaving beat of an engine. But home beckoned and lured her
onward, and the hope of a long dream filled her soul. Again a sharp
scurry in front drove her heart to her mouth, as two hares battled and
tore at each other for the love of the female which sat close by,
watching the contest.

The sharp swish of the wings of lapwings, as they dived towards her,
filling the moors with their hard rasping double note, and also battling
for possession of a mate, stirred her frightened blood; and at every
step some new terror thrilled her, and kept her continually in a state
of fear.

Still she plodded on, and another squall of rain and hail followed,
giving place soon to the glory of the cold moon, and again obscuring it
in a quick succession of showers and calm moonshine. But there was home
in front, and she was always drawing nearer. Just a little while now, a
few hundred yards or so, and she would be there.

Weak and exhausted, stumbling and rising again, driven by that
unrelenting, irresistible desire, this poor waif of humanity, impelled
by sheer force of will, staggered and crawled towards its hope, forward
to its dream, and at last stood by the window of the home it had sought.

Panting and utterly worn out, she stood holding on to the window ledge,
her will now weakened, her strength of mind gone, and her desire
forsaking her now that she was there.

The wind fell to a mere whisper, and she stooped to look in at a chink
in the shutter, the tears running in hot, scalding streams from her eyes
and blinding her vision. The soft stirring of little limbs beneath her
heart brought back the old desire to hide herself from everyone she had
known.

Oh, God! It was terrible thus to be torn; for she had sung the song of
all motherhood in her own simple way--the song of the love that
recreates the world. The same song that enables motherhood to commune
with God. "I will walk in the pure air of the uplands, so that your life
shall be sweet and clean. I shall bathe my body in the sweet waters of
the earth, so that you shall be pure; I shall walk in meditation and
solitude, so that your thoughts shall be worthy thoughts; I shall dwell
on the hillsides, so that your mind shall be lofty; I shall love all
living things, so that you shall be godly in the love of your kind; I
shall be humble, so that you shall not be proud; I shall be tender,
wandering among the sweet flowers, so that you shall never be rough or
unkindly; I shall serve, so that you shall be kingly in your service to
others.

"Down in the valleys I shall linger, drinking in the music of sweet
streams; and the songs of the morning and the eventide shall make you
gentle and happy. The tender grass shall be my couch upon the moor, so
that you can know the restfulness and comfort of love. The grateful
trees shall shade me from the fierce heat of the sun, so that you shall
be restful, yet active in kind deeds. Oh, I shall clothe me in the
sweetest thoughts, and sing the sweetest songs, speak the kindliest
words, and do the friendliest deeds--I shall lie down in gratitude for
all that has ever been rendered to me, and shall keep faith with love,
so that you--you who are me, you who are my heart and mind, my body and
soul shall be ushered into the world as a savior of the race; and the
lyrics of the dawn and the dayfall, of the golden, glorious day, and the
silver radiant night, shall all be thine to interpret, in spirit and in
word and service."

Thus had motherhood sung in all ages, weaving the dreams of hope about
the soul which she had called from eternity, after having gone upon that
long perilous journey into the land of Everywhere to bring back a new
life to the world. Mysie dashed the warm tears from her eyes, and looked
again through the chink in the shutter.

She had a full view of the kitchen. It was the same cosy, bright place
it had always been, when she had sat there on the corner of the fender
o' nights, her head against her father's knee, as he read out the news
from the evening paper, while her mother sewed, or darned, or knitted.

Her father sat in the easy chair, pale and thin and weak. He looked ill,
and it seemed as if he were merely out of his bed, so that her mother
might change the linen, for she was busy pulling off pillow-cases and
putting clean ones on, and turning the chaff-filled tick to make it
easier for his poor bones to lie on.

He lay back in his chair, his eyes half closed, as if tired.

"The wind has surely gane doon noo," Mysie heard her mother observe, as
she spread out the clean white sheet upon the bed.

"Ay, it seems to hae quietened," returned Matthew weakly. "It has been
an awfu' nicht, and gey wild."

"Ay, it has that. Peety ony puir body that has been oot in it," said her
mother, with a deep sigh, as she folded back the blankets. "It's an
awfu' nicht for the homeless to be oot in."

Silence reigned for a short time, and only the whisper of the wind
outside prevented the sobs of the poor waif at the window being heard.

"You are lookin' a wee better the nicht, Matthew," said Mrs. Maitland
after a long thoughtful pause, as she drew in her chair beside his.

"Ay, I'm feelin' no' sae bad," he answered feebly. Then, as if having
made up his mind about something, he went on, as he looked into the
glowing fire, "Do you ken, wife, I hae been thinkin' a lot aboot oor
Mysie a' day. I wonder what'll be the cause o't? But a' day she has been
in my mind, an' I only hope naething has come to her."

"I dinna ken, Matthew," she said; for this was the first time he had
spoken about their missing daughter since the day they had learned of
her disappearance. He had always remained silent when she had given
expression to her thoughts regarding Mysie; but thinking this an
encouragement, she spoke about her, and he too, in a way that made her
wonder; for he was never talkative at any time, and it seemed as if his
heart was hungering to talk of their bairn.

"I wonder what wad hae come owre her, that nae spierin's o' her could be
got. Puir Mysie! I liket that wean, wife--liket her maybe owre weel; an'
my heart has been sair for her mony a time, wonderin' what has come o'
her!"

Mrs. Maitland lifted a corner of her rough apron and wiped her eyes, as
she cried softly at hearing her husband thus speak of their missing
daughter.

"Do you think she'll be living, Matthew?" she asked looking through her
tears at her husband anxiously.

"That's hard to say, wife," he replied, a break in his voice. "Sometimes
I think she maun be deid, or she wad hae come back to us in some way. I
think we liket her weel enough, an' she kent it, and she was ay a guid
lassie at a' times."

"Ay, she was," replied the mother, "a guid bairn, an' a clever yin aboot
the hoose; an' I never had an angry word frae her a' my days. Oh,
Matthew," she cried out, again bursting into tears, and sobbing
pitifully, "what is't we hae done to be tried like this? Mysie gane, an'
guid kens where she is, an' John ta'en awa' jist when oor battle was
beginnin' to get easier. Noo you hae been laid aside yoursel', an' God
kens hoo we are to do, for hinna a penny left in the hoose! Oh, dear,
but it's a hard lot we hae to suffer!" and she sobbed in silence, while
her husband stroked her pale, thin, toil-worn hands that hid her weeping
eyes.

"Wheesht, lassie!" he said brokenly. "Dinna you break doon noo, for you
hae been the mainstay o' us a', when we wad hae lost heart often. I used
to think that oor lot couldna be harder, when the bairns were a' wee,
an' we were struggling frae haun' to mooth, to see them fed an' cled.
But wi' a' the hardships, thae days were happy. We were baith young, an'
I was aye fairly healthy an' when we locked the door at nicht, we were
satisfied that a' that belanged to us were inside, an' in safety, even
though their wee stomachs maybe werena' ower fu'. But noo we canna do
that, wife. Some hae gane to where want an' poverty canna hurt them, an'
that is a consolation; but where will oor lassie be, that never gi'ed us
a wrang word a' her days? Is she in want this nicht, the same as we are
oorsels? Will she be hungry an' homeless, ill clad, an' oot in the
storm? If she is, then God peety her. If only we had her aside us,
hunger wad be easier tholed for us a'," and Matthew, unable to control
himself longer, completely broke down and wept, mingling his tears with
those of his wife, because of their misery and poverty and suffering.

The girl outside could hardly restrain herself at thus hearing her
parents speak. She sobbed and held on to the window ledge, her eyes
fixed greedily upon the open chink in the shutter, listening to, and
looking at her parents in their misery, as they sat and talked so kindly
and anxiously about her--talked so that every word was a stab at her
heart; for she had never heard them open their hearts like this before.

"Ay, wife," he said after a time, "it was a sair blow to me. I could hae
fain dee'd at the time; I was fair heartbroken. It's a gey queer world
that brings the keenest pangs frae them that yin likes best. I could hae
dee'd gladly to hae saved that bairn frae the slightest hurt!"

"Matthew," said the mother, speaking with all her soul in her eyes, as
she looked at him, "if by ony chance it should turn oot that Mysie gaed
wrang an' fell into disgrace, wad ye tak' her back, if she should come
hame again?" and there was a world of pleading in the mother's voice as
she spoke.

"Tak' her back! Oh, God, I'd dae onything to hae her here at this
meenit, nae matter though it should be proved that she was guilty o' the
warst sin under the sun. Tak' her back! Oh, wife! my heart is breakin'
for her!" and he lifted his thin worn hand to his eyes and sobbed in his
grief.

"Weel, Matthew," returned the wife, "if ever she does come back, nae
matter when it may be, or hoo it may be, I'm glad you'll no be harsh wi'
her. You'll just speak to her as if naething had happened; for I ken
she'll be mair feart to face you than onybody else. Jist try an' mak'
her believe, when you speak, that she had gane awa' to the store a
message, or to the well for watter, an' that she had bidden owre lang,
as she an' ither weans used to do when they got started the play, an'
forget to come hame. Jist speak to her that way, Matthew, an' the
hame-comin', if ever it comes, will no' be sae hard for the puir bairn.
For God knows, it micht be hard enough for her!"

The girl outside, listening eagerly to every word, tried to cry out with
the pain of all this talk by her parents, but her tongue clove to her
parched mouth, and her lips were stiff and dry.

"I'll never be harsh wi' a bairn o' mine, wife," he replied brokenly. "I
liket Mysie owre weel ever to be harsh wi' her. Oh, if only I could see
her afore me this nicht, I wad gie a' I ever had in the world. To hae
her sittin' here, as she used to sit, her wee heid wi' its soft hair
against my knee, an' my haun clappin' it, an' her bonnie een lookin' up
at me, as if I was something she aye looket up to, as bein' better than
ony living being she ever kenned, wad be mair pleasure for me this
minute than if I got a' the money in the world. I'd swap heaven and my
chances o' salvation, wife, jist to hae her sittin' here on the fender,
as she used to sit. Hunger an' a' the rest wad be easy borne for that."

There was a soft rustling sound at the window as he spoke, and a slow
step was heard, which seemed to drag along towards the door, then a
fumbling at the sneck, the handle lifted, and the door opened slowly
inwards, as if reluctant to reveal its secret.

It was a tense poignant moment for all; for both the father and mother,
weak as the former was, rose to their feet expectantly, their eyes
searching the slowly opening door, as a thin pale draggled figure
entered and staggered forward with a low pitiful cry of "Faither!
Mother! I've come hame!" and tottering forward, fell at Matthew's feet,
clasping his knees with the thin fragile hands, while the tears of a
heart-breaking sorrow flowed from the appealing eyes, upturned to the
amazed parents.

"Mysie! Mysie!" he sobbed, clasping her to his thin worn knees, and
kissing the bent head, as she sobbed and cried. "Oh, Mysie! Mysie! but
you hae been a lang time at the store!"




CHAPTER XXIII

HOME


"Oh my puir wean! My bonnie bairn!" crooned Mrs. Maitland, as she bent
over the figure of her daughter who, clinging to Matthew's knees, was
looking up into his face, as he lay back in his chair where he had
fallen, when Mysie fell at his feet. "Oh, my puir lamb, you're wet to
the skin, an' fair done; for God knows its an' awfu' mess you hae cam'
hame in."

"Puir thing," she wailed and crooned, again breaking out after having
kissed and fondled Mysie's wet face. "We hae lang hungered for
you--hungered for you for a gey lang time, an' noo you hae cam' hame,
near to daith's door. But we'll nurse you back. We'll mak' you strong
and healthy again. Oh, Mysie, my puir lassie. What ails you? Where hae
you been? What has happened to you a' this time? But what am I thinking
aboot," she broke off, "sitting here, when I should be gettin' some dry
claes for you, an' a bed ready."

She rose and began to busy herself shaking up a bed and diving into
drawers, bringing clean clothes forth and hanging them over a piece of
rope which stretched across the fireplace, so as to air and heat them,
the tears streaming from her eyes and occasionally a low moan breaking
from her as if forced by some inward pain; while Matthew, nearly
overcome with excitement, could only lie back in his chair, his eyes
closed and his hands stroking tenderly the wet young head that lay
against his knee.

"Faither," murmured Mysie, brokenly and weakly, "oh, faither, I've come
back. Jist let me lie here near you. I jist want you to clap my held, to
lean against you, an' gang to sleep. Are you angry wi' me, faither? Are
you--" and Mysie's eyes closed in a faint, as she lay limp against his
knee.

Just then the door opened and Mrs. Sinclair came in. She always came in,
after she had got everyone in the house to bed, to see how Matthew felt.
It was her first errand in the morning and her last before retiring at
night. She was generally the last visitor, and the door was always
locked and barred when she went away.

"Oh, Nellie, come awa' in," said Matthew. "You're a God's send this
nicht. I'm glad to see you. Mysie's jist cam' back, an' she has fented.
Gie's a bit haun' wi' her to get her into bed. Puir thing. She's fair
done up," and Matthew tried to raise up the prostrate figure of his
bairn; but sank back too weak, and too overcome to do anything.

"Dinna you trouble yourself, Matthew," said Mrs. Sinclair, gathering the
prostrate girl in her arms and raising her up on her knee like a child.
"Bring some dry claes. Jenny, an' get some warm watter bottles in the
bed. Puir thing, she's in an awfu' state. She's a' tremblin' an' maun
hae been awfu' ill," and she worked with and stripped the wet clothes
from the girl and soon had her in bed, but in spite of all her efforts
Mysie remained unconscious. She then left to get the doctor summoned,
leaving the sorrowing parents to look after the girl till she returned.

When she did come back, Matthew was in bed and his condition very much
worse. The excitement had been too much for him in his weakened state
and he lay exhausted, crying like a child.

Soon the doctor came and did all in his power. At the end of an hour
Mysie's eyes opened and she looked about her.

"Where's my faither?" she asked weakly. "Oh, I'm gled I'm hame."

"He's in bed," answered Mrs. Sinclair. "An' you're no' to talk the
nicht, Mysie. Jist lie still, like a good lass, an' drink this, an' in
the mornin' you'll may be a bit better." And Mysie drank, and with a
sigh of happy contentment, she turned her face to the wall, glad she was
now at home--home with her wounded spirit and broken life.

The soft easy chaff bed gave her more of rest and satisfaction than if
it had been eiderdown. She traced as of old the roses upon the cheap
paper with which the box bed was papered, and which had been her
mother's pride when it was put on. Mysie watched the twining and
intertwining of the roses, as they reached upward toward the ceiling
through a maze of woodbine and red carnations, and noted that the
curtains upon the bed were the same as they were when she had last slept
there.

The old wag-at-the-wa' clock which had belonged to her grandfather,
wheezed wearily from the corner and the shrill eerie call of a courting
cat outside broke familiarly upon her ear. Thus surrounded by the sights
and sounds of old, a glad contentment in her heart, she soon dozed off
into a deep sleep.

When Mrs. Sinclair went home just as midnight was striking she found
Robert sitting by the fire wondering at her absence. He had just
returned from a meeting at a neighboring village, and finding his
brothers and sisters all in bed and his mother not in the house with his
tea ready for him as usual, he wondered what was the matter.

"I was owre at Matthew's," she replied in answer to the question she
knew he was going to ask.

"Is he waur the nicht?" he asked quickly.

"Weel, it's no' him, although he's gey upset too; but Mysie has cam'
hame the nicht, an' puir lassie she is in an awfu' state," and she was
quick to note the soft blanching of his cheek as she spoke.

"Mysie hame," he echoed with quick interest.

"Ay, puir lassie; but I doot if I'm no' cheated that Mysie'll no' be
lang anywhere. The doctor says she's to be keepit quate; for she's gey
low. In fact he felt me at the door that he dinna think she could last a
week."

Robert sat a long time looking into the fire, while his mother got ready
his tea, and described to him all that she knew of Mysie's return and of
her sad condition.

"You'd hardly ken her," she went on. "She's that thin and white and faur
gane lookin', forby havin' a boast that wad fricht you. Puir lassie, I
was vexed for her an' Matthew too is gey upset aboot it. Dae you ken,
Rob, I believe they mun be gey hard gruppit. Wi' Matthew being off
work, and John deein' an' a' the ither troubles they had this while, I
think they canna be ower weel off."

"Ay," he said, "they canna be ower weel off; for they hae had a lot to
dae this while. You micht look to them, mither. We are no sae ill off
noo, an' we can afford tae help them."

"Weel, Rob, I've been aye givin' them a bit hand, buying beef for soup
an' that' an' daein' a' I could. But I'm awfu' puttin' aboot ower puir
Mysie. She's gey faur gane, an' wherever she has been she's been haein a
bad time of it."

"I saw her at Edinburgh," he said quietly, as she paused to pour out the
tea.

"In Edinburgh?"

"Ay," he replied. "Last month when I was at the conference," and Robert
told his mother the whole story of his meeting with Mysie and of her
disappearance and all that had happened to her from the time she had
gone away.

"But you never telt yin o' us, Rob," she said after he had come to the
end of the story.

"No, I never telt ony o' you; for Mysie made me promise no' to tell; an'
forby she wadna' gi'e me her address. But I was that upset that day that
I couldn't collect mysel' an' I minded o' a lot o' things I should hae
done an' said after I left her. It was terrible," and he relapsed into
silence again, as he went on with his supper.

His mother saw all the pain in his heart that night, though neither
spoke much of the state of his feelings for Mysie; but it was evident to
her who saw all the cross currents of fate, perhaps more clearly than
Robert knew.

She looked at him with furtive pride. There was no showy parading of
what he felt, but only the set of the mouth was a little firmer perhaps
than usual and the eyes a little softer and glistening. That was all.

"Ay, Robin," she said brokenly, unable to hide her pride and weakness.
"I ken a' that you hinna telt me. I guessed it years syne; but I'm sure
noo. An' I'm awfu' vexed, laddie; ay, I'm awfu' vexed," and with that he
withdrew to his room, more touched with her simple words of sympathy
than anything she had ever said to him in all her previous life.

Mrs. Sinclair went to bed, but she knew her laddie had not done so. She
heard him in his room and knew that in the silence of the night and in
the privacy and secrecy of his own room he was fighting out his battle
with fate, and she knew that no one could help him--that only the fiber
of his own soul could help him through.

In the morning he rose early and went for a walk, for it was Sunday.
Returning, he found his mother with the latest news of Mysie's
condition. She waited until the other members of the house had gone out,
and then with a sigh observed very quietly but with a world of tender
sympathy in her voice:

"Mysie's sinkin' fast, Robin. I think you should gang ower and see her.
She canna' last very lang, puir thing, an' she was askin' aboot you when
I was ower. I think she wad like to see you. You'll gang ower and see
her, Rob," she entreated, a sob in her throat as she spoke. "She'll be
awfu' pleased to see you."

"Ay, I'll gang ower, mither," he replied simply. "I'll gang ower efter a
wee while."

But it was drawing near to the darkness when he managed to summon
sufficient resolution to face the ordeal.

Mysie was lying in the room and he went in to see her--her whom he would
have given his own life to restore to activity and health again. A low
moan occasionally escaped her as she panted and battled for breath and
the color came and faded from her cheeks in quick fleeting waves.

Oh God! Was this Mysie--this faint apparition of the girl whom he had
loved? Even in the short month when he had seen her in Edinburgh a very
great change had been wrought upon her. The eyes, softly glowing with a
quiet radiance as they rested upon his face, were sunk, and the voice
faint and weak. A thin white hand lay upon the coverlet and the great
waves of brown hair which had been his pride, were tumbled about the
thin face framing it in a tangled oak brown frame of deepest beauty.

She lifted her hand as he approached, a sweet smile breaking through
her pain, caught him in radiance of love. "I'm glad you've come, Rob,"
she panted. "I jist wanted to see you again--an'--an' tak' good-by wi'
you," and the quick catch in her words gripped his heart as he knelt
beside the bed, taking the thin hand between his while the tears started
from his eyes and fell upon the white bed cover.

"Oh, Mysie," he said brokenly. His voice refused to go further and he
bent his head upon the bed, trying hard to control himself and keep from
breaking down before her.

"I'm awfu' vexed, Rob," she said, after a while. "It was a' a mistak'
an' naebody's to blame. I ought to hae kent better mysel'," and she
paused again for breath. "I--I should hae kent better, that nae guid
could come--oot o' it--I was just carried awa'. Dinna ever blame
lasses--nor men either, when things happen. They--they canna help
themsel's--" and here again she paused for breath, gasping and fighting
at every word.

"It's a' a mistake, Rob, an' I think it's a' in the way folk look at
thae things." Another pause, while her chest heaved and panted. "Maybe
we dinna look at thae things richt," she again resumed. "We--we mak'
mistak's and canna help oorsel's; but God dinna mean it as--as a
mistak'. It's a' because we think it is. Everything's richt--but we mak'
them wrang in the way we look at them. It wad hae--been a' richt--in oor
mind, if I had been married afore--afore it happened--but because we
werena married--it was wrang. It's a' a mistak' Rob, a' a--" and a burst
of coughing nearly choked her and a flood of blood began to gurgle in
her mouth.

Robert grew alarmed and lifting a cloth began to wipe the blood from her
mouth, looking on her so concerned and anxious that she tried to smile
to him to reassure him.

Presently she lay back with eyes closed and her hand limp in his. A wild
fear took possession of him as he looked upon the scarcely moving
breast, a fear which seemed to communicate itself to the sufferer, and
she opened her eyes again, but the voice was weak and very far away.

"Dinna be angry wi' onybody, Rob. It was you I liket, it was you I
wanted--but it was a' a mistake."

"I'm no' angry, Mysie," he said stifling his sobs, his tears falling
upon the white thin face. "Oh, Mysie, I'm only vexed. I'm only vexed
aboot the hale sad business. There now, dearie," he said bending low
over her and kissing and stroking the pallid brow and caressing the face
so dear to him. "There noo, I'm no' angry. You're mine, Mysie. You've
always been mine, an' I'm no' angry. But oh, I love you, Mysie, an' it's
breaking my heart to part frae you. Oh, God!" he groaned in agony. "What
does it a' mean? I canna' bear it,--I canna' bear't," and a wild burst
of grief swept over him as he flung his head and arms upon the bed in a
vain attempt to control his sobbing sorrow.

A long pause--then the white hand was raised and crept slowly over his
shoulder, working its way among the thick shaggy hair of his head as the
fingers strayed from curl to curl, patting him and soothing him as a
child is soothed by a mother's hand. It rested upon his bent head and
the eyes opened again.

"Ay, Rob, I'm vexed for your sake--but it was a' a mistake." She went on
halting and very weak. "It was a' a mistak'--an' naebody is to blame. We
are just--driven alang, an'--we canna help oorsel's--it's awfu' to
hae--sic feelin's--an'--an' no' hae any poo'er--to guide them
richt--it's ay the things we want maist--that we dinna get. Kiss me,
Rob--kiss me, as you kissed me--yon--nicht on the muir. Haud me like
you--an' I think I can--gang content. Oh, Rob,--ay liket you--it was you
I wanted a' the time!"

He clasped her tenderly in his arms as he kissed her mouth, her eyes,
her brow, her hair, stroking her and fondling the dear face, catching
hungrily the smile that came to the pale lips, and lingered there like a
blink of sun upon a hillside after the rest of the landscape is clothed
in shadow.

Again there was a pause while he searched the pale face with the
lingering smile, noting the veined, almost discolored eyelids,
transparent and closed over the tired suffering eyes. Then a burst of
coughing again and the blood in thick clots gurgled up from the throat.
Then after a little she spoke again.

"Oh, Rob, you hae made me very happy. But I'm vexed aboot you--an'--an'
Peter. He tried to dae what was richt; but it wasna to be--I hope
you'll--no'--be angry wi' him. He was like me--he couldna' help it."

"Oh, Mysie, I'm no' angry wi' him," he replied brokenly, trying hard to
make his voice sound dearly. "I'm no' angry wi' onybody."

"I'm glad o' that, Rob," she said, her hand caressing his head. "You was
ay a guid hearted laddie--I'm awfu' glad." Then her mind began to wander
and she was back in Edinburgh speaking of her father and John.

"Oh, faither," she rambled on. "Dinna be angry wi' me. There's naebody
to blame. Dinna be angry."

Then Robert was conscious that others were in the room, and looking up
he beheld his mother and Jenny Maitland and behind them with anxious
face and frightened eyes stood Peter Rundell, the picture of misery and
despair.

"She's kind o' wanderin', puir thing," he heard the mother say in
explanation to the others. "She's kind o' wanderin' in her mind."

It was a sad little group which stood round the dying girl, all anxious
and alarmed and watchful. Then after a while she opened her eyes again
and there was a look of startled surprise as if she were looking at
something in the distance. Then she began to recognize each and all of
them in turn, first Robert, who still held her hand, then her mother and
Nellie, and Peter. A faint smile came into her eyes and he stepped
forward. Her lips moved slowly and a faint sound came falteringly from
them.

"Dinna be angry wi' onybody," she panted. "It was a'--a--mistake."

Then raising her hand she held it out to Peter, who advanced towards the
bedside and placing his hand on Robert's she clasped them together in
her own. "There noo--dinna be angry--it was a' a mistake. It was Rob I
liket--it was him--I wanted. But it--was--a' a mistak'. Dinna be--" and
the glazed sunken eyes closed forever, never to open again, a faint
noise gurgled in her throat, and the dews of death stood out in beads
upon the pale brow. A tiny quiver of the eyelids, and a tremor through
the thin hands and Mysie--poor ruined broken waif of the world--was
gone.

"Oh, my God! She's deid," gasped Robert, clasping the thin dead hands in
a frenzy of passionate grief. "Oh, Mysie! Mysie! Oh God! She's deid,"
and his head bent low over the bed while great sobs tore through him,
and shook his young frame, as the storm shakes the young firs of the
woods. Then suddenly recollecting himself as his mother put her hand
upon his bent head saying: "Rise up, Robin, like a man. You maun gang
oot noo." He rose and with tears in his eyes that blinded him so that he
hardly saw where he was going, he stumbled out into the darkness under
the pale stars--out into the night to the open moor, his grief so
burdening that he felt as if the whole world had gone from his
reckoning.

"Oh, my poor Mysie," he groaned. "It was all a horrible mistake," and
the darkness came down in thick heavy folds as if the whole world were
mourning for the loss of the young girl's soul, but it brought no
comfort to him.




CHAPTER XXIV

A CALL FOR HELP


It was a quiet night in early April, full of the hush which seems to
gather all the creative forces together, before the wild outburst of
prodigal creation begins in wild flower and weed and moorland grasses,
and Robert Sinclair, who had walked and tramped over the moors for
hours, until he was nearly exhausted, his heart torn and his mind in an
agony of suffering, sat down upon a little hillock, his elbows on his
knees and his hands against his cheeks.

The moor-birds screamed and circled in restless flight around him. They
were plainly protesting against his intrusion into their domain. They
shrilled and dived in their flight, almost touching the bent head, with
swooping wing, to rise again, cleaving the air and sheering round again;
but still the lonely figure sat looking into darkness, becoming numbed
with cold, and all unconscious of the passage of time.

Gradually the cold began to tell upon him, and he started to his feet,
plodding up the hill, through the soft mossy yielding soil. Back again
he came after a time, his limbs aching with the long night's tramping;
but yet he never thought of going home or turning towards the village.

"Oh, Mysie!" he groaned again and again, and all night long only these
two words escaped his lips. They came in a low sad tone, like the wind
coming through far-off trees; but they were vibrant with suffering, and
only the moor-birds cried in answer.

"Oh, Mysie!" and the winds sighed it again and again, as they came
wandering down out of the stillness between the hills, to pass on into
the silence of the night again, like lost souls wandering through an
uncreative world, proclaiming to other spheres the doom that had settled
upon earth.

"Oh, Mysie!" groaned a moorland brook close by, which grumbled at some
obstruction in its pathway, and then sighed over its mossy bed, like a
tired child emerging exhausted from a long fever, to fall asleep as
deeply as if the seal of death had been planted upon the little lips.
Occasionally he shifted his position, as his limbs grew cramped, or rose
to pace the moor again to bring himself more exhaustion; but always he
came back to the little knoll, and sat down again, groaning out the sad
plaintive words, that were at once an appeal and a cry, a defiance and a
submission. By and by the first gray streaks of dawn came filtering
through the curtains of the cloudy east, touching the low hills with
gray nimble fingers, or weaving a tapestry of magic, as they brightened
and grew clearer, over the gray face of the morn.

Soon the birds leapt again from every corner, climbing upon the ladders
of light and tumbling ecstasies of mad joy to welcome the day, as if
they feared to be left in the darkness with this strange figure, which
merely sat and groaned softly, and looked before it with silent agony in
its eyes; and now that the light had again come, they shouted their
protest in a louder, shriller note; they mounted upon the waves of light
and swooped down into the trough of the semi-darkness, expostulating and
crying, not so much in alarm now, as in anger. For with the light comes
courage to birds as well as men, and fear, the offspring of ignorance,
which is bred in darkness, loses its power when its mystery is revealed.

But even with the coming of the day the still silent figure did not
move. It continued to sit until the birds grew tired of protesting, and
even the mountain hare wandered close by, sniffing the breeze in his
direction, and cocking its ears and listening, as it sat upon its hind
legs, only to resume its leisurely wandering again, feeling assured that
there was nothing to fear in the direction of this quiet, bent figure of
sorrow, that sat merely staring at the hills, and saw naught of anything
before him. The things he saw were not the things around him. He was
moving in a multitude again. He was walking among them with pity in his
heart--a great pity for their ignorance, their lack of vision; and he
was giving them knowledge and restoring light to their eyes, to widen
their range of vision, so that they could take things in their true
perspective. He was full of a great sympathy for their shortcomings,
recognizing to the full that only by sowing love could love be reaped,
only in service could happiness be found--that he who gave his life
would save it.

The great dumb mass of humanity needed serving--needed love. It passed
on blindly, wounding itself as it staggered against its barriers,
bruising its heart and soul in the darkness, and never learning its
lessons. Saviors in all ages had lifted the darkness a bit, and given
knowledge, and sometimes it had profited for a while till false prophets
arose to mislead.

It was a seething feverish mass, stamping and surging towards every
blatant voice which cried the false message to it, rousing it to anger,
and again misleading, until it often rose to rend its saviors instead of
those who had duped it so shamelessly.

All the tragic procession filed past, and he gave them peace and
knowledge. By and by they grew to a long thin stream, feverish and
agitated, seemingly all converging towards a point--pain and anxiety in
every quick movement, and suffering in every gesture. He looked with
still more and more compassion upon them, with a greater love in his
breast, but it did not calm them as before, and at last in desperation
he stretched out his hands in appealing pity for them, his whole being
aglow with the desire to help and pity and love, and he found that the
scene changed. He was on the moor, and there was the discomfort of cold
in his limbs; but--yes, he was looking at the pit, and there was a long
stream of men, women and children, principally women and children,
running frantically across the moor towards the pit, and he could hear
the faint sound of their voices, which clearly betokened suffering,
anxiety and alarm. Something had happened. He must have been looking at
that procession for a long time, he realized, and pulling himself
together, he bounded to his feet and was off in a long striding race
through the moor towards the pit, his heart telling him that something
had happened which was out of the ordinary kind of accident that
regularly happened at a coal mine. He bounded along, knowing as he went
that there was something more of sorrow for his mother in this, whatever
it was. He felt so, but could not account for the feeling, and as this
thought grew in intensity in his mind, he changed his course a bit, and
made for home, to ascertain what had really happened. It was something
big, he felt, but whatever it was, his mother must again be called upon
to suffer, and his alarm grew with his pace, until he arrived breathless
at the house. One look at her face, and he knew his instincts had told
him the truth.

She was white and strained, though tearless, but her eyes were full of
an awful suffering.

"What has happened, mother?" he demanded, as if he could hardly wait for
her to answer.

"The moss has broken in, an' twenty-three men are lost. Jamie an' Andra
are among them. They gaed oot themselves this morning, telling me they
could work fine, even though you werena there. Oh, Rob! What will I do!
Oh, dear! Oh, dear! My bonnie laddies!" and with a sob in her voice she
turned away, and Robert was again out of the house, and running through
the moor to the pit, as hard as desperation could drive him. His two
brothers were down there, and they must be got out. Even as he ran he
wondered what strange freak of fate it was, that had kept him out there
on the moor all night and so saved him from this terrible fate.

He could understand how his brothers would feel at the chance of working
one day by themselves. He had always been their guide and protector.
They had gone into the pit with him when they left school, and had just
continued working with him since, learning their trade from his greater
experience, and trusting always to his better judgment when there was
danger to avoid. They would go out that day with the intention of
working like slaves to produce an extra turn of coal. Even though it
were but one extra hutch, they would fill it, and slave all day with
never a rest, so that they could have the satisfaction of seeing
approval in his eyes, when they told him at night how many they had
turned out, and how well things had gone generally with them in his
absence.

He reached the pit, to find that the moss was already rising in the
shaft, and that there was no possibility of getting down to try and save
these twenty-three men and boys who were imprisoned in the darkness
beneath.

He came across Tam Donaldson, who was the last to get up.

"Tell me aboot it, Tam," he said. "Is there no chance of getting down?
Do you think any of them will be safe so far?" and a whole lot of other
anxious questions were rattled off, while Tam, dripping wet from having
to wade and fight the last fifty fathoms toward the pit bottom, through
the silent, sinister, creeping moss that filled the roadways and
tunnels, stood to give him an account of what had taken place.

"They were a' sitting at their piece, Rob--a' but James and Andra. They
were keen to get as muckle work done as possible, an' they had some coal
to get to fill oot a hutch, when a' at yince we heard Andra crying on us
to rin. Had they a' ran doon the brae we'd a' hae been safe, for we
could hae gotten to the bottom afore the moss; but some ran into the
inside heading, an' hadna time to realize that their outlet was cut off,
an' there they are; for the moss was comin' doon the full height of the
road when I ran back to try an' cry on them to come back. So I had to
rin for't too, an' jist got oot by the skin o' my teeth.

"I kent fine it wad happen," he went on, as Robert stood, the tears in
his eyes, as he realized how hopeless the position was of ever being
able to restore these men and boys again to their homes. There was anger
in Tam's voice as he spoke. "It's a' to get cheap coal, an' they ought
to hae known, for they were telt, that to open oot that seam into long
well workings so near the surface, an' wi' sic a rotten roof, was
invitin' disaster, wi' as muckle rain as we hae had lately. They are a
lot o' murderers--that's what they are! But what the hell do they care,
sae lang as they get cheap coal!"

Robert turned away sick at heart. It was certainly a foolish thing, he
had thought at the time, for the management to change their method of
working the coal; for even though the seam had grown thinner, he felt
that it could have still been worked at a profit under the old system.
He knew also that the men were all upset at the time by this change, but
the management had assured them that there was no danger, and that it
would mean more money for the men, as they would be enabled to produce
more coal.

This certainly had happened for a week or two, but the rates were soon
broken, because they were making too high wages; and the men found, as
usual, that their increased output had merely meant increased work for
them, and increased profits for the owners.

Was there nothing to be done? Robert wondered, as he paced restlessly
back and forth, his mind busy, as the mind of every man present, and
anxious to make any sacrifice, to take any risk, if by so doing they
might save those imprisoned in the mine. Even while his mind was
working, he could not help listening to the talk of those around him.
There were strange opinions expressed, and wild plans of rescue were
suggested and discussed and disputed. Everyone condemned the coal
company for what had happened, but over all there were the white-faced
women and the silent children; the muffled sobs, the tears, and the
agony of silent wet eyes that spoke more pain than all the tragedies
that had ever been written.

Robert could not help listening to one man--a big, raw, loosely-built
fellow, who stood in the midst of a group of women laying off his idea
of a rescue.

"I'm rale glad to be out of it," he said, "for Jean's sake, an' the
bairns; but for a' that I'd gang doon again an' try an' get them oot if
there was ony chance o' doin' it."

"Hoo is Jean?" one woman interposed to enquire about his wife, who had
been ill a long time.

"Oh, she's gettin' on fine noo, an' the doctor has a hopeful word o'
her," he answered. "In fact, I was just feeding the birds the last time
he was in, an' asked him hoo she was doin'."

This man, Dugald McIntosh, had one god--his canaries. He read all he
could get to read about them, and studied the best conditions under
which to rear them, sacrificed everything he could to breed better
birds, and this was always a topic for him to discourse upon.

"I was just busy feedin' them when he cam' in, and after he had examined
her, I asked him hoo she was gettin' on."

"Fine," he said, "gi'e her plenty o' sweet milk noo, and fresh eggs, an'
she'll sune be on her feet again. Fresh eggs! mind you, an' me canna get
yin for my canaries! I thocht it was a guid yin!"

Robert turned away; but there was working in his mind an idea, and he
ran round to the colliery office to the manager, who was nearly mad with
grief and anxiety at what had happened.

"Come in, Sinclair," he said simply. "Can you suggest anything to help
us? Whatever is done, it can only be done quickly; for the moss is
rising rapidly in the shaft, and even though some of the men are safe in
the upper workings, it is only a question of a very short time till the
moss will rise and suffocate them, or until the black damp does so. If
you have any idea that can help, out with it and let us make a trial,
for the inactivity is killing me."

"I have been thinking, Mr. Anderson," replied Robert, "that we might go
down the old air-shaft over in the moss there, and run along the top
level, which is not far from the surface, and try and blast it through
on the heading into which the moss broke."

It might be full of moss too, for no one knew the extent of the breakage
in the metals, and even though it were clear, the damp would be lying in
it; but surely they might make an attempt on it. Robert remembered
working this level to within about nine feet from going through on the
heading. If he had plenty of hands, just to go down and drill a hole in
anywhere, and blast out the coal with a shot or two wherever he could
best place them, he might succeed in getting through to the men. It
might be that after the first rush filling the roadways, the flood of
moss had drained off, and was not now running so thickly down the
heading.

"Let me go and try, sir," he pleaded eagerly. "I think I can manage, if
the level is still unbroken. We can work in short turns, so as not to
be overcome with the damp. Will you let me have a try? I believe it's
the only chance we have, and if we do succeed, look what it will mean to
the women in the village. Will you let me try?"

"Yes," replied Anderson, reaching for his lamp, "and I shall be one of
the triers too. Go out and pick seven or eight men. I'll get the
necessary tools and get off over the moor to the old air shaft. It may
still be open. It is a pity we let it go out of repair, but we can have
a trial."

Robert ran out, a hope filling his heart, telling his news to those
round about, and the first man to step forth, before he had finished,
was Dugald McIntosh, the man who had put more value on his canaries than
on his wife's health, who quietly lifted up the drills the manager had
brought, and slinging them lightly over his shoulder, was off across the
moor at a run, with a dozen men at his heels, all eager to get to grips
with the danger, and try to rescue their imprisoned comrades.




CHAPTER XXV

A FIGHT WITH DEATH


Robert Sinclair seemed to be the one man who knew what to do--at least,
he seemed to be the only one who had a definite aim in view and as if by
some natural instinct everyone was just ready to do his bidding. He was
the leader of the herd towards whom everyone looked ready for a new
order to meet any new situation which might arise. Initiative and
resource were a monopoly in his hands. He was silent, and worked to get
ready to descend the old air-shaft, with grim set lips. Yet there seemed
to be no sense of bustle, only the work was done quickly and orderly,
his orders being issued as much by signs as by speech, and soon a
windlass was erected with ropes and swing chair fastened, into which he
at once leaped, followed by another man. Tools and explosives were
packed in and lamps lit and the order given to lower the chair.

Robert felt a queer sort of feeling as he stood waiting on the first
motion of the little drum round which the rope wound. He was cool and
clear brained--in fact he wondered why he was so collected. He felt he
was standing out of all this maelstrom of suffering and terror. Not that
he was impervious to anxiety for the men below, not that he was unmoved
by all that it meant to those standing round; but after that first wild
throb of terror that had clutched at his heart when his mother had told
him the dread news and that his two brothers were imprisoned in the
mine, something seemed suddenly to snap within him, the load and the
intensity of the pain lifted, and from that moment he had been master of
the situation.

He glanced round him as he waited quietly in his swinging seat. He felt
as he looked, no sense of fear or impending doom. He knew that black
damp probably lay in dense quantities down in that yawning gulf below
him, he knew that the sides of the shaft were in a bad state of
disrepair, and that they might give way at any time as the swinging rope
must inevitably touch them, and bring the whole thing in upon him, with
hundreds of tons of débris and moss.

Yet it was not of these things he thought. Perhaps he did not think of
anything particularly, but a far-off lilt of a children's game which was
played at school, kept iterating and reiterating through his brain, and
everything seemed done to that tune.

  "Don't take a laddie, oh,
  Laddie oh, laddie oh,
  Don't take a laddie oh,
  Take a bonnie wee lassie."

It sang continually within him and men seemed to move to its regular
beat, as they hurried to get ready. He looked at the hills, and noted
how quiet everything seemed, their curving outlines gave such a sense of
eternal rest. There was a patch of lovely blue sky above him, he noticed
where the clouds opened up and a glint of golden glorious sunshine came
through; but it looked garish and it closed again and the white clouds
trailed away, their lower fringes clinging to the hill tops like veils
of gossamer woven by time to deck the bride of Spring. A lark rose at
the edge of the crowd of weeping women and children as if unmindful of
the tragedy over which it sang so rapturously, and he noted its
fluttering wings and swelling throat as it soared in circles of glad
song.

All these things and more he noted though it was but a momentary pause.

"Are you right?" came the question from the men at the windlass, far
away it seemed and unconnected with the scene.

"Right," he answered with a start, and looking round he seemed to become
aware of the white-faced, red-eyed women among whom his mother's face
seemed to stand out. She was not weeping, he noticed, but oh God! her
face seemed to turn him with the intensity of the suffering in her eyes.
He realized that he had not noticed her before, and now with a wild
throb of pity he stretched out his hands towards her, a look of
suffering in his eyes, as if he were feeling the pains of humanity
crucified anew, and the chair began to drop slowly below the surface,
swinging down into the darkness and the evil dangers that lurked below.
Her face was the last thing he saw--a face full of agony yet calm with a
great renunciation coming to birth in her eyes, her lips drawn thin like
a slit in her face and all the color gone from them, the head bent a
little as if a great blow had fallen upon her--an island of agony set in
a sea of despair.

A wild impulse seized him to go back. It was too much to ask of a woman,
he felt. Too great a burden of tragedy to heap upon one soul, as he cast
his mind back through the suffering years and viewed all the pain she
had borne, and the terrible Gethsemane which her life had been; but as
the chair swung round he clutched the swaying rope and with the other
hand steadied it from crashing against the side of the shaft as they
slowly dropped lower and lower into the darkness and the evil smells
which hung around.

"Things look bad here," said his comrade as they passed down where at
some time a huge portion from the side had fallen out and down into the
bottom of the old shaft.

"Ay," answered Robert, "everything seems just ready to collapse," and
they dropped lower and lower, swaying from side to side, cautiously
guiding their swinging chair from the moss-oozing side, their nerves
strained as they listened to the creeking rope as it was paid out from
above.

"Holy God," cried his mate, "that was a near thing," as a huge mass of
rocks and slimy moss lunged out a little below them and hurtled away in
a loud rumbling noise.

Robert pulled the signal cord to stop and looked up to see the white
clouds passing over the narrow funnel-like shaft in which they hung.
Then he gave the signal to let out again noting how thick with damp the
atmosphere was becoming, and having difficulty with his light.

Lower and lower they swung and dropped down into the old shaft and as
the rope creaked and crazed above them it lilted:

  "Choose, choose, wha' you'll tak',
  Wha' you'll tak', wha' you'll tak',
  Choose, choose wha' you'll tak',
  A laddie or a lassie."

And the memory of the old lilt brought back other scenes again and he
found himself guiding the chair from the shaft side steering it off with
his hand at every rhythmic beat of the child song.

Soon they reached the bottom of the shaft, for it was not very deep, and
found a mass of débris, almost choking up the roadways on either side of
the bottom. But they got out of their chair and soon began to "redd"
away the stones though they found very great difficulty in getting the
lamps to burn. Occasionally, as they worked, little pieces came tumbling
from the side of the shaft, telling its own tale, and as soon as Robert
got a decent sized kind of opening made through the rocks which blocked
the roadway he sent up the other man to bring down more help and to get
others started to repair the old shaft by putting in stays and batons to
preserve the sides and so prevent them from caving in altogether.

He found his way along the level which had been driven to within nine
feet of going through on the heading in which the inbreak of moss had
taken place. He noticed the roof was broken in many places and that the
timber which had been put in years before was rotten. Strange noises
seemed to assail his senses, and stranger smells, yet the lilt of that
old childish game was ever humming in his brain and he saw himself with
other boys and girls with clasped hands linked in a circle and going
round in a ring as they sang the old ditty.

"Three breakings should dae it," he said as he looked at the face of the
coal dripping with water from the cracks in the roof. "If only they were
here to put up the props. I could soon blow it through," and he began to
prepare a place for batons and props, pending the arrival of more help
from those who were only too eager to come down to his aid.

It was almost an hour before help came in the shape of two men carrying
some props. Then came another two and soon more timber began to arrive
regularly and the swinging blows of their hammers as they drove in the
fresh props were soon echoing through the tunnels, and Robert set up his
boring machine and soon the rickety noise of it drowned all others. He
paused to change a drill when a faint hullo was heard from the other
side.

"Hullo," he yelled, then held his breath in tense silence to hear the
response which came immediately. "Are you all safe?" he roared, his
voice carrying easily through the open coal.

"Ay," came the faint answer; "but the moss is rising in the heading and
you'll have to hurry up."

Robert knew this, and one of his helpers had gone down an old heading to
explore and had returned to say that it was rising steadily and was now
within two hundred feet from the old shaft down which he had descended.

"Where away did the roof break?" roared Robert as he changed his second
drill.

"Half way doon the cousie brae," came the answer, "an' we're all shut in
like rats. Hurry up and get us oot," and again the rickety, rackety
noise of the boring machine began and drowned all other noises.

He soon drilled his holes and he could hear them on the other side
singing now some ribald song to keep up their courage, while others who
were religiously inclined chanted hymns and psalms, but all were
wondering whether Robert and his men would be able to break through the
barrier in time to save them before the persistently rising moss claimed
them.

He charged his shots and called them to go back, telling them the number
of his charges, then lit his fuse and ran out of the old level to wait
in a place of safety while the explosion took place.

Soon they boomed out and the concussion put them all in darkness; but
they soon had the lamps re-lit and were back in among the thick volumes
of powder smoke, groping about and shading their lamps and peering in to
see what their shots had done to lessen the barrier between them and
their imprisoned comrades.

Then the shovels set to work and tossed the coal which the shots had
dislodged back into the roadway and soon the boring machines were busy
again, eating into the coal; for those tireless arms of Robert's never
halted. He swung the handle or wielded the pick or shovel, never taking
a, rest, while the sweat streamed from his body working like some
mechanical product for always in his mind he was calculating his chances
for being able to blast it through the barrier before the moss rose.

"It has only a stoop length an' a half to rise now," reported one of the
men. "It's creeping up like the doom o' the day o' judgment. But I think
we'll manage. If these shots do as well as the last ones we should be
within two feet of them, an' surely to God we can bite the rest of it,
if we canna blaw it. Let me stem the shots, Rob, an' you take a rest."

"You go to hell," was the unexpectedly astounding reply; for no one had
ever heard Robert Sinclair use language like this before. "As soon as
thae shots are off an' if they blaw as well as the others we'll turn out
the coal an' then you can gang up the pit, every yin o' you. I'll soon
blow through the rest of it, and if you are all up by then it will make
for speed in getting the others out. We're going to have a race for it
even though we manage as I'm thinking to. So get out of the way and
don't talk. Again the air's getting too dam'd thick for you all
remaining here. There's hardly as muckle as would keep a canary living,"
and again he called to those on the other side to beware of the shots,
and again ran out to a place of safety while the explosions took place.

Once more the result of the shots was good; but the smoke choked and
blinded them and one man was overcome by the fumes. They carried him out
the road a bit and after he showed signs of coming round, Robert gave
instructions for him to be taken to the surface.

"Oh, Lod, but it's nippin' my e'en," said one as he rubbed his eyes and
blew his nose, sneezed and finally expectorated. "It's as thick as soor
milk, be dam'd!"

"Well, get him up, and I'll away back and redd out the shots and try
and get it through again. The moss is rising quicker noo an' it has only
aboot eighty feet to come."

So back he went among the thick choking volume of smoke, tripping and
stumbling and staggering from side to side as he scrambled on. Would he
be in time to blast the barrier down before the steadily creeping moss
rose to cut off his only avenue of escape?

"My God! What's that?" he asked himself as he paused while a rumble and
crash behind him told him that the old shaft had caved in burying his
comrades in rocks and moss and water.

He ran back but could get no further than within a stoop length of the
old shaft. There were hundreds of tons of débris and all was finally
lost. For the first time terror seized him and he tore desperately at
the bowlders of stone, cutting his fingers and lacerating his body all
over with cuts and bruises. He raved and swore and shouted in
desperation, the sweat streaming from every pore, his eyes wild and
glaring, but he was soon driven back by the moss which was oozing and
percolating through the broken mass of bowlders and gradually it forced
him back with a rush as it burst through with a sudden slushing sound as
if suddenly relieved from a barrier which held it. Back he rushed, his
light again becoming extinguished, the flood pursuing him relentlessly,
the air now so heavy that he could hardly breathe, but groping his way
he reached the first end roadway down which for the moment the flood ran
to meet the rising moss creeping up relentlessly from below.

Choking and only half conscious he staggered on with all sense of
disaster gone from his mind, with no thought of his comrades on the
other side waiting so impatiently to be released, and singing their
frothy songs in the hope that all was well, his legs doubling below him,
and his lungs heaving to expel the poison which the thick air contained.
Down at last he fell, his head striking against the side of the roadway,
and he lay still.

The moss might rise hungrily over him now, the rotten roof might fall
upon him, all the dangers of the mine might conspire together against
him; but nothing they might do could ever again strike terror into the
young heart that lay there, feebly throbbing its last as it was being
overcome with the deadly poison of the black damp.

He was proof against all their terrors now, the spirit could evade them
yet; for though the old shaft might collapse and imprison his body and
claim it as a sacrifice to the King Terror of the Underworld, no prison
was ever created that could contain the indomitable spirit of man as
God. He was free--free, and was happy and could cry defiance to the
dangers of the mine, to the terrors of time itself. He could clutch the
corners of the earth, and play with it as a toy of time, among the Gods
of Eternity.

"Choose, choose wha' you'll tak'," throbbed the young heart and a smile
of triumph played upon the lips as the pictures of bygone times flitted
across his dying brain. He was again the happy infant, hungry it may be,
and ill-clad, but Heaven contained no happier soul. The little stomach
might not be filled with sufficient food; but the spirit of him as it
was in younger years knew no material limits to its laughter in the
childish ring games of youth. Again he was waiting in the dark wintry
mornings on Mysie, so that she would not be afraid to go to work on the
pit-head; ay, and he was happy to take the windward side of her in the
storm, and shield her from the winter's blast, tying her little shawl
about her ears and making her believe he did not feel the cold at all.

He was back again at his mother's knee, listening to her glorious voice
singing some pitiful old ballad, as she crooned him to sleep; or lying
trying to forget the hunger he felt as the glorious old tune seemed to
drown his senses while he waited to say his prayer at night.

  "Jesus, tender shepherd, hear me,
    Bless Thy little lamb to-night,
  In the darkness be Thou near me,
    Keep me safe till morning light."

Then there was the "good-night" to everyone and the fond kiss of the
best of all mothers, the sinking into sleep that billowed and rocked
the weary young spirit of him, crushed and bruised by the forces of the
world, and finally the sweet shy smile of a young girl blushing and
awkward, but flooding his soul with happiness and thrilling every fiber
of him with her magic as she stood upon the hill crest, outlined against
the sunset with a soft breeze blowing, kissing the gray hill side,
bringing perfumes from every corner of the moor and beckoning him as she
rose upward, he followed higher and higher, the picture taking shape and
becoming more real until it merged into spirit.

And the creeping moss moved upward, hungry for its prey and greedy to
devour the fine young body so fresh and strong and lusty; but it was
balked, for it claimed only the empty shell. The prize had gone on the
wings of an everlasting happiness and the spirit of the moor, because
there is no forgetting, triumphed over the spirit of destruction, so
that in the records of the spirit he shall say:

  "I shall remember when the red sun glowing
    Sinks in the west, a gorgeous flare of fire;
  How then you looked with the soft breeze blowing
    Cool through your hair, a heaving living pyre
  Fired by the sun for the sweet day's ending;
    I still shall hear the whirring harsh moor-hen,
  Roused from her rest among the rushes bending
    I shall remember then.

  "I shall remember every well-loved feature,
    How, on the hill crest when the day was done,
  Just how you looked, dear, God's most glorious creature,
    Heaven's silhouette outlined against the sun;
  I shall remember just how you the fairest,
    Dearest and brightest thing that God e'er made,
  Warmed all my soul with holy fire the rarest,
    That vision shall not fade."

But pain and tragedy forever seem to have no limit to their hunger; and
in the clear spring air above the place where the bodies of her boys
lay, Mrs. Sinclair's heart was again the food upon which the tragedy of
life fed. All the years of her existence were bound up in the production
of coal, and the spirits of her husband and of her sons call to-day to
the world of men--men who have wives, men who have mothers, men who have
sweethearts and sisters and daughters, stand firm together; and preserve
your women folk from these tragedies, if you would justify your manhood
in the world of men.



