The Storyteller.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 422, 13 March 1880, Page 5

The Storyteller.

THAT LASS O' LOWRIE'S.

CHAPTER lIL- -(Continued.) THE REVEREND HAROLD BARHOLM.

" Mamma's headache will keep her upstairs for a while," A nice said. "She told me we were not to wait for her." And then she brought him his newspaper and kissed him dutifully. "Very glad to see you home again, I am sure, my dear," remaked the Hector. " I have really missed you very much. What excellent coffee this is'!—another cup, if you please."

And, after a pause—- " I think really, you know,' he proceeded, 5i that you will not find the place unpleasant, after all. For my part, I think it is well enough—for such a place ; one cannot expect polish in Lancashire miners, and certainly one does not meet with it ; but it is well to make the best of things. I get along myself reasonably well with the people. Ido not encounter the difficulties Grace complains of"

"Does he complain ?" a«ked Anice ; "I did not think he exactly complained." " Grace is too easily discouraged," answered the Hector, in off-handed explanation. "And he is apt to make blunders. He speaks of, and to, these people as if they were of the same fibre as himself. He does not take hold of things. He is deficient in courage. He means well, but he is not good.at reading character. That other young fellow now—Derrick, the engineer—would do twice as well in his place. " What do you think of that young fellow, by the way, my dear ?" " I like him," said Anicc. '* He will help Mr. Grace often." # " Grace needs a support of ?ome kind, returned Mr. Barholm, frowning slightly, " and he does not seem to rely very much upon me no t so much as I could wish. I don't quite understand him at times ; the fact is it has struck me once or twice that he preferred to take his own path, instead of following mine." " Papa," commented Anice, " I scarcely think he is to blame for that. I am sure it is always best, that conscientious, thinking people and Mr. Grace is a thinking man—should have paths of their own." Mr. Barholm pushed his hair from his forehead. His own obstinacy confronted him sometimes through Am'ce, in a finer, more baffling form. " Grace is a young man, my dear, he said, « a nd and not a very strong-mindedone."_ " I cannot believe that is true," said Anice, *' Ido not think we can blame his mind. It is his body that is not strong. Mr. Grace himself has more power than you and mamma and myself all put together." One of Anice's peculiarities was a certain pretty sententiousness, which, but for its innate refinement and its sincerity, might have impressed people as being a fault. When she pushed her opposition in that steady, innocent way, Mr. Barholm always took refuge behind an inner consciousness which " knew better," and was fully satisfied on the point of its own knowledge. When breakfast was over, he rose from the table with the air of a man who had business on hand. Anice rose too, and followed him to the hearth. " You are going out, I suppose," she said. " lam going to see Joan Lowrie," he said complacently. " And I have several calls to make besides. Shall I tell the young woman that you will call on her ?" Anice looked down at the foot she had placed on the shining rim of the steel fender. " Joan Lowrie ?" she said reflectively. " Certainly, my dear. I should think it would please the girl to feel that we are interested in her." "I should scarcely think—from what Mr. Grace and his friend say—that she is the kind of girl to be reached in that way," said Anice. The Hector shrugged his shoulders. " My dear," he answered, " if we are always to depend upon what Grace says, we shall often find ourselves in a dilemma. If you are going to wait until these collier young women call on you after the manner of polite society, I am afraid you will have time to lose interest in them and their affairs."

He had no scruples of his own on the subject of his errand. He felt very comfortable as usual, as he wended his was through the village towards Lowrie's cottage, on the Knoll Road. He did not ask himself what he should say to the collier young woman and her unhappy charge. Orthodox phrases with various distinct flavors —the flavor of encouragement, the flavor of reproof, the flavor of consolation—were always ready with him ; he never found it necessary to prepare them beforehand. The flavor of approval was to be Joan's portion this morning ; the flavor of rebuke her companion's. He passed down the street with ecclesiastical dignity, bestowing a curt, but not unamiable word of recognition here and there. Unkempt., dirty-faced children, playing hop-scotch or marbles on the flag pavement, looked up at him with a species of awe, not unmingled with secret resentment ; women lounging on doorsteps, holding babies on their hips, stared in critical sullenness as he went by. " Theer's th' owd parson," commented one sharp-tongued matron. " Hoo's goin' to teach some one summat I warrant. What th' owd lad dunnot know is na worth knowin'. Eh ! hoo's a graidely foo', that hoo is. Our Tommy, if tha dost na let Jane Ann be, tha'll be gettin' a hidin'."

Unprepossessing as most of the colliers' homes were, Lowrie's cottage was a trifle less inviting than the majority. It stood upon the roadside, an uyly little bare place, with a look of stubborn de.-olation, its only redeeming feature a certain rough cleanliness. The same cleanliness reigned inside, Barholm observed when he entered ; and yet on the whole there was a stamp on it which made it a place scarcely

to be approved of. Before the low fire sat a girl with a child on her knee, and this girl, hearing the visitor's footsteps, got up hurriedly, and met him with a half-abashed, halffrightened look on her pale face. " Lowrie is na here, an' neyther is Joan," she said, without waiting for him to speak. " Both on 'em's at th' pit. Theer's no one here but me," and she held the baby over her shoulder, as if she would like to have hidden it. Mr. Barholm walked in serenely, sure that he ought to be welcome, if he were not. "At the pit, are they?" he answered. "Dear me ! I might have remembered that they would be at this time. Well, well ; I will take a seat, my girl, and talk to you a little. I suppose you know me, the minister at the church—Mr. Barholm."

Liz, a slender slip of a creature, large-eyed and woe begone, stood up before him, staring at him irresolutely as he seated himself. " I—l dunnot know nobody much now," she stammered. " I—l've been away fro' Riggan sin' afore yo' come—if yo're th' new parson," and then she colored nervously and became fearfully conscious of her miserable little burden. "I've heerd Joan speak o'th' young parson," she faltered. Her visitor looked at her gravely. What a helpless, childish creature she was, with her pretty face and her baby, and her characterless, frightened way. She was only one of many — poor Liz, ignorant, emotional, weak, easily led, ready to err, unable to bear the consequences of error, not strong enough to be resolutely wicked, not strong enough to be anything in particular, but that which her surroundings made her. If she had been well-born and well brought up, she would have been a pretty, insipid girl who needed to be taken care of ; as it was, she had " gone wrong." The excellent Rector of St. Michael's felt that she must be awakened.

" You are the girl Elizabeth ? " he said. "I'm 'Lizabeth Barnes," she answered, pulling at the hem of her child's small gown, " but folks nivver calls me nowt but Liz."

Her visitor pointed to a chair considerately. " Sit down," he said, "I want to talk to you." Liz obeyed him ; but her pretty, weak face told its own story of distaste and hysterical shrinking. She let the baby lie upon her lap ; her fingers were busy plaiting up folds of the little gown. " I dunnot want to be talked to," she whimpered. " I dunnot know as talk can do folks as is in trouble any good—an' th' trouble's bad enow wi' out talk." " We must remember, whence the trouble comes," answered the minister, " and if the root lies in ourselves, and springs from our own sin, we must bear our cross meekly, and carry our sorrows and iniquities to the foun-tain-head. We must ask for grace, and—and sanctification of spirit."

" I dunnot know nowt about th' fountainhead," sobbed Liz aggrieved. " I'm not religious an' I canna see as such loike helps foak. No Methody nivver did nowt for me when I war i' trouble an' want. Joan Lowrie is na a Methody." ~^2, "If you mean that the young woman is in an unawakened condition, I am sorry to hear it," with increased gravity of demeanor. " Without the redeeming blood how are we to find peace ? If you had clung to the Cross you would have been spared all this sin and shame. You must know, my girl, that this," with a motion toward the frail creature on her knee, " is a very terrible thing." Liz burst into piteous sobs—crying like an abused child—

" I know it's hard enow," she cried ; " I canna get work neyther at th' pit nor at th' factories, as long as I mun drag it about, an' I ha' not got a place to lay my head, on'y this. If it wur not for Joan, I might starve and ih' choild too. But I'm noan so bad as yo'd mak' out. I—l wur very fond o' him—l wur, an' I thowt he wur fond o' me, an' he wur a gentleman too. He wur no laboring man, an' he wur kind to me, until he gob tired. Them sort allu3 gets tired o' yo' i' time, Joan says. I wish I'd ha' towd Joan at first, an' axed her what to do."

Barholm passed his hand through his hair uneasily. This shallow, inconsequent creature baffled him. Her shame, her grief, her misery, were all mere straws eddying on the pool of her discomfort. It was not her sin that crushed her, it was the consequence of it ; herwas not a sorrow, it was a petulant unhappiness. If her lot had been prosperous outwardly, she would have felt no inward pang.

It became more evident to him than ever that something must be done, and he applied himself to his task of reform to the best of his ability. But he exhausted his repertory of sonorous phrases in vain. His grave exhortations only called forth fresh tears, and a new element of resentment ; and to crown all, his visit terminated with a discouragement of which his philosophy had never dreamed. In the midst of hia most eloquent reproof, a shadow darkened the threshold, and as Liz looked up with the exclamation—" Joan !" a young woman, in pit girl guise, came in, her hat pushed off her forehead, her throat bare, her fustain jacket hanging over her arm. She glanced from one to the other questioningly, knitting her brows slightly at the sight of Liz's tears. In answer to her glance Liz spoke querulously. " It's th' parson, Joan," she said. "He come to talk like th rest on 'em an' he maks me out too ill to burn." Just at that moment the child set up a fretful cry and Joan crossed the room and took it up in her arms. " Yo've feart the choild betwixt yo'," she said, " if yo've managed to do nowt else." " I felt it my duty as Rector of the parish," explained Barholm, s.omewhat curtly, "I felt it my duty as Rector of the parish, to endeavour to bring your friend to a proper sense of her position." Joan turned toward him. " Has tha done it ?" she asked. The Reverend Harold felt his enthusiasm concerning the young woman dying out. " I—l " he stammered. J oan interrupted him.

" Dost tha see as tha has done her any good?" she demanded. "I dunnot rnysen." " I have endeayored to the best of my ability to improve her mental condition," the minister replied. "I thowt as much," said Joan; "I mak' no doubt tha'st done thy best, neyther. Happen tha'st gi'en her what comfort tha had to spare, but if yo'd been wiser than yo' are, yo'd ha' let her alone. I'll warrant there is na a parson 'twixt here an' Lunnon, that could na ha' tow'd her that she's a sinner an' has shame to bear ; but happen there is na a parson 'twixt here an' Lunnon as she could na ha' towd that much to, hersen. Howivver, as tha has said thy say, happen it'll do yo' fur this toime, an' yo' can let her be for a while." Mr. Barholm was unusually silent during dinner that evening, and as he sat over his wine, his dissatisfaction rose to the surface, as it invariably did.

" I am rather disturbed this evening, Anice," he said.

Anice looked up questioningly. " Why ?" she asked. " I went to see Joan Lowrie this morning," he answered hesitatingly, " and I am very much disappointed in her. I scarcely think, after all, that I would advise you to take her in hand. In fact there is a positive touch of the vixen about her."

CHAPTER IV. "LOVE 3IE, LOVE 3IY DOG."

Mr. Barholm had fallen into the habit of turning to Anice for it, when he required information concerning people and things. In her desultory pilgrimage, Anice saw all that he missed, and heard much that he was deaf to. The rough, hard-faced men and boisterous girls who passed to and from their work at the mine, drew her to thei, window whenever they made their appearance. She longed to know something definite of them—to get a little nearer to their unprepossessing life. Sometimes the men and women, passing, ca,ught glimpses of her, and asking each other who she was, decided upon her relationship to the family.

" Hoo's th' owd parson's lass," somebody said. " Hoo's noan so bad lookin' neyther, if hoo was na sich a bit o' a thing." The people who had regarded Mr. Barholm with a spice of disfavor, still could not look with ill-nature upon this pretty girl. The slatternly women nudged each other as she passed, and the playing children stared after their usual fashion ; but even the hardest natured matron could find nothing more condemnatory to say than, " Hoo's noan Lancashire, that's plain as th' nose on a body's face ;" or " Theer is na much on her, at ony rate. Hoo's a bit of a weakly-like lass wi'out much blood i' her."

Now and then Anice caught the sound of their words, but she was used to being commented upon. She had learned that people whose lives have a great deal of hard common discomfort and struggle, acquire a tendency to depreciation almost as a second nature. It is easier to bear one's own misfortunes, than to bear the good fortune of better-used people. That is the insult added by fate to injury. Riggan was a crooked, rambling, crossgrained little place. From the one wide street with its jumble of old, tumble-down shops, and glaring new ones, branched out narrow, up hill or down-hill thoroughfares, edged by colliers' houses, with an occasional tiny provision shop, where bread and bacon were ranged alongside potatoes and flabby cabbages ; ornithological specimens made of pale sweet cake, and adorned with startling black currant eyes, resting unsteadily against the window pane, a sore temptation to the juvenile populace. It was in one of these side streets that Anice met with her first adventure.

Turning the corner she heard the sharp yelp of a dog among a group of children, followed almost immediately by a ringing of loud, angry, boyish voices, a sound of blows and cries, and a violent scuffle. Anice paused for a few seconds, looking over the heads of the excited little crowd, and then made her way to it, and in a minute was in the heart of it. The two boys who were the principal figures, were fighting frantically, scuffling, kicking, biting, and laying on vigorous blows, with not unscientific fists ! Now and then a fierce, red, boyish face was to be seen, and then the rough head ducked and the fight waxed fiercer and hotter, while the dog—a small, shrewd, sharp-nosed terrier—-barked at the combatants' heels, snapping at one pair, but not at the other, and plainly enjoying the excitement.

" Boys !" cried Anice. " What's the matter ? "

"They'refeighten," remarked a philosophical young bystander, with placid interest, —an' Jud Bates 'll win."

It was so astonishing a thing that any outsider should think of interfering, and there was something so decided in the girlish voice addressing them, that almost at the moment the combatants fell back, panting heavily, breathing vengeance in true boy fashion, and evidently resenting the unexpected intrusion. " What is it all about ?" demanded the girl. " Tell me.'

The crowd gathered close around her to stare, the terrier sat down breathless, his red tongue hanging out, his tail beating the ground. One of the boys was his master, it was plain at a glance, and as a natural consequence, the dog had felt it his duty to assist to the full extent of his powers. But the other boy was the first to speak. " Why could na he let me a-be then ? " he asked, irately. " I was na doin' owt t' him."

" Yea, tha w»V' retorted his opponent, a sturdy, ragged, ten-year-old. " Nay, I was na." " Yea. tha was."

"Well," said Anice, " what was he doing ?" "Aye," cried the first youngster, "tha tell her if tha can. Who hit the first punse ?" excitedly doubling his fist again. " I didna." "Na, tha didna, but tha did summat else. Tha punsed at Nib wi' thy clog, and hit him

aside o' th' yed, an' then I punsed thee, an' I'd do it ageu fur " " Wait a minute," said Anice, holding up her little gloved hand. " Who is Nib ?" "Nib's my dog," surlily. "An' them as punses him, has gotten to punse me." Anice bent down and patted the small animal.

"He seems a very nice dog," she said. " What did you kick him for ?" Nib's master was somewhat mollified. A person who could appreciate the virtues of " th' best tarrier i' Riggan," could not be regarded wholly with contempt, or even indifference.

"He kicked him fur nowt," he answered. He's alius at uther him or me. He bust my kite, and he cribbed my marvels, didn't he ?" appealing to the bystanders. " Aye, he did, I seed him crib th' marvels mysen. He wur mad cause Jud wur winnen, and then he kicked Nib."

Jud bent down to pat Nib himself, not without a touch of pride in his manifold injuries, and the readiness with which they were attest*!.

" Aye," he said, " an' I did na set on to him. at first neyther. I never set on to him till he punsed Nib. He may bust my kite, an' steal my marvels, an' he may ca' me ill names, but heshanna kick Nib. So theer ]"

It was evident that Nib's enemy was the transgressor. He was grievously in the minority. Nobody seemed to side with him, and everybody seemed ready when once the tongues were loosed—to say a word for Jud and " th' best tarrier i' Riggan." For a few minutes Anice could scarcely make herself heard.

" You are a good boy to take care of your dog," she said to Jud—" and though fightingis not a good thing, perhaps if I had been a boy," gravely deciding against moral suasion in one rapid glance at the enemy —"perhaps if I had been a boy, I would have fought myself. You are a coward," she added, with incisive scorn to the other lad, who slinked sulkily out of sight.

" Owd Sammy Craddock," lounging at his window, clay pipe in hand, watched Anice as she walked away, and gave vent to his feelings in a shrewd chuckle.

"Eh ! eh !" he commented ; "so that's th' owd parson's lass, is it ! Wall, hoo may be o' th' same mate, but hoo is na o' th' same grain, I'll warrant. Hoo's a rare un, hoo is, fur a wench."

" Owd Sammy's" amused chuckles, and exclamations of " Eh ! hoo's a rare un—that hoo is—fur a wench," at last drew his wife's attention. The good woman pounced upon him sharply. " Tha'rt an owd yommer-head," she said. " What art tha ramblin' about now J Who is it as is siccan a rare un? "

Owd Sammy burst into a fresh chuckle, rubbing his knees with both hands. " Why," said he, " I'll warrant tha could na guess if tha tried, but I'll gi'e thee a try. Who dost tha think wur out i' th' street just now i' th' thick of a foight among th' lads ? I know thou'st nivver guess." " Nay, happen I canna, an' I dunnot know as I care so much, neyther," testily. " Why," slapping his knee, " th' owd parson's lass. A little wench not much higher nor thy waist, an' wi' a bit o' a face loike skimmilk, but steady and full o' pluck as an owd un." "Nay naw, tha dost na say so ? What wor she doin' an' how did she come theer ? Tha mun ha' been dreamin' !" " Nowt o' th' soart. I seed her as plain as I see thee, an' heerd ivvery word she said. Tha shouldst ha' seen her ! Hoo med as if hoo'd lived wi' lads aw her days. Jud Bates and that young marplot o' Thorme's wur feightin' about Nib—at it tooth and nail—an' th' lass sees 'em, an' marches into th' thick, an' sets 'em to reets. Yo' should ha' seen her ! An' hoo tells Jud as he's a good lad to tak' care o' his dog, an' hoo ( does na know but -what hoo'd a fowt hersen i' his place, and hoo ca's Jack Thorme a coward, an' turns her back on him, an' ends up wi' tellin' Jud to bring th' tarrier to th' Rectory to see her." " Well," exclaimed Mrs. Craddock, " did yo' ivver hear th' loike ? " " I wish th' owd parson had seed her," chuckled her spouse, irreverently. " That soart is na i' his loine. He'd a waved his stick as if he'd been king and council i' one, an' rated 'em fro' thi' top round o' th' ladder. He canna get down fro' his perch. Th' owd lad'll stick theer till he gets a bit too heavy, an' then he'll coom down wi' a crash, ladder an' aw'—but th' lass is a different mak'."

Sammy being an oracle among his associates, new-comers usually passed through his hands, and were condemned or approved by him. His pipe, and his criticisms upon society in general, provided him with occupati'm. Too old to fight and work, he was too shrewd to be ignored. Where he could not make himself felt, he could make himself heard. Accordinely, when he condescended to inform a select and confidential audience that the " owd parson's lass was a rare un, lass as she was"—(the masculine opinion of Riggan on the subject of the weaker sex was a rather disparaging one) — the chances of the rector's daughter began, so to speak, to " look up." If Sammy Craddock found virtue in the new-comer, it was possihle such virtue might exist, at least in a negative form—and open enmity was rendered unnecessary, and even impolitic. A faint interest began to be awakened. When Anice passed through the streets, the slatternly, baby-laden women looked at her curiously, and in a manner not absolutely unfriendly. She might not be so bad after all, if she did have " Lunnon ways," and was smiled upon by Fortune. At any rate, she differed from the parson himself, which was in her favor. ( To be continued.)