The Storyteller.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 424, 27 March 1880, Page 5

The Storyteller.

THAT LASS O' LOWRIE'S.

(Continued.) CHAPTER VII. ANICE AT THE COTTAGE.

Anice went to see Liz. Perhaps if the truth were told, she went to see Joan more than to visit Joan's protege, though her interest extended from the one to the other. But she did not see Joan, she only heard of her. Liz met her visitor without any manifestations of enthusiasm. She was grateful, but gratitude was not often a powerful emotion with her. But Anice began to attract her somewhat before she had been in the house ten minutes. Liz found, first, that she was not one of the enemy, and did not come to read a homily to her concerning her sins and transgressions ; having her mind set at ease thus far, she f»und time to be interested in her. Her visitor's beauty, her prettiness of toilet, a certain delicate grace of presence, were all virtues in Liz's ayes. She was so fond of pretty things herself, she had been wont to feel such pleasure and pride in her beauty, that such outward charms were the strongest of charms to her. She forgot to be abashed and miserable, when, after talking a few minutes, Anice came to her and bent over the child as it lay on her knee. She even had the courage to regard the material of her dre&3 with some degree of in' teresfc.

" Yo'n getten that theer i' Lunnon," she rentured, wistfully touching the pretty silk with her finger. " Theer's noan'sich i" Biggan." " Yes," answered Anice, letting the baby's hand cling to her fingers. " I bought it in London."

Liz touched it again, and this time the wistfulness in her touch crept up to her eyes, mingled with a little fretfulness. "Ivverything's fine as comes fro' Lunnon," she said. " It's the grandest place i' th' world. T dunnot wonder as th' queen lives theer. I wur happy aw th' time I wur theer. I never was so happy i' my life. I—l canna hardly bear to think on it—it gi'es me such a wearyin' an' longin'; I wish I could go back, I do " —ending with a sob. "Don't think about it anymore than you can help," said Anice gently. "It is very hard I know ; don't cry, Liz." " I canna help it," sobbed Liz; "an' I can no more help thickin' on it, than th' choild theer can help thinkin' on its milk. I'm hungerin' aw th' toime—an' I dunnot care to live ; I wakken up i' th' noight hungerin' an' cryin' fur—fur what I ha' not got, an' nivver shall ha' agen."

The tears ran down her cheeks and she whimpered like a child. The sight of the silk dress had brought back to her mind her lost bit of paradise as nothing else would have done —her own small store of finery, the gaiety and novelty of London sounds and sights. Anice knelt down upon the flagged floor, still holding the child's hand. " Don't cry," she said again. "Look at the baby, Liz. It is a pretty baby. Perhaps if it lives, it may be a comfort to you some day." "May ! it wunnot ;" said Liz, regarding it resentfully. " I nivver could tak' no comfort in it. It's nowt but a trouble. I dunnot loike it. I canna. It would be better if it would na live. I canna tell wheer Joan Lowrie gets her patience with the little marred thing mysen—alius whimperin' and cryin' : I dunnot know what to do wi' it half the toime."

Anice took it from her lap, and sitting down upon a low wooden stool, held it gently, looking at its small round face. It was a pretty little creature, pretty with Liz's own beauty, or at least, with the baby promise of it. Anice stooped and kissed it, her heart stirred by the feebly-strong clasp of the tiny fingers, During the remainder of her visit, she sat holding the child on her knee, and talking to it as well as to its mother. But she made no attempt to bring Liz to what Mr. Barholm had called " a fitting sense of her condition." She was not fully settled in her opinion as to what Liz's " fitting sense" would be. So she simply made an effort to please her, and awaken her to interest, and she succeeded very well. When she went away, the girl was evidently sorry to see her go. " I dunnot often want to see folk twice," she said, looking at her shyly, " but I'd loike to. see yo'. You're not loike th' rest. Yo' dunnot hariy me wi' talk. Joan said yo' would aa."

" I will come again," said Anice,

During her visit, L'z had told her much of Joan. She seemed to like to talk of her, and certainly Anice had been quite ready to listen. " She is na easy to mak' out," said Liz, " an' p'r'aps that's th' reason why folks puts theirsens to so much trouble to mak' her out."

When he passed the cottage on the Knoll Boad in going home at night, Fergus could not help looking out for Joan. Sometimes he saw her, and sometimes he did not. During the warm weather, he saw her often at the door, or near the gate ; almost always with the child in her arms. There was no awkward shrinking in her manner at such times, no vestige of the clumsy consciousness usually exhibited by girls of her class. She met his glance with a grave quietude, scarcely touched with interest, he thought ; he never observed that she smiled, though he was uncomfortably conscious now and then that she stood and calmly watched him out of sight.

CHAPTER VIII. THE WAGER OP BATTLE.

"Own Sammy Craddock" rose from his chair, and going to the mantlepiece, took down a tobacco jar of red and yellow delf, and proceeded to till his pipe with solemn ceremony. It was a large, deep clay pipe, and held a great deal of tobacco— particularly when filled from the store of an acquaintance. " It's a good enow pipe to borrow wi," j}Sammy§was

I wont to lemark. In the second place, Mr. Craddock drew forth a goodly portion of the weed, and pressed it down with ease and precision into the top of the foreign gentleman's turban which constituted the bowl. Then he lighted it with a piece of paper, remarking to his wife between long indrawn puffs, "I'm goin'—to th' Public." The good woman did not receive the intelligence as amicably as it had been given. " Ay," she said, " I'll warrant tha art. When tha art na fillin* thy belly tha art generally either goin' to th' Public or comin' whoam. Awe Biggan ud go to ruin if tha wert na at th' Public fro' morn till neet looking after other folkses business. It's well for th' toun as tha'st getten nowt else to do." Sammy puffed away at his pipe, without any appearance of disturbance. "Aye," he consented, dryly, " it is that. It ud be a bad thing to ha' th' pits stop workin' aw because I had na attended to 'em, an' gi'en th' mesters a bit o' encouragement. Tha sees mine's whatth' gentlefolk ca' a responsible position i' society. Th' biggest trouble I ha,' is settlin' i' my moind what th' world 'ill do when I turn up my toes to the daisies, an' how the Government 'ill mak' up their moinds who shall ha' th' honor o' payin' for the moniment." In Mr. Craddock's opinion his skill in the solution of political and social problems was only equalled by his aptitude in managing the weaker sex. He never lost his temper with a woman. He might be sarcastic, he was sometimes even severe in his retorts, but he was never violent. In any one else but Mr. Craddock, such conduct might have been considered weak by the male population of Biggan, who not unfrequently settled their trifling domestic d : fficulties with the poker and tongs, chairs, or flat-irons, or indeed with any portable piece of household furniture. But Mr. Craddock's way of disposing of feminine antagonists was tolerated. It was pretty well known that Miv. Craddock had a temper, and since he could manage her it was not worth while to criticise the method. " Tha'rt an owd yommer-head," said Mrs. Craddock, as oracularly as if she had never made the observation before. " Tha deserves what tha has na getten." " Aye, that I do," with an air of amiable regret. "Tha'rt reet theer fur once i' thy loife. Th' country has na done its duty by me. If I'd bad aw I deserved I'd been th Lord Mayor o' Lunnon by this toime, an' tha'd a been th' Lady Mayoress, settin' up i' thy parlor wi' a goold crown atop o' thy owd head, sortia' out thy clothes fur th' weshwoman i' stead o' dollyin' out thy bits o' duds fur thysen. Tha'rt reet, owd lass—tha'rt reet enow." " Go thy way to th' Public," retorted the old dame, driven to desperation. " I'm tired o' hearkenin' to thee. Get thee gone to th' Public, or we'st ha' th' world standin' still ; an' moind tha do'st na set th' horse-ponds afire as tha goes by 'em." "I'll be keerful, owd lass," chuckled Sammy, taking his stick. " I'll be keerful for th' sake o' th' town." He made his way towards the village alehouse in the best of humors. Arriving at the Crown, he found a discussion in progress. Discussions were always being carried on there, in fact, but this time it was not Craddock's particular friends who were busy. There were grades even among the visitors at the Crown, and there weie several grades below Sammy's. The lowest wa-s composed of the most disreputable of the colliers—men who with Lowrie at their head were generally in some mischief. It was these men who were talking together loudly this evening, and as usual, Lowrie was the loudest in the party. They did not seem to be quarrelling. Three or four sat round a table listening to Lowrie with black looks, and toward them Sammy glanced as he came in. " What's up in them fellys ?" he asked of a friend. " Summat's wrong at th' pit," was the answer. " I canna mak' out what mysen. Summat about one o' th' mesters as they're out wi'. What'll tha tak', owd lad ? " "A pint o' sixpenny." And then with another side-long glance at the debaters " They're an ill set, that lot, an' up to summat ill too, I'll warrant. He's not th' reet soart, that Lowrie." Lowrie was a burly fellow with a surly, sometimes ferocious, expression. Drink made a madman of him, and among his companions he ruled supreme through sheer physical superiority. The man who quarrelled with him might be sure of broken bones, if not of something worse. He leaned over the table now, scowling as he spoke. " I'll ha' no lads meddlin' and' settin' th' mesters agen vie" Craddock heard him say. " Them on yo* as loikes to tak' cheek mnn tak' it, I'm too owd a bird fur that soart o' feed. It sticks i' my crop. Look thee out o' that theer window, Jock, and watch who passes. I'll punse that lad into the middle o' next week, as sure as he goes by." " Well," commented one of his companions, " aw I've gotten to say is, as tha'll be loike to ha' a punse on it, fur he's a strappin' youngster, an' noan so easy feart." " Da'.st ta mean to say as I conna do it ?" demanded Lowrie, fiercely. " Nay—nay, mon," was the pacific and rather hastv reply. " Nowt o' th' soart. I on'y meant as it was na ivvery mon as could." " Aye, to be sure !" said Sammy, testily, to his friend. " That's the game, is it ? Theer's a foight on hand. That's reet my lads, lay in th' beer, an' mak' dom'd fools o' thysens, an tha'lt get a chance to sleep on the soft side o" a paving-stone i' th' lock-ups." He had been a fighting man himself in his young days, and had prided himself particularly upon " showing his muscle," in Riggan parlance, but he had never been such a man as Lowrie. His comparatively gentlemanly encounters with personal friends had always been fair and square, and in many cases had laid the foundation for future toleration, even amiability. He had never hesitated to " tak' a punse" at an offending individual, but he had always been equally ready to shake hands when all

was over, and in some cases, when having temporarily closed a companion's eye in the heat of argument, he had been known to lead him to the counter of " th' public," and bestow nectar upon him in the form of "sixpenny." But of Lowrie, even the fighting community, which was the community predominating in Biggan, could not speak so well. He was " ill-farrant," and revengeful,—ready to fight, but not ready to forgive. He had been known to bear a grudge, and remember it, when it had been forgotten by other people. His record was not a clean one, and accordingly he was not a favorite of Sammy Craddock's. A short time afterward somebody passed the window facing the street, and Lowrie started up with an oath. " Theer he is !" he exclaimed. " Now fur it. I thowt he'd go this road. I'll see what tha's gotten to say for thysen, my lad." He was out in the street almost before Craddock and his companion had time to reach the open window, and he had stopped the passer-by, who paused to confront him haughtily. " Why ?" cried Sammy, slapping his knee, " I'm dom'd if it is na th' Lunnon engineer chap." Eergus Derrick stood before his enemy with anything but a propitiatory air. That this brutal fellow, who had caused him trouble enough already, should interfere with his very progress in the street, was too much for his high spirit to bear. " I come out here," said Lowrie, " to see if tha had owt to say to me." " Then," replied Eergus, " you may go in again, for I have nothing." Lowrie drew a step nearer to him.

" Art tha sure o' that!" he demanded. " Tha wert so ready wi' thy gab about th' Davys this mornin' I thowt happen tha'd loike to say summafc more if a mon ud gi' yo' a chance. But happen agen yo're one o' th' soart as sticks to gab an' goes no further." Derrick's eyes blazed, he flung out his open hand in a contemptuous gesture. " Out of the way," he said, in a suppressed voice, " and let me pass." But Lowrie only came nearer.

"Nay, but I wunnot," he said, "until I'ye said my say. Tha were goin' to mak' xhe obey th' rules or let th' mesters hear on it, wert tha ? Tha wert goin' to keep thy eye on me, an' report when th' toime come, wert tha ? Well th' toime has no come yet, and now I'm goin' to gi' thee a thrashin'." He sprang upon him with a ferocity which would have flung to the earth any man who had not possessed the thews and sinews of a lion. Derrick managed to preserve his equilibrium. After the first blow, he could not control himself. Naturally he had longed to thrash this fellow soundly often enough, and now that he had been attacked by him, he felt forbearance to be no virtue. Brute force could best conquer brute nature. He felt that he would rather die a thousand deaths than be conquered himself. He put forth all his strength in an effort that awakened the crowd —which had speedily surrounded them, Owd Sammy among the number—to wild admiration. " Get thee unto it, lad," cried the old sinner in an ecstasy of approbation, " Get thee unto it! Tha'at shapin' reet I see. Why, I'm dom'd," slapping his knee as usual—" I'm dom'd if he is no goin' to mill Dan Lowrie !"

To the amazement of the bystanders, it became evident, in a very short time, that Lowrie had met his match. Einding it necessary to defend himself. Derrick was going to do something more. The result was that the breathless struggle for the mastery ended in a crash, and Lowrie lay upon the pavement, Fergus Derrick standing above him pale, fierce and panting. " Look to him," he said to those about him, in a white heat, " and remember that the fellow provoked me to it. If he tries ifc again, I will try again too." And he turned on his heel and Walked away. He bad been far more tolerant, even in his wrath, than most men would have been, but he had disposed of his enemy effectually. The fellow lay stunned upon the ground, In his fall, he had cut his head upon the kerb-stone, and the blood streamed from the wound when his companions crowded near, and raised him. Owd Sammy Craddock offered no assistance ; he leaned upon his stick, and looked on with grim satisfaction. " Tha't what tha deserved, owd lad," he said in an undertone. "An' tha'st getten no more. I'st owe th' Lunon chap one fro' this rm. He's done a bit o' work as I'd ha' takken i' hond mysen long ago, if I'd ha' been thirty years younger, an' a bit less stiff i' th' hinges," Eergus had not escaped without hurt himself, and the first angry excitement over, he began to feel so sharp an ache in his wrist, that he made up his mind to rest for a few minutes at Grace's lodgings before going home. It would be wise to know the extent of his injury.

Accordingly, he made his appearance in the parlor, somewhat startling his friend, who was at supper. " My dear Eergus !" exclaimed Paul. "How excited you look ? " Derrick flung himself into a chair, feeling rather dubious about his strength, all at once. "DoI ?" he said, with a faint smile. " Don't be alarmed, Grace, I have no doubt I look as I feel. I have been having a brush with that scoundrel Lowrie, and I believe something has happened to my wrist."

He made an effort to raise his left hand and failed, succumbing to a pain so intense that it forced an exclamation from him.

" I thought it was a sprain," he said, when he recovered himself, " but it is a job for a surgeon. It is broken." And so it proved under the examination of the nearest practitioner, and then Derrick remembered a wrench shock which he had felt in Lowrie's last desperate effort to recover himself. Some of the small bones had broken.

Grace called in the surgeon himself, and stood by during the strapping and bandaging with an anxious face, really suffering as much as Derrick, perhaps a trifle more. He would

not hear of his going home that night, but insisted that he should remain where he was.

" I can sleep on the lounge myself," he protested. " And though I t hall be obliged to leave you for half an hour, I assure you I shall not be away a longer time." " Where are you going ? " asked Derrick. "To the Bectory. Mr. Barholm sent a message an hour ago, that he wished to see me upon business." Fergus agreed to remain. When Grace was on the point of leaving the room, he turned his head.

"You are going to the Bectory, you say ? " he remarked. "Yes."

*' Do you think you shall see Anice * " " It iB very probable," confusedly. " I merely thought I would ask you not to mention this affair to her," said Derrick. The curate's face assumed an expression at that moment which it was well that his friend did not see. A shadow of bewilderment and anxiety fell upon it and the color faded away. " You think " faltered he.

"Well, I thought that perhaps it would shock or alarm her," answered Derrick. " She might fancy it to have been a more serious matter than it was."

"Very well. I think you are right, perhaps."

CHAPTER IX. THE NEWS AT THE RECTOKT.

If she did not hear of the incident from Grace, Anice heard of it from another quarter. The day following, the village was ringing with the particulars of " th' feight betwix' th' Lunnon chap an' Dan Lowrie."

Having occasion to go out in the morning, Mr. Barholm returned to luncheon in a state of great excitement. " Dear me !' he began, almost as soon as h« entered the room. " Bless my life 1 what illconditioned animals these colliers are !"

Anice and her mother regarded him questioningly. " What do you suppose I have just heard ?" he went on. "Mr. Derrick has had a very unpleasant affair with one of the men who work under him—no other than that Lowrie—the young woman's father. They are a bad lot, it seemF, and Lowrie had a spite against Derrick, and attacked hirn openly, and in the most brutal manner, as he was going through the village yesterday evening." " Are you sure ?" cried Anice. "Oh ! papa," and she put her hand upon the table as if she needed support. " There is not the slightest doubt," was the answer, " everybody is talking about it. It appears that it is one of the strictest rules of the mine that the men shall keep their Davy lamps locked while they are in the pit—indeed they are directed to deliver up their keys before going down, and Derrick having strong suspicions that Lowrie had procured a false key, gave him a rather severe rating about it, and threatened to report him, and the end of the matter w<ts the trouble of yesterday. The wonder is that Derrick came off conqueror. They say he gave the fellow a sound thrashing. There is a good deal of force in that young man," he said, rubbing his hands. " There is a good deal of —of pluck in him—as we used to say at Oxford."

Anice shrank from her father's evident enjoyment, feeling a mixture of discomfort and dread. Suppose the tables had turned the other way. Suppose it had been Lowrie who had conquered. She had heard of horrible things done by such men in their blind rage. Lowrie would not have paused where Derrick did. The newspaper told direful tales of such struggles ending in the conquered being stamped upon, maimed, beaten out of life. "Ifc is very strange," she said, almost impatiently, " Mr. Grace must have known, and yet he said nothing. I wish he would come." As chance had it, the door opened just at that moment, and the curate was announced. He was obliged to drop in at all sorts of unceremonious hours, and to-dav some school business had brought him. The Rector turned to greet him with unwonted warmth. " The very man we want," he exclaimed. " Anice was just wishing for you. We have been talking of this difficulty between Derrick and Lowrie, and we are anxious to hear what you know about it." Grace glanced at Anice uneasily.

"We wanted to know if Mr. Derrick was quite uninjured," she said. " Papa did not hear that he was hurt at all, but you will be able to tell us."

There was an expression in her upraised eyes the curate had never seen there. "He met with an injury," he answered, " but it was not a severe one. He came to my rooms last night and remained with me. His wrist is fractured."

He was not desirous of discussing the subject very freely, it was evident, even to Mr. Barholm, who was making an effort to draw him out. He seemed rather to avoid it, after he had made a brief statement of what he knew. In his secret heart he fehrank from it with a dread far more nervous than Anice's. He had doubts of his own concerning Lowrie's action in the future. Thus the Rector's excellent spirits grated on him, and he said but Httle.

Anice was silent too. After luncheon, however, she went into a small conservatory adjoining the r room, and before Grace took his departure she called him to her. "It is very strange that you did not tell us last night," she said. " Why did you not ?" "It was Derrick's forethought foryou," he answered. "He was afraid that the story would alarm you, and as I agreed with him that it might, I remained silent. I might as well have spoken, it appears." "He thought it would frighten me?" she said. "Yes."

" Has this accident made him ill ?" " No, not ill ; though the fracture is a very painful and inconvenient one."

a " I am very sorry ; please tell him so.

And, Mr. Grace, when he feels able to come here T have something to say to him." Derrick marched into the Barholm parlor that very night with his arm in splints and bandages. ... It was a specially pleasant and homelike evening to him ; Mrs. Barholm's gentle heart went out to the handsome invalid. She had never had a son of her own, though it must be confessed she had yearned for one, strong and deep as was her affection for her girl. But it was not till Derrick bid Anice goodnight, that he heard what she intended to say to him. When he was going, just as he stepped across the threshold of the entrance door, she stopped him. •_ " Wait a minute, if you will be so good, she said, " I have something to ask of you." He paused half smiling. " I thought you had forgotten," he returned. "Oh ! no, I had not forgotten," she answered. " But it will only seem a very slight thing to you perhaps." Then she began again, after a pause. "If you please do not think I am a coward," she said. " A coward !" he repeated. " You were afraid to let Mr. Grace tell me about your accident last night, and though it was very kind of you, I did not like it. You must not think that because these things are new and shock me, I am not strong enough to trust in. lam stronger than I look." " My dear Miss Barholm," he protested, " I am sure of that. I ought to have known better. Forgive me if " " Ob," she interposed, " you must not blame yourself. But I wanted to ask you to be so kind as to think better of me than that. I want to be sure that if ever I can be of use to anybody, you will not stop to think of the danger of annoyance. Such a time may never come, but if it does " " I shall certainly remember what you have said," Fergus ended for her.