THE NOVELIST. After Fifty Years.

Otago Witness, Issue 1417, 18 January 1879, Page 22

THE NOVELIST. After Fifty Years.

A TALE IN TWO CHAPTERS. (Written by a Lady, for the Otago Witness.) Chapter I. How well I remember that walk ! How fragrant the fields and hedges were ; how blue the sky ; and with what' exuberant joyousness that lark was pouring forth his morning hymn of praise. Often and often have I took that pathway since ; but never — never again with such a light heart and springing footstep. Ah me ! I was but twenty, and the morrow was my wedding day— mine and Ruth's. Ruth was my foster sister, and to me, an only child, dear as my own. She was an orphan ; her father had died only a month before, but he had made her promise not to delay her wedding beyond the time fixed. It was lonely for her, living by herself in the pretty little cottage which her father, the village schoolmaster, had inhabited ; and Ruth had no relations. When first she told me she had chosen Abel Frethwick, I own I waa disappointed; for Abel was only a miner, and I thought that Ruth, with her pretty face, lady-like manners, and superior education, might have looked higher. But that was before I knew Abel. When I did, I ceased to wonder at Ruth's choice. What a frank, honest, manly fellow he was, and such a thorough Saxon, with his tawny purls, and finp blue eyes, which always

lco'ted the world straight in the face. No wonder Ruth worahipp d him. If I close my eyes I can see now, as plainly as I could then, the sight which met my gaze as I stood at tho little gate of Ruth's cottage that bright June morning. Abel was standing just within the porch, Ruth by his side, her little brown head hardly reaching to his shoulder ; for Abel was one of the tallest and strongest men in all the district ; also, fortunately, one of the quietest and most peaceable. To my surprise I saw that Ruth had been crying. Corning unnoticed up the little path, I heard her Bay, "Don't go, Abel, please don't." Just then they caught sight of me. Abel's hat was off directly, as he respectfully shook the hand I offered. ' " What ia the matter ? " I inquired. Have you and Ruth been quarrelling 1 If so, Ruth, I would advise you to submitforthwith. What is the use of opposing a person twice as big as yourself 1 " Ruth smiled, and Abel looked down at her with a touching mixture of love and protecting tenderness. " No, Miss Alice," he said, " we've not begun to quarrel yet — seeming to me we never shall ; but she wants me not to go to the mine to-day." "Yes," broke in Ruth; "Oh, Miss Alice, do persuade him to stay>at home." f'But why, Ruth? We know your horror of the mine; but this will be Abel's last day's work in it." " Thanks to you, Mis 3 Alice," interrupted he, "for fitting mo to take the clerk's place." "You were an apt pupil," I smiled, "but what makes Ruth so unusually nervous to-day 1 " " It's along of a dream she s had, began Abel. fA dream! Why Ruth, you superstitious 1 But what was it 1 " "That I cannot remember," said she, shuddering, "It was a fearful dream ; I awoke in a cold perspiration, and my pillow was wet with tears ; I felt them. I feel now that it' wa3 a warning. If Abel goes to the mine to-day, evil will come of it,: I know," and her lip trembled. "Hush, Ruth," said Abel, with his arms round her. " You see, Miss Alice," he continued, turning to me, "I've passed my word to work up to the very last, else I should humor this silly child. The mine is short of hands, and I'm to be off to-morrow for a whole'week's junketing." (How the fine fellow blushed, and looked down at his little bride as he spoke). "My mates would think I was shirking if I stayed away to-day." !"To be sure. Come Ruth, be the sensible girl you are, and don't make yourself and Abel unhappy over a dream which you cannot even remember. There has not been an accident at the mine for years ; why should one happen to-day. And the manager expects Abel. He told me yesterday that he could hardly forgive me for robbing him of his most valuable workman." Abel blushed with pleasure. "I've tried to do my duty," he said simply, " but I never liked the work, and felt [ should not dare to ask Ruth to marry a miner. Why, she would have fretted herself to death in a month. I'm right glad to have got this clerkship ; and thank you, with all my heart, Miss Alice, for the pains you have be6n good enough to take over a stupid fellow like me." "He is. not stupid— is he Ruth I— only fishing for compliments 1 " Ruth laughed, she was looking brighter, and after five minutes more gay talk, I shook hands with Abel, and entered the house, while Ruth walked with her lover to the gate. I heard him ask her for a rose, and as he received it, say laughingly, " I will put this away when I get home, Ruth, and keep it until our golden wed-ding-day. " And presently I saw him btriding past the little casement, the rose swinging in his right hand, and his face the picture of health and happiness. Rutli was looking grave again when she returned, but I would not notice it, entering at once upon the business which had brouglit me over from the Hall at such an early hour. It was something connected with the morrow — at this distance of time I forget what. I stayed chatting much longer than I had intended —the topic was fascinating, and I was determined also to chase the blues away from' Ruth before I left. It must have been nearly noon when I Baid good-bye to Ruth, now her usual bright, cheerful self again, and took my way to the village, having "business there. It was distant about two miles from the Hall — Ruth's cottage stood midway between the two. I soon reached the little hamlet, and was at once aware that something unusual was going on. The mouth of the mine was black with people, while others kept hurrying up. Ruth's dream flashed across me ; I leant against a gate, faint with dread. "Alice ! you here. Come home, my dear ; this is no place for you." I turned. It was Captain Lyon. "Oh! Frederick," 1 gasped, "what has happened 1" His habitually gravo face grew graver as he answered, " They think — they fear there is water in the mine." " .And the workmen V "All below.'' ' : Can I ever forget how I felt as I heard that 1 " Alice, whore are you going V "To tell Ruth. Oh ! poor Ruth." Captain Lyon drew my> arm through his and accomyanied me, trying to speak cioeringly. But I saw the effort, and it was unavailing. T was thinking how I should face Ruth j if I had not sided with

Abel this morning he would now, in all probability, have been safe. As we came in sight of her cottage, I spied Ruth at the gate. At sight of us she retreated, reappearing almost immediately in _ her scarlet cloak and hood. She came swiftly to meet us, her gaze fixed on our tell-tale faces. Before either of us could speak she said, "You have come to tell me there is something wrong at the mine V I could not answer. I could only take her in my arms, and sob out, " Oh, Buth, Ruth, forgive me !" She released herself quietly, saying steadily, "Ia Abel dead?" "Please God, no," said Captain Lyon, falteringly; "but— the water has got into the mine." Ruth's face grew rigid, but she made no reply ; only presed swiftly on towards the village. We followed. Captain Lyon offered Ruth his other arm, but she shook her head, and kept silently, steadily on her way. We soon reached the mine ; the people fell back in silence before Ruth, respecting her grief in the midst of their own. Both she and Abel were universal favourites ; and every one knew that to-morrow was to have been their wedding-day. What a crowd that waa! JNot one of those women and children but had some dear to them in that awful pit— husbands, fathers, brothers. Yet it was a quiot crowd. At intervals might be heard a sob, or groan, or prayerful ejaculation ; but the majority were quiet, with, the calmness of horror and despair. The calamity had been so sudden. Fifty strong, vigorous men had gone clown as usua that morning, not dreaming of danger. Then the waters had swept in with a sudden rush, cutting off escape, driving the men from level to level, whither they were relentlessly pursued by the flood or the equally fatal gas, until already— so swiftly had the waters risen— those who knew the mine best were agreed that all life must be extinct. The most that could be done was to draw off the water as speedily as possible, and recover the bodies. All that dreadful night Ruth crouched as close as possible to the pit's mouth, I by her side. So dawned our weddingmorning ; but for me there was no talk of marriage, more than for poor Ruth. Papa, half-ruined by the catastrophe (for the mine was his), was engrossed by the operations going forward ; while Captain Lyon waa foremost among the brave men who, jn the vain hope of yet saying some lives, continually risked their own. So passed three weary days. In all that time Ruth never left her post. She ' crouched there quietly — not speaking, not weeping ; but with dry, sleepless eyes watching the operations. Every time a burden was raised to the surface, she would totter forward— haggard, anxious men and women making way for her— give one glance, and turn away with a weary, heart-broken sigh, while a wail of anguish would tell that some other woman had recognised the remains of one dear to her. At length came Sunday. What a strange Sunday that was ! I was still with Ruth : I think my prcsencp helped her a little. The vicar held service as usual ; but the parish church was a mile away, and he and the clerk- had it almost to themselves. The people, worn out as they were, could not tear themselves away from the pit, where each felt that the next cage might contain all that was left of their nearest and dearest. The dissenting minister was wiser, I thought. Standing on the outskirts of the crowd, raised a little above the rest of the people, he began to read in a grave, clear voice different portions of Scripture, many of which might have been written for that very occasion. Then as he said "Let us pray," the people bowed their heads, and I watched the strained hard look pass from a face, as the strong, helpful words of faith and hope fell on the ear and penetrated the heart. Only Ruth seemed deaf to it all. Then someone started a hymn. I have heard many a crowded congregation sing since, but never, in all my life, has any music stirred me like that simple hymn sung by breaking hearts round the pit's mouth that bright June Sunday morning. The last note had scarcely died away on the still air when some one touched Ruth. It was Abel's little sister Bessie, though, in that pale, awestruck girl, I hardly recognised the merry roundfaced child of a week before. Bessie's father was in the pit, as well as her eldest brother. " Mother wants to speak to you, Ruth," whispered she. ( c The neighbours say she's going fast, and I was to beg you to come for — for Abel's sake." "Ruth rose at once, but glanced irresolutely at the pit. " If the cage comes up again before you return I will let you know," said Captain Lyon, who stood near; and she turned away, clinging so to me that I accompanied her. As we entered the little cottage Ruth pushed li.er hood wearily back. Bessie looked at her in amaze. " Why, Ruth — " she cried and stopped. Ruth glanced in the little mirrcr hung by the window. The rich, brown curls of which Abel had been so proud were gone for over. Ruth's hair was whito as snow. "Granny's come back," cried Abel's little brother, Joe, whose grandmother had lately died, and that was how Ruth cime to be called granny. Wo passed oil to the inner room, whoso dark, unwholesome depths ordinarily entombed four persons every night. I write of a time long antecedent to model c*. ttages and sanitary reform. At present,

however, it held but two occupantsAbel's mother and her twelve hours old baby. "God bless you for coming, Ruth, said Mrs Frothwick, feebly, in the semidarkness, not noticing her visitor s altered appearance. "I'm dying, and eh! but I'm glad to think I shan't 'be long after father and Abel. But the children, Ruth, the children— seeming to me that I can't leave them. Not a relation have they in the world. Who will caro for them ; for this poor helpless infant 1" Ruth paused before answering. She told me afterwards that in that moment she was fully conscious of the responsibility she was incurring, but her reply was cleav and steady: " God, who is the Father of the fatherless, and T, by His help." "He will help you ; He will bless you," murmured the poor woman. "I grieve more for you than for myself." Ruth made no answer ; it was impossible to talk of herself. Stooping, she lifted the tiny bundle of flannel from the bed. "Christen it John, after its poor father," said the faint voice, growing momentarily fainter. " Where are the children 1" Bessie and little Joe crept in, and kissed their mother in tearful silence. " Good-bye," she murmured. " Bessie, take care of Joe and baby— love Ruth. Me and father'll wait for you. There's father." That last exclamation was so sudden and clear that we all involuntarily turned to the door. To us no one was visible, but we stood in the presence of death.