SHORT STORIES.

Otago Witness, Issue 3016, 3 January 1912, Page 89

SHORT STORIES.

STEEPLEJACK WILLIE.

By Miss May Ceommelin, author of ‘‘Brown Eyes,” ‘‘Adventures of a Pretty Housemaid,” etc,, etc.

(Copyright.) The miller was in a bad temper. There was a frown on his brow as he tramped heavily into the kitchen where his wife was setting out the tea. ‘‘Well, missus,” he said, letting himself drop into his armchair placed by the fireside, ‘T’ve given two good-for-nothing idlers the sack tin’s evening, I have.” And he laid his arm on the tea table somewhat as he might some weighty obobject he was tired of carrying about. ‘‘You’ll not see neither of them again, man nor boy. I’ll have to do tor myself till I can engage a more honest pair in their places; but it is better to rise earlier and work later for a day or two than be tricked by two thieving rogues.” ‘‘But, John, what is the matter? Have you given them notice to leave? What 'did they do wrong?” asked his wife, pausing dismayed, just as she was in the act of lifting the boiling kettle to make the tea. ‘‘Notice! No notice!” roared* the miller. ‘‘Paid ’em their wages and gave Jem Lee a thrashing into the bargain, as he chose to give me some of his impudence. I told them both never to setfool about my mill again, so they’re gone, and a precious good riddance, too.” “Well, John, and I’ve no doubt you had your good reasons,” slowly replied Mrs Goodenough, as she finished making the tea and began to spread butter on the loaf and cut the bread in slices. She was a gentle, fair woman, slow t>f speech and slow to wrath, who always began by taking her husband’s part, though she might' end by turning him from his too obstinate or angry resolves. ‘‘And what had they done that has vexed y’ou so rarely?” John Goodenough told his grievances. How that Jem Lee had been idling lately, but that his laziness was exceeded by that of the lad under him, who, Jem declared, never did a stroke of work unless coimptvled. Worse still, that day, while the miller left his -coat lying in the granary, two shillings were abstracted from its pocket in his absence. Both man and boy had been near the spot. Neither would confess when taxed with the theft, though while Jem threw all the blame on his underling, Willie Bonnell, the lad only turned white and sulkily reiterated his innocence from between his shut teeth. Finally the miller dispensed rough justice by dismissing both. And when Jem Lee became insolent, he gave him a lesson besides, as to which was the better man. “Ah, I never liked that Jem Lee; a black-browed fellow with gipsy blood in him, and not to be trusted, I seemed to feel,” placidly remarked Mrs Goodenough ; “ but I’m. sorry about Willie, I am. And poor Mrs Bonnell, a widow, -who has enough to do to get her own living; she will have a heavy heart this evening.” “Then she ought to have reared him better —a bird’s-nesting young vagrant as he was from a child. And now that he’s getting on to man’s estate he is always more ready to risk his neck climbing steeples than to take half as much pains over his work.” “Boys are plagues, even the best of them —that’s a gospel truth,” remarked Mrs Goodenough, soothingly. “ Well, well, they settle down often when they’re older. Here, Katey, Susan, my chickens, come and kiss father prettily and sit down to tea.” Two fair-haired, smiling children of oiicht and 10 came in as she spoke, looking conscious of washed faces and clean pinafores. The miller’s face foftened and brightened all over as he held out his arms to them : they were his chief joy, his treasures. He was “ downright foolish over his little gells,” as, Jem Lee, the miller’s man, had been heard to remark, with a slow grin at Willie, the millers boy. Just now the latter came in hesitatingly bv the hack door. He was an openfaced lad enough, but this evening looked pale and suspiciously red-eyed. ] “ What do you want here? Did I not bid you he off?” demanded Goodenough, all bis sternness returning. - “ I only called to tell the missus I had done the two little jobs she asked me. I tho night r mi gilt wait for that,” stammered the lad, his face flushing. “ Good-evening, ma’am,” and he turned away. “ Willie ! Willie! don’t go yet—it’s too early. Stay and play with us after tea ; you always do,” cried out tho two little girls, in aggrieved tones, i “He is never to play with you any more,” said the miller harshly. The boy went away with his head bent; the’ children ate' their bread-and-butter slowly, in round-eyed dismay. The meal over, they slipped off their chairs, and went outside hand in hand, like a pair of love-birds. “ We’re going to play outside, mother, whispered Susan, the eldest, mournfully, | in passing. 1 The mother nodded. She [guessed their little hearts were sore and full at the ' abrupt dismissal of their favourite playfellow. But it was best for her to take no notice, and she was sorry enough herThe children often climbed the ladder .to the upper part of the mill, and found it a delightful play-place. They were a shv little pair in some ways, and did not ' take tho older folk into their confidence I as to their beautiful houses, all iranmes between the sacks, and of how one sallied forth a good deal covered with flour dust, ; but the pink of proper behaviour, to pay a visit to the lady over tho way, who

offered Imaginary tea and gooseberry jam with quite the manners of one’s Sunday school teacher. Indeed, so secret did they keep this late favourite resort, that they were seldom noticed slipping in there except by their big playmate, Willie. But this evening another pair of eyes saw them, A few art hy-featured man, with a shifting glance and a sullen expression, was busy doing something in the lower part of the mill when he heard the tripping steps across the yard and the childish prattle nearing. He had started at the first sound—listened intently. Then, slouching into a cornei behind a pile of sacks, he lay down flat, and vastly astonished a rat or two in, his neighbourhood, which then, after a scurrying rush to fresh quarters a few paces off, remained as still as himself. “Jem Lee is gone away, too,” announced Susan as she climbed the ladder. “I don’t care; he is a nasty man. 1 don’t like him,” replied Katey, more toil* fully clambering in her elder’s wake. “ And 1 don’t like him,” assented Susey, who had now gained the upper floor. “Mother said to Aunt Maggie the other day that he had a face like a gaol-bird, and she wondered w’here he came from. I asked mother what sort of a bird that w T as, but she said, ‘ Don’t ask so many questions.’ ’’ The voices became indistinct overhead, but little feet pattered. Jem Lee roused out of his lair and looked up at the ladder with a face so full of evil, so expressive of malice and hatred—devilish rather than human—that poor Mrs Goodenough would have shuddered to see it.

“Said that, did ye, missus; then ye’ll pay for it,” he snarled to himself like a vicious dog. “ And so you two don’t like me neither, my beauties; then I’ll give you some cause. I’ll not stop the work I was at because you are up there. ’ ’

With redoubled energy he resumed his former occupation. This finished, ha softly removed the step-ladder by which the children had gone up, and with some difficulty laid it lengthwise and piled a mountain of sacks over it. There was a pile of straw and wood now on the mill-floor that seemed out of place, and a strong smell of paraffin, which was likewise unusual. Lastly, Jem Lee struck a match with which he first lit his pipe, and then

And then he walked coolly out of the door, locked it, put the key in his pocket, land slunk out of sight by the back premises. It had grown later and darker.

“It is the children’s bed time, bless them ! Where are they, John—have you seen them ?” said Mrs Good enough, coming leisurely outside to the porch after washing up. But the miller, smoking steadily with his eyes fixed on vacancy, did not know.

“ Katey! Susan !” called the mother dowm the lane, and then her cry came fainter from the orchard as she searched.

“Master! master 1 Hi—come quick! There is smoke coming out thick under the mill door,” shouted Molly, the maid, rushing breathlessly round the corner of the house. Two or three neighbours came running up the lane at the same moment, pointing towards the back of the house, and shouting, “Fire! fire!” Sitting in the porch, the miller had seen nothing. Now, as he ran like a boy round to the mill, red flames could be seen bursting through its narrow windows and leaping high inside.

“Where are the buckets? Lend a hand all of you, and pass them up from the well,” shouted Goodenough, in stentorian tones. One window had already fallen In, now the other went with a crash. Tha men all worked together with a will, while Molly, like a distracted creature, ran wildly down the lane in the direction of the village whence her ciies speedily brought a crowd of men and boys, with women straggling after them, and children, running as if loose from school, wild with excitement. A line was already formed from the well, and the water hissed as it was dashed from the buckets on to the glowing chamber within there, but,

the windows being very narrow, mtuh of the precious element was spilt on the walls outside. ~ “That’s no good, open the door, roared the miller from the well-side. “What’s that? Afraid of the heat? I U open it myself.” But the door was locked. At that instant a mother’s scream pierced knife-like through all the noise and confusion. The yard was lit up by the glare of the fire, and all could recognise the miller’s wife as she ran out gd the darkness as if coming from the fields. “My children, my children! Where are they?” she cried, and a sudden hush fell around. “John, I can’t find them. I’ve been down to the fax pond, and waded in and tried with a stick.” She was breathless, and dripping from her knees down. Then a new idea, struck her with agony, and she shrieked, “Heavens ! they may be up there in the left! Su-san . Katey !” Her voice rang so shrill and clear through the night air, that some folk who had remained behind in the village heard it, and shuddered. All held their breath to listen. _ And then, above the crackling and hissing of the fire, and through the clouds of smoke rolling out, came a fait piping cry in answer. It sounded like “Mother—mother.” “Where is the key?” all shouted. “I’ve not got it; it’s been stolen.” yelled Goodenough, while like a madman ltd seized hold of a crowbar, smashed in the door, already charred to tinder, and then rushed himself into the fiames. A great cloud of smoke rolled out that drove back the crowd, all but the miller s wife, who sank on her knees. When it passed, the miller emerged, staggering, blinded, groping his way forward. <t “The ladder —it’s gone,” he gasped. A villain has taken it away and set the place on fire.” Then he called down heaven s vengeance on the miscreant in a terrible curse, though a man seldom guilty of profanity. Some of the crowd had already started running to the village for another ladder, but the poor mother struggled to her feet and hastened, with maternal instinct, round to the back of the mill. Hie only Jdndows in the mill-loft looked out there, nd were net glazed, but closed with wooden shutters. There, sure enough, on the sill of one, which they had contrived to open, cowered the two little girls with their arms round each other’s necks. “Mammy! 0 : . mammy!” they whimpered. And then they remained silent, terror-stricken. The floor would soon give w r ay in th- 1 m'di-loft —the flames below were leaping ever higher. Now some of the crowd brought a rick covering, and held at as high as they could. “Jump, dears, jump!” cried the mother, stretching up her arms towards her little ones. “ Katey ! Susan ! come to mother. Don’t be afraid! You’ll do it to please mother, my pretties.” Women were weeping in the crowd ; even some strong men gave a sob of sympathy. The miner had fallen in a faint, overcome by the heat and smoke of his vain rush into that fiery furnace, and was spared th? gight of his darlings’ danger. But the Children did not stir. A shudder passed over the elder girl’s face as the red fiames below lit up the scene with flashes of lurid brilliance. Little Katey only turned and buried her curly head in Susie’s bosom. Again—again the frenzied mother besought, and called in every tone ranging from command to the most loving coaxing and entreaties upon her children. In vain. Both were paralysed by deadly terror, and the elder, with her eyes fixed on the sky above, and her arms clasped proteotingly about her little sister, seemed rapt in thought of how they two might soon be borne on angel’s wings away up there. She did not seem to near or see the crowd below—her mother’s agony and supplications. Close behind the mill stood a grove of tali ash trees that far overtopped it. Up the nearest of these ashes it was suddenly perceived that Willie Bonnell —Steeplejack Willie, as he was called —was climbing with a long coil of rope hitched round his neck. Ho was hair-way up the tree, and some who misunderstood shrieked imprecations on the young varmint for getting up there to see better, as it it was a show. But others, nearer, bade them hush, and whispered what was meant —hoped, rather —by the boy. But what a slender hope it was! The ash stem rose smooth and for ten feet above his head, and :t was a giddy height to reach yon fork up there. But he must, but he must, or the brave effort would fail. Up ho went, hugging the bark in his legs and arms. Up—ah ! ho slipped, and a sound like one unanimous indrawing of breath came from all the people. Willie set his teeth and braced his muscles tighter. Not for nothing had lie climbed all the steeples round the covuitry, carried off the sides of bacon from greasy poles on fair days, and robbed magpies’ nests every spring. He is recovering lost ground inch by inch. Up, lad, up! with the night wind blowing about thee, and the long ash branches waving slowly, giddily, all around. Up, lad, up! while all the grove and mill and yard are now as bright as day with the strong glare. He has grasped the treefork now ; he is astride of it. Then undoing his rope, one end the lad cautiously fastens round the tree, and the other, that has a running noose on it, he takes in his hand, preparatory to a throw. The mill window is not many feet away, and lies below his level.

Twice in vain ho throws it, but the third time the rope settles right over the younger girl. Startled by the touch, the child started from her stupor, throwing up her arms with a convulsive movement, thus bringing the noose round her waist Her sister. too, roused to" life again, gazed a moment or two bewildered; then, obeying Willie’s shout of instruction, tightened the loop, with a sense beyond her years, ior she grasped the fact that little Katey

■ - «■■■ - ; ■ ■ ■ 11 might bs ;}*f.ved. Nest moment the boy drew the nese hand over hand. The child Swung elegy out in mid-air, clinging in. desperate mght with both hands to the rope, and an instant later was dropped softly (lovm’i into her mother’s arms. A great T'.urrah went up from all throats —only to be followed by silence still more deep. What is that crackling, dull sound? Ah! the mill floor has fallen in! and a roar follows as if from a huge demon of fire rejoicing over his prey. Long tongues of flame shoot out and are licking close to the remaining child now, as if whetting their appetites. Her dress is singed ; but, heedless of fear any longer, little Susan still cowers .on the window-sill, eagerly watching with intense faith every movement of Willie.

Again he throws the rope, but this time with unerring aim. “She has caught it by heavens! She has —she is saved. . . . She is on fire !” For with some small flames on her frock the child seems to fly down from the mill-loft, till in the next few moments they are extinguished on her mother’s breast —in her mother’s oassionate embrace.

After all, poor Susan was not badly burnt. The miller, too, though more hurt, recovered in a week or so from his injuries, and the mill being well insured the loss that was suffered was trifling. And Willie! Well, what happened to him was perhaps the strangest part of it all. . , No one knew how it cam? to pass, all eves having been turned on the mother clasping her two children in her arms with eyes streaming tears of thankfulness._ But at that very moment —perhaps in his joy and anxiety to look down himself and see this happy sight that he had brought about —somehow his hold on the bark must have slipped. A minute later, when the crowd turned to cheer the boy, he was not to be seen on the tree. And it was only a limp, dead Steeplejack Willie that lay on the ground below, with a smile on the face of him as they picked him up reverently; and no doubt a smile, too, on his spirit lips, if, as little Susan had dreamed a few minute a back of herself, he was passing away through the still night air from ken of this world.