KATE HOWARTH'S DEVOTION.

Western Star, 22 December 1911, Page 3

KATE HOWARTH'S DEVOTION.

copyright.

By the Author of “The Heroine of the Mill,” Etc.

PART 3 INTRODUCTORY

John Howarth and his wife Nelly, thrifty mill-hands, had set up a shop and prospeted. Then came one of the great Lancashire strikes, in which they and their customers reduced to penury. Fever had followed in the wake of semi-starvation in the listrict, carrying off the weak, old "end young, wholesale. John and NTelly lost all their children but little Katey ; and got so sadly behind in heir payments for stock that ruin stared them in the face. Katey was sailed after a sister of John’s, who sad gone to London, and after conractihg an imprudent marriage ihove her station—had been lost light of. In his extremity John vent to his brother Dan who had got )ii in the world, to beg for a loan of E 25, wherewith to pay his most pressing account. George Hoghton (heir yf Lord Northenden, who had been '.ast off by his father for marrying beneath him), with his wife and child Pielt the peer to make a last desperate appeal for help, and meets with a stern refusal, except at the price of separation from his loved ones. Staggered by the blow, George falls to the lloor in a P°ol of blood, and his ;,ife and child are driven from the place. Immediately thereafter, the old ord orders doctors to be summoned ; and his sccoud son. Captain Stanhope Hoghton, rides off furiously towards 3oltu--i. knocking down some frail jody air he reaches the canal bridge, tn the d*ir’'»u'S £ i, and not halting to aeed the l-*w mwv that struck on his •ar hoping t’-st no one could have vitnesp-d the evident.”

C UPTBR 111. THE APPARITIONS IN THE

S JL ORM. When John Howarth reached the lide of the car.nl on his way to Raddiffe Bridge, ho did not delay long jn his journey, notwithstanding the darkn-**s or the inclemency of the weather gene*,!/.

In less tlian an hour he had reached his brother’s dyeing establishment which occupied a secluded and picturesque position on some ground a little higher up than the bed of the river, and doubtless reclaimed from it at no distant date in the past. Coming down from the old church, you crossed the bridge before seeking the road lending to the establishment which wa.". of no great magnitude, but bore sufficient evidences of prosperity.

John wont straight on to the end jf his journey before he halted, and was fortunate to find Dan at home. His neat stone house, flanked the .vorks and was surrounded by staking and accommodation for certain lomcstic animals, >as well as innum.ral.ilo roosters, ducks, geese and urkeys.

Pan was seated in the kitchen vhich was clean enough for any pur)ose, with bright tin utensils and lish-covers tastefully displayed on .valla. Aunt Eliza was Dan's house-

deeper, and where Aunt Eliza lived, af course, there was granny’s home ; for old Harold Howarth’s helpmeet was still alive, a fine-loo I ',ing old ladv who had been a beauty in her flay, and married the handsomest man in that “ side o’ Laucasheer;” fur that was the reputation which ihe grandfather—he had been a sol-licr--of John and Daniel had' won. '•he two young men were both tall ir.d good-looking, with faultless feaenres and sharp, black eyes. Of course their occupation had made hem thin and somewliat sallow, yet ;hc Howarths were of a stamp not .omrnon at that time among the nasses of the people. “ Hello, Dan !” cried John entering .ho room. “ How are you ?”

“ Rig-ht, lad, and how are you ?” •ricd the younger man jumping up *rtth alacrity. And what’s brought out on a night like this ?” “ Nothing very good, lad ; I will ,e 1 you. Where’s the old lady ?” ” She's gone to bed. She’s been iwful lately, her mind’s been wanderng and she talks and talks of the ■ld chap—her old chap ” What ! grandfather,” asked John in a puzzled way. " Ay. She says he's coming back K:> tell her that secret he said he would when he came, and she nods acr old head and says she’s not < on a fool as she looks, and Aunt 1* i a sajs she wouldn’t need to be, b • not to let her hear, of course ; I.*. what do you think the old creau;, did this morning ?”

“ 1 dunno.” “ .She comes out of her room, up in a grand old-fashioned s.lk gown with yellow dowers on it — never seed such a guy in your

!i days ! an she says, ‘ My man, my Harold's coming home to-day.' Neither Aunt Eliza nor myself could h ;>p laughing, and so she retired a ■i» sooner to-night, in a huff like. Ali'l how’s Nelly, John?” A 44 Oh, she’s fretting about the chilli 'r., you know.” 14 What about them ? Is there any- !’ ;ng ails ’em ?” " Do you mean to say you didn’t . -t my letter, Dan?” 41 I got no letter from you, nor ’■ cu a message these three months—•i J. since the strike began ; and I knew you were all right in that—the shop would keep you.” '.'ben John- told the whole of his : roubles, finishing with the loss of ms three fine boys and concluded «ith •

“ I sent yon a letter for sure ;

nil; * i. .hi >.» i in n. :;• ■ t to i o over for the life of yon because the fever was about, and you would be sure to catch it, and then the men and their children, and there would he no knowing where it would end.” Dan was pacing the ro un in great agitation, his hands deep in his trouser’s pocket. At last he said : “ Poor Nelly.” “ Ay, poor Nelly,” repeated Jack.

Dan went to the door and looked out. Aunt Eliza was deeply engaged in the best room, and his stableman and apprentices were busy at some game in the furnace-house. Jack noticed that his brother was very pale when he halted before him. “Do you know,” he asked, “ why 1 have never got wed ?” “ No,” he replied ; “ there’s plenty of time yet, Dan ; you’re young yet.” “ I was courtin’ your Nelly, Jack) before you ever said a kind word to the lass.”

“What !” cried John, starting to his feet.

“ It’s true, my lad, I loved her ; ay, and I love her still, Jack—as my sister. It's taken a long time to bring it down to that ; but .1 saw the lass liked you best and you were mad about her, so I told her I’d best look in some other quarter and I made her swear that she’d never tell you ; for I knew you would be guilty of any sacrifice if you thought it would be for my good.” ”So you made the sacrifice !” said John Howarth in a low tone, and deeply moved. “ I cannot rightly tell you what I think you have done. t know it’s something noble but I. can’t rightly put it in words. I loved Nelly so well and so deeply my lad that if I had been disappointed in her, I would have — well, ’listed or something worse.” John rose and walked to the window. His younger brother rose and followed him and took his hand. Hard and earnest was their mutual grip, and it seemed to have a beneficial influence on them both. ” Hold hard,” cried the younger brother presently. “ I must go upstairs for that twenty-five pounds you want, lad.” ” But can you spare it for a bit, Dan.”

“ I can that, man. I’m getting rich lately, and my contract has to run another five months with Blackburn and I expect another shortlj from Hylands, of Wigan. Eh, man, I bought a lot of indigo cheap at a sale of bankrupt stock, and that foreign chap—Yacob Waklowski—he’s a Pole, you know—well he’s shown me a process by which I can save au awful lot of extra money and he makes eight or ten pounds a week himself. It cuts me to the heart to think that I should be doing well, and you and yours suffering as you have been suffering. Ah, here comes Aunt Eliza. You must stay and have a bit of supper and then I’ll drive you over in the light cart.” “ I’ll have a bite with you, but you’ll take no beast out to-nigbt for me. I’ll go as I came. It’s a long way round for a horse. I’ll bo there in half the time.”

“ Then I’ll go with you a hit,”

said Dan

He came down presently with a small canvas bag which he gave to his brother saying : “ Yon needn’t count it, Jack. You will find it all right. Put it in your pouch.”

After a very simple repast the young: men prepared for the journey. Dan would persist in having the mare out, but the other was firm in refusing. He gained his way by saying :

You know that mare of yours can’t stand lightning;. There’s plenty about to-night and I’m not for mistaken if we don’t have more afore we are much older.”

Even as lie spoke the room was lit up by the electric flash, and so Dan persisted no more. Had he done so there would have been little necessity for proceeding with this true story. Now, Dan Howarth was in the humour to go all the way that night, but his brother prevailed on him to return when thej had gone nearly half the way. Somebody in view to to-morrow’s trouble would have been too distressed to see him and then he must come over and spend the whole day with granny and Aunt Eliza and all ; and so it was arranged.

The brothers had not been parted five minutes when the terrible storm noted at Hoghton Hall came on : John was luckily near a house in which he took refuge for about ten minutes. Then ho proceeded on his journey. Half a mile further on again the rain came down in torrents, and after this a slight lull, which was presently changed to the most brilliant illumination of the heavens, followed by a, terrible —nay, appalling clap of thunder. Kor an instant John was awestricken, and during this infinitesimal space of time, he thought lie saw, right ahead, a blue, steel-like figure of a woman glancing up with angelic countenance at the opening heavens. The next instant a great shadowless horse and rider occupied the same space, and then came darkness and the most awful of all clamours. On rushed the by-no-means unappalled man. He had never seen such a storm during his experience of life. The apparitions of the woman and the rider were of so supernatural a description that for a moment or two his heart stood still. Yon must remember that we are writing of a period when education was far from general, and superstition, on the contrary, found in every family circle.

No matter ; John Howarth was a hold fellow —not likely long to be upset by anything' supernatural or otherwise. Forward he went at h swinging pace until he ca ne do: r

up to the end of flits canal bridge, of which we have repeatedly spoken

: ' ..'.I 1 ’ : f t, -I. ~-. .. ;a lo him that thin mu D t ha.e hear ne scene of his visions, the ground being so much higher than any in the neighbourhood ; and as he paused and there was a cessation in hostilities on the pax~t of the elements, if we may be permitted thus to speak of them, he baited and looked enri onsly around, and at this moment the capricious Lady Moon once more favoured such mortals as were watering with a glimpse of her mottled, if otherwise interesting countenance.

John had no sooner raised his eyes to the orb of Night than something recalled them to the good Mother Earth in double quick time, '1 bat something to a father who is young and loving, is always of a most eloquent nature, for it was the cry of a child. The cry of a child, and from the black surface of the canal !

He shuddered at the thought of leaping into that kind of water, and on such a night. However, he was human.

It was plain there was nothing floating on the surface of the black water. Where, then, had the child gone'?—or was he mistaken ? Nothing of the kind. ‘‘Daddy, Daddy, where’s mammy?” came the shivering, if slightly imperative accents. “ The child that cries that way can't he drowning,” said honest Jack —so he proceeded to peep under the archway of the bridge, hut nothing there could he found.

“ Daddy !” once more smote his ears ; anh then came a burst of veritable crying that brought Mr. Howarth to the right spot iu an instant.

Nothing there but a clw' of bushes, from beneath which won Bowing, at one and the same moment, at least half a dozen independent rills or brooks of water.

There was no child under the bushes. Of course, no sane person could ever have put a child there for safety. Once more the plaintive cry was uttered, and guided by the sound, John went to the high ground over tho bushes. Looking down he saw the poor little white face of a boy, with strange dark eyes looking up in wonder, while he was evidently fighting against the cold hand of cruel Death which seemed to be closing over his young heart. “By Jove !” cried Jack, “ it’s a little boy-—a splendid little fellow. But 'his mood turning from joy to anger—“ who could have been so cruel and sinful as to leave him here to perish ? Hush, my little darling,”

he proceeded, “ I’ll bring him to his mammy ; ay, that I will, or my name’s not Jack Howarth.” And the great awkward man endeavoured to emulate the natural and graceful actions of a woman in the way of nursing under similar circumstances.

He then unbuttoned his capacious overcoat and took it off ; next he wrapped the little foundling in it, saying to himself : “ It’s a perfect gem of a hoy. Why I wouldn’t part with it this night for al 1 the money old Lord Northern den is worth. Heaven has seen how my poor Nelly has been mourning over the three she has lost, and has sent her this to be a comfort to her.

Nelly Howarth was seated gazing into the tire and waiting anxiously for her husband's return. She was thinking how differently the hearth would have been at that moment if little Harold or Johnnie or Dannj had only been spared to her. A noise aroused her from the painful reverie, just as the thought arose that even those poor wandering waifs were blessed with a child, when her husband pushed the little glass door open, with something wrapped in his overcoat.

She turned in wonder and asked ; “ A present for you, ray lass;” and he laid his burden on her knees. She threw the coat aside and a pale-faced though somewhat plump little fellow gazed up at her with large brilliant dark blue eyes : then murmured the word “ Mammy ” and closed his long-lashed eyelids again. “Heaven be thanked !” said Nelly, with eyes filled with tears and speaking with Puritan simplicity and sincerity. “ Heaven be thanked,” she repeated fervently, “ I have been remembered in my loneliness !” After this there was a short pause and silence. This was broken by John, saying : “ Well, my lass, you have never asked mo how I got on with our Dan.” “ No, because I am sure if he could he would let us have all the brass we want.” “Eh ! what’s this !” cried John, in amazement. Then he dropped the canvas bag he held in his hand heavily on the table, seating himself at the same time and crying : ” Chap’s heart is as big as a bullock’s. Do you know what he’s done, lass ? He’s given me fifty pounds instead of twenty-five ! May God for ever bless him !”

“ Amen !” said Nelly solemnly, and in a low tone of voice. John Howarth knew now the double signification of that benediction.

CHAPTER IV. UNDER THE HOOFS OF THE ENEMY’S STEED.

The people of Halshavv Moor were too much occupied by their troubles to pay much attention to the news that was in circulation in certain quarters the morning after the storm.

Waifs and strays in the form of

children were, alas ! too common in those days for people who had too many months to feed to think much about those of other folk. The consequences were that in a very brief space of time the neighbours seemed to forget altogether that young Freddy was not Mrs. Howarth’s own

, ,t. :: . ■ i u> i.ever ».y &ny menus roir.ii.dctl the people that the begutiful boy’s birth was a mystery.

Had Lord Northenden’s connection with Halshaw Moor been more intimate this might have been different. The fact was, his lordship entirely ignored the struggling little township as being too far beneath his notice. Iladcliffe would have had less attention from him but for the fact that his grounds ran ny to the very bridge in one direction, and he seldom favoured the important town of Bolton 'but when the crops were being sold and then his eyes—or the eyes of his steward—were keen enough over the prices of produce, and the likely profits of the farmers with a view to rise in the rent at the renewal of the very next lease. A faint rumour circulated for a few days to the effect that Master George had come down to Hoghton Hail very ill and broken clown, but that was soon forgotten, because another rumour followed fast upon it. This was that the old lord, the squire—Captain Stanhope— and the eldest son of the former, the disinherited heir—George —had gone to the Continent for the sake of the health of the latter, and very shortly that information resolved itself into the general statement .that “ the family were abroad.” It. is an acknowledged truism that the vast majority of lives have no-

thing in them worth recording ; and yet there are tew people who do not believe themselves remarkable with private full of romance. For t*. ••n years after the night of the rm which brought Nelly Howarth •> loving a son, nothing of an unusual nature happened in that good worn--* s happy family.

John did not make a fortune be-

• '•ne trade became bad, and money saved bad soon to go again. Dan was paid back the fifty pounds of which we know, but he was not always so prosperous as he was at( the time mentioned. Ail men had their reverses, and the poorer people had not yet acquired that spirit of independence which of late years enables them to look peers in the face with an expression that says as clear as words. “ I—in my position—am as

good as you.” At the period of which we are now Speaking young Freddy was just ten years of age, and Katey not finite eight. Nelly Howarth found the boy’s name on his linen ; but in addition to that he knew what it was perfectly.

Two brighter little creatures were never scon, and it was no wonder

that all kinds of people not only he

gan to notice them, but everything in connection with them.

When ' the Ilovvarths found their trade expanding, and little prospect of reverses for a considerable time, they took the next shop and house, and by the aid of an ingenious mason the two dwellings became one. One door did for the little place of business and a private one was left for the house.

ProsenLly Nelly conceived the ide u of letting apartments and, she. was soon fortunate in receiving the newlyarrived exciseman. This man was elderly, a bachelor, a scholar —as a fairly-educated person was called in thjse clays—and being l inordinately fond of children, he soon came to look at nights very eagerly for the interesting creatures who brightened the house in which ho lived.

They were so willing to learn anything and everything new, and endeavoured to master the greatest difficulties so heartily, that the idea came to John Howarth that their lodger might teach them “ school

laming,”

He was nothing loth, partly for love, and partly for a substantial reduction in the price of his board and lodging ; and so all parties were not only satisfied, but the majority became mightily improved—mentally, at all events—by the arrangements. Now, it came to pass about this period that full time should be stopped at most of the mills in the district ; and as the miners were also on short time the poor tradesmen began to suffer not a little. The Howarths became impoverished or, rather, so pressed for money, that everything that could be thought of was discussed to make more, or economise what they earned or drew. One of those conversations was one night overheard by a neighbour, who with neighbourly friendliness said : “It would save you somewhat if you put f he children to work, John, instead of paying- the young ones of Barnes’s. I’m sure they’re old enough an strong enou h.”

“ No child of mine will ever have to go to work until he knows what kind he likes,” said John hotly.

Such a thing was never heard before. It was nothing else than downright heresy. Did nut the parson say every day that folks were to be content with the condition of life to which they had been ordained by heaven ? —and to these time-blinded ,'people it seemed a terrible thing that a weaver’s son should aspire to anything else io the way of a career than that lively, remunerative and humble one led by his father before him.

Somethin!' to this effect, but ruder iu form and expression, were the arguments of the indignant female workers iu the vicinity. Their children were invited to look at the well-dressed children who came out to play from “ the small huckster-shop ’’-—for it was little more and soon to be less—and presently the little ones under cunning but concealed tutorship, began to say ; “ Look at the fine genelman—look at the line la-dy;” and this lesson in the course of time became not exactly a lullaby, but a song of the irritating nature of a school “ recitative ” of lessons to the ears of the mature of the human race. To be Continued.