Читать книгу A Slave of the Ring - J. Monk Foster - Страница 10

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A FORTNIGHT had slipped away, and the explosion at the White Crow pit no longer absorbed all the oratorical efforts of the Ashlynton gossips. The dead miners had been laid to rest in the neighbouring cemetery—had all been laid in one grave, over which the generous and considerate member for the borough had erected a handsome and enduring monument of polished granite; the three hundred and odd pounds raised by the relief fund had been distributed with a discriminating hand among the relatives of the deceased, and life was again running in its ordinary channels in the thriving Lancashire town.

The past couple of weeks had been busy ones for Paul Massilon. Knowing how critical was the condition of the exploded seam, the young under-manager had thrown himself heart and soul into the work of reformation.

On the day the inquiry was held work was recommenced at the White Crow, and on the following morning Paul, with the hearty concurrence of his chief, inaugurated the changes both knew were absolutely necessary if the gaseous mine was to be rendered fit and safe for human beings to toil in.

As Mr. Baldwin was still far from being hale and vigorous, the work of constructing new air-ways, repairing the old ones, and renovating the mine generally was practically left in the younger man's hands. The chief manager had unbounded faith in his assistant, and Paul soon proved himself worthy of such confidence.

Ere the week was ended, a dozen men and lads were hard at work, day and night, in the dilapidated galleries upon which the gaseous seam depended solely for its ventilation. The day shift miners were under the superintendence of old Job Stanley, while his son Ben took charge during the night turn.

Paul know both men well. That they were capable and hard working miners when 'off the booze' he was thoroughly aware; and his love for fair Mary Stanley had prompted him to give her relatives a fair and honest chance of making a few pounds by means of a bit of 'contract work.'

Since that evening when he had walked with the girl along the side of the river Paul had not seen Mary, nor had he gone out of his way to put himself in her path. What she had said to him then—the passionate kiss with which she had dismissed him to his work at the exploded pit, had satisfied him almost as much as an open declaration of her affection could have done.

Thinking of those things, he felt he could afford to wait. Besides, had he not two faithful allies now in the girl's father and brother? Although old Job and his son Ben knew nothing of his love for Mary, would not his kindness to them urge them to utter pleasant things about him at home when she was present?

So thinking, Paul went on working, waiting, and hoping, after the manner of men when a great love fills their lives.

One evening Massilon was in the public library at Ashlynton, looking through the catalogue for a good novel, when someone clapped him sharply on the shoulder, and a cheery, a familiar, voice cried at his ear:

'Hello, Paul! How are you, old man?'

Massilon lifted his eyes from the book he was consulting, turned on his heel, and confronted a tall, smartly dressed young fellow of his own age, with a clean-shaven, eager, alert face, prominent nose and chin, gray eyes and fair hair.

'What, you, Philip?' he cried. 'I thought you were settled down in London?' Then his fingers gripped the other's extended hand and shook it warmly.

'I only got back the other day and have been too busy since to look you up before this evening. Perhaps I should not have taken the trouble now but for—something. What are you doing here, Paul?'

'I was looking for a novel.'

'Should have thought, old chap, you had chucked reading novels now that you've taken to writing 'em, Come along, and let's have a drink. You can get a book again.'

Philip Lawrence thrust his arm through Massilon's, and thus linked the old friends walked out of the library. It was nearly ten years since the young fellows first met. At that time both of them were attending the evening classes at the local Science and Art School, Paul devoting himself solidly and strenuously to his work, for then all his ambitions were centred upon becoming a certificated mine manager; but the other was pottering away in a desultory fashion at several sciences and various arts, and equally careless of all.

Lawrence's parents were well-to-do people; his father owned one of the principal breweries in the town, and although the young chap was clever, his people gave him so much of his own way, and furnished him so amply with funds, that he had no necessity to grapple seriously with anything in the way of a profession.

Somehow Paul and Philip had became friends; the latter had taken kindly from the first to the big, handsome, and clever pitman; had shown his liking in many little ways and, now, after a three years' absence in the metropolis, he seemed desirous of renewing the old intimacy.

'And, now, old man,' Philip began when he and the miner were seated in the 'snug' at the Royal Hotel with a couple of glasses of whisky and soda before them, 'tell me straight how you, of all the men in the world, ever thought of trying your hand at scribbling?'

'I can scarcely tell you, Phil,' Paul said, with a reddening face. 'Somehow it struck me one day, some years ago, that one might make a few stories out of the mines and the miners; so I tried my hand, and was not a little astonished, believe me, when my first attempt was accepted, printed, and paid for. That spurred me on and I kept on scribbling.'

'And your book?' Phil queried. 'Don't you call it "The Mystery of the Mine?"'

'That is so; and I am glad to say that it shows fair promise of being a success. The first edition is gone already, and another one is being prepared.'

'Good biz, old chap. Of course I've read it, and like it. Why, do you know, Paul, I imagined I could pick out quite a crowd of people you had in your eye when you wrote that book.'

'Perhaps you could, Phil. I didn't go far afield for my characters.' He smiled, and drank, and the other did likewise. Presently Paul added, 'And what brings you back to Ashlynton, Phil?'

'The governor. He says I've got to earn my bread and cheese henceforth, so he's shoved me into the brewery offices. Beastly work, too; a heap worse than being in London with the uncle.'

'It's a pity, Phil,' Paul said thoughtfully, 'that your people are so well off.'

'How do you reckon that up?'

'Because I think you are clever enough to have done something, Phil, had you been thrown upon your own brains and hands as I was.'

'Bosh, old man! What's the use of struggling when your bread's baked? But look here, Paul, I did not look you up for the special purpose of hearing you talk tommy-rot.'

'I wasn't aware that you had looked me up, Phil. I thought our meeting was a lucky accident.'

'Well, it wasn't. I had been to your diggings before I called at the library. I suppose you have no engagement for to-morrow evening?'

'I haven't.'

'Then you must go with me to my cousin's.'

'Who is he, and where's his place?'

'He happens to be she; and her place is Milton Lodge, up Ashlynton road. You must know Maggie Heywood. You don't! Well, you don't appear to know anybody worth knowing—barring myself—and it's about time you did.'

'But what excuse have I, Phil?' Massilon asked, with a laugh, 'for intruding myself upon this cousin of yours?'

'She wants to know you, and I promised to bring you with me to her party. I was there this afternoon, and somehow or other we got talking about a book she was reading. By the way, it happened to be that thing of yours, and when I told her that we used to be good chums nothing would satisfy her save my promise to look you up, and drag you, willingly or unwillingly, to her party. But of course you will go, old chap!'

'I don't half care about it, Phil!' Massilon answered. 'Parties are nothing in my way.'

'Not married, eh?'

'Not even engaged!'

'Then you must go. This is only a small private affair, and not more than a dozen of us will be present. We shall be treated to a little music, a song or two—for Maggie can sing—a drop of excellent wine, and perhaps a square dance. They will all be young folk, like ourselves, and, take my word for it, you'll enjoy yourself.'

'But I don't know any of them; and if I go I shall feel like a fish out of water.'

'No, you won't; Mag will see to that. And I'll tell you what, my boy; now's the time you ought to cultivate society a little—even such society as Ashlynton can boast.'

'To study character, I suppose, Phil?'

'To study the devil, Paul. No, old fellow, you must mix in society to make friends. I may be a bit of a duffer, but I know that it is a clever man's business, especially if he is poor—to mix with those who have the "pieces." You know you are the only literary lion Ashlynton has ever been guilty of producing, and the respectable, addlepated, money-grubbing traders will be glad to compliment themselves by patting you on the back.'

'I suppose I shall have to bore your cousin and her friends with my company under the circumstances,' remarked Paul.

'Which means, I can see, that you expect them to bore you, eh? Well, we'll say that's settled. Be here to-morrow evening at eight sharp, and I'll take you up in my hansom.'

The following evening Phil Lawrence took Paul to his cousin's party, and shortly after being shown into the large and very tastefully furnished drawing-room, Massilon was introduced to Miss Heywood and her aunt, who acted as the young lady's chaperon and housekeeper.

The quiet unaffected sincerity and geniality of Miss Heywood's greeting impressed Massilon no less than did her gracious personality. Before he had been in her presence ten minutes he felt that here was a woman of a singularly refined character, deep-souled, tender-hearted, and thoughtful beyond the run of all the womankind he had known.

Margaret Heywood was between three and four and twenty, and seemed a little shorter than she really was owing to the plumpness of her finely-developed figure. She had a flowing bust, soft, small, white hands, which she evidently prided, a clear complexion of an olive tint, masses of dark brown hair, and great starry eyes of softest hazel, though they seemed black in the gaslight.

Almost ere he was aware of it, Paul and his charming hostess were enjoying a tete-a-tete—were chatting together easily, freely, and exchanging confidences and opinions with the freedom of old friends. Save Massilon and Lawrence, none of the expected guests had yet put in an appearance; Phil and his aunt were examining some old prints at the other end of the room, and hence the miner and Miss Heywood were left to themselves.

'Do you know, Mr. Massilon, that I have seen you frequently before this evening?' Miss Heywood remarked pleasantly; 'but, of course, I didn't know you then—not even your name—still I never imagined you were a miner.'

'Why, may I ask, Miss Heywood? Probably because I dressed a little better than my follow miners are accustomed to dress, I suppose?' he said, smiling.

'Hardly that,' she said thoughtfully. 'Somehow it is a difficult matter, even now, to associate you in any way with mines and miners.'

'I am afraid, Miss Heywood,' he said, with a short laugh, 'that I have worked in the mines too long now ever to be mistaken for anything but a pitman by anyone who knows much of miners and their ways.'

She looked prettily amazed, asked leading questions prettily, and soon he found himself telling her of his youthful hardships, and his early struggles to educate himself and fight his way upward.

Then she told him something of her own trials and troubles—of the death of her parents, of her isolation, of her desire for a fuller and a larger life than seemed possible in that dull corner of the world.

Gradually the conversation drifted to books, and Massilon was surprised to find that her reading was much more extensive than his own, and that she seemed to have assimilated not a little of the works she had read. Miss Heywood had decided opinions of her own on all current writers of the day, and whenever she expressed a judgment, had something sensible on which to base it.

Presently Phil Lawrence burst in upon them.

'Hello, Paul,' he cried, 'are you monopolising my fair coz already? Here, Mag, are all your guests, and nobody to receive them save auntie. Come along, old chap, and let me introduce you to all my cousin's friends as they arrive.'

The remainder of the evening passed away very pleasantly and quickly. Miss Heywood's young lady friends were all comely lasses, and were lively enough not to permit their dignity to stand in the way of rational enjoyment. The young fellows were well looking, and amiable also, and Massilon soon felt thoroughly at home with them all.

If anything the united compliments of the party tended to confuse and embarrass him a trifle. He was the lion of the evening—the special guest of the occasion, and everyone allowed him to see that it was so. Those who had not read his book were aware of the leading part he had played on the critical night of the White Crow disaster, hence he was looked up to not only as a merely clever man, but a brave man also, who scrupled not to carry his own life in his hands when the lives of others were at stake.

The entertainment consisted of the programme Phil had sketched. There was music and singing—and the singing of Margaret Heywood was a joy and a revelation to Paul, confirming the deep impression she had made upon him. Some day he thought he would have Mary Stanley as accomplished as the young mistress of Milton Lodge was now. All that the maid of the cotton mill lacked was the other's education and training.

As they drove downward at eleven, in Phil Lawrence's hansom, that young gentleman remarked, as he puffed at his cigar:—

'Well, Paul, old chap, how have you enjoyed yourself? Well, I hope?'

'I never spent a pleasanter evening in my life, Phil. The company was excellent, and your charming cousin beyond all praise!'

'So glad you like Maggie; thought you would. She's fond of you, too, Phil. You might do worse, old fellow, than set your cap at her. She is her own mistress, owns the place, and has four or five hundred a year.'

Paul laughed quietly.

'Why not set your own hat that way, Phil?'

'Have tried, and she only laughed at me. Maggie is much too sensible to pick up with a scallywag like me. You are just her style, Paul. She likes strong men with brains; and by gad, you're the only chap I know to whom I wouldn't grudge her!'

Paul only laughed again. He was thinking of a woman who was fairer even than fair Margaret Heywood.