Читать книгу A Slave of the Ring - J. Monk Foster - Страница 3

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It was a sharp morning a few weeks after the advent of the New Year, and the frosty air was filled with the strident screams of the steam whistles, or 'buzzers,' at the neighbouring collieries, announcing to all whom it concerned that the hour of half-past five a.m. had arrived.

Early as was the time, the broad, old-fashioned market square of Ashlynton showed unmistakable evidence of activity. From the various courts, alleys, and thoroughfares leading to and from the square, men and women, youths and maidens, of all ages, from the lowest teens to the period of senility almost, were issuing, to journey in various ways to their various occupations.

Each and all of those early wayfarers were slaves of the bell. Six days out of the seven a steam-whistle with its hoarse, ear-piercing note, or a big bell with its deep-throated clangour, called upon all these units of the 'masses' to shoulder their share of the world's work; and willingly or sullenly, alertly or slowly, they had to respond to the call, or bear the pangs of those who are poor and will not or cannot labour.

Hither and thither in the chill morning air miners and their 'drawers' hurried; their 'Davy' lamps slung on their coat-collars, can in hand, and a pick thrust in a crooked arm. Some of them were cheery as crickets; humming a snatch of a song, or whistling a bar or two of a popular air; others were moody and slunk along in silence, and the thick, heavily-ironed clogs of all rang sharply upon the cold pavement.

Women and lasses, with their heads and faces shrouded in bright, many-coloured shawls, paced along the streets more leisurely. Those were mill-girls—neatly-attired weavers and spinners—and others more roughly dressed who followed less cleanly occupations. And here and there among the knots of females were men and lads, and the fragments of white fluffy material clinging to their caps and jackets denoted that they were cotton operatives also. But the sight that would have appealed most strongly to a stranger was that presented by certain weird hybrid figures visible occasionally among the throng. These were pit-brow girls; but at a hasty glance their sex could not have been declared, so strange was their garb.

These maids and matrons of the pit-bank were all similarly clothed. A soft bonnet or cap covered brow, hair, and ears, and hung to the nape of the neck; each wore a short jacket, probably the cast-off garment of some male; under the jacket was girded a short, strong petticoat, looped up in front over the cord trousers which reached almost to the ankles.

But if the attire of these women-kind of the pits was unattractive, in spite of its picturesque character, there was little fault to find with either their figures or their faces. Most of them were strong, lithe, well-developed creatures, clear of eye and alert of foot; and if all the faces were bronzed to a brown, healthy tone by constant exposure in the open air, many of them were comely, even passing fair.

As the clock in the tower of the parish church of Ashlynton, which stood on one side of the market square, told the half-hour between five and six, a man came out of one of the side streets and walked at a fair pace across the wide space. As he passed by the 'big lamp' which stood in the centre of the 'place,' and cast its bright light around, a voice cried:

'Hello, Paul! Good morning.'

It was a woman's voice, low and pleasantly modulated, and one he knew well. Even the sound of the voice stirred his pulses pleasurably, and with a flushed face and a pleasant light in his eyes, he stopped at once and faced the speaker.

'Good morning, Mary!' he murmured lowly, but in glad accents, as he held out his hand. 'I was busy with my thoughts, and I really didn't notice you.'

'You're not too big already, I hope, Paul,' was the half sarcastic, half serious response, 'to either ignore or forget your old friends?'

There was a mischievous glitter in the girl's eyes as she made that thrust at him, but his face was grave and his tone composed, as he replied,

'I shall never either ignore or forgot you, Mary Stanley!'

'Oh, won't you? I thought the fact that you had been made under-manager at the Myreland Collieries had something to do with it. My word, Paul; you won't be speaking to anyone so commonplace as a mere factory wench now!'

There was a half-jibe running still in the undercurrent of her soft voice, and it appeared to displease him, for his rejoinder was curt, almost angry:

'Nonsense, Mary! And you know it is nonsense to say so. You know—you must know,' he cried lowly, as his face was bent suddenly towards her, 'that there is one handsome factory girl in this town that I like to talk to—one that I wish to talk to nobody else!'

'How unselfish you are, to be sure, Paul,' was the saucy retort; 'and yet you would have gone by without even a "Good morning, Mary," eh?'

'But that was only because I didn't see you,' he retorted. 'Besides you are very early, are you not? See!' and he pointed to the illuminated face of the parish church clock, 'it wants twenty-five minutes to six yet.'

'Yes, I know. I suppose that ramshackle old clock of ours is fast again!' the girl replied in accents of real petulance now. 'Some mornings it has us all up half an hour too soon; another, it makes us too late for work, and then the old chap, my father, swears till he's black and blue. It is just a nuisance, that's what it is, Paul, that anyone should be forced to get up every day at a certain time, and go out to work well or ill, rain or shine.'

'"What can't be cured must be endured," Mary,' he said, philosophically. 'We are all, I suppose, slaves of the bell. Poor people must work if they want to live and eat. You and I are alike, Mary; you have thoughts and aspirations above your station in life.'

'I don't know anything about that,' she replied with quiet sullenness; 'but I do know that it's very nasty to get up on a frosty morning like this and tramp to the mill. What do you say?'

'Things might be worse for us both.'

'Oh, might they? Well, I'll be off now. Good morning, Mr. Under-manager Massilon, and if you can ever do a good turn for my sharp-tempered old father, Job Stanley, who is one of your workmen now, perhaps you'll do it to oblige me.'

'I would do much to oblige you, Mary,' he said, impressively.

'Well, do; good morning, Paul.'

'Good—but a moment, Mary!'

He laid his hand upon her shoulder in his eagerness, and she turned suddenly.

'What is it now?'

'Will you meet me to-night?' he asked, in a tone that betrayed some emotion.

'Meet you! Why should I meet you?' she asked, with her bright eyes on his face.

'I have something to tell you—something I wish to ask you!' he said, with a tongue that faltered through excess of feeling.

'Can't you say it now?'

'Here? No. Besides I have not time now if I am to get to the colliery before the six o'clock whistle blows. Will you meet me, Mary?'

'Where?'

'On the side of the River Douglas, near the weir, at seven o'clock.'

'I may!' was the girl's purposely evasive rejoinder.

'No! Promise!' he demanded, hotly.

'Shan't. I may be there—but I may not. Good morning.'

She ran from him with a merry laugh, and he stared after the graceful retreating figure for a moment or two in silence. Then he turned away also, with a deep breath that was almost a sigh, and quickening his former pace he repaired to Myrelands' colliery.