Читать книгу A Pit-brow Lassie - John Monk Foster - Страница 9

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The intelligent reader of this narrative will already have gleaned two or three items of information respecting Arthur Willesden: to wit, that he was young and comely, respectably connected, and being engaged in no kind of labor, manual or otherwise, a person of some means.

To be more particular—and the part he is to play in this story requires it—he was an orphan, his mother having been dead about 10 years, his father half that time. The decease of the latter left his only child—Arthur Willesden, then nearly 21—a nice little income of £250 per annum.

Arthur's father having married a woman with a little money, had turned it to a profitable use, and dying left his lad what might have proved the nucleus of a fortune had the youngster only been as energetic as his father.

But Arthur Willesden inherited his mother's indolent temperament. He was shrewd enough, and clever in a way, nor did he lack ambition of a kind, but he entirely lacked energy to give effect to his dreaming.

At the time of his father's death the young fellow was an articled clerk in his uncle's office, but his legal studies ceased when, on attaining his majority, he found himself in receipt of an income of five pounds a week.

Henry Willesden had urged his nephew to remain in the profession for which he had been studying; but Arthur had ideas of his own, some considerable strength of will also, and he went his own way, enjoying life after his own fashion, living up to his income, but seldom going beyond it.

Not a few of Arthur Willesden's acquaintances regarded his lot with envy, and this was perhaps a pardonable offence on their part. The young fellow was really good-looking, with his tall, slender figure and gipsy face.

He was certainly selfish in nature, decidedly low in certain of his tastes, and was singularly cold-blooded and calculating for so young a man. At times he was rather lavish, but only upon his own pleasures; occasionally he would treat his friends generously, whenever he required a favor at some of their hands.

Unsuspected by either Mr. or Mrs. Henry Willesden, Arthur had for the last four or five years been leading a life of dissipation. He hung about the stage doors of certain theatres; frequented the bars of low music halls; was a haunter of some of the city's most disreputable places.

Of course all these unorthodox pleasures were indulged in secretly by Arthur Willesden—that open kind of secrecy young fellows of to-day affect in their pleasant dissipations. To the world in general, or that portion of it which rubbed shoulders with him—the wives and daughters of city merchants—he was a man of reputable character and moderate fortune, differing in no way from half a thousand others they knew and crossed tongues with.

And this was the gentleman who had undertaken to discover the missing sister of the fortunate Australian, Richard Hampton. No inkling then crossed his mind of the complexities to be evolved by him from the task he saddled himself with. It was purely a whim to play the detective, and the solicitor was near the mark when he hinted that a little difficulty at the commencement of the quest would soon exhaust his nephew's enthusiasm for the work.

On the morning following the interview with his uncle already recorded, Arthur Willesden set forth upon his mission of discovery. In his pocket-book he had set down the names of the brother and sister, the date on which the former went to Australia, and the address at which the latter had lived prior to her relative's departure from England.

With the expenditure of a little trouble Willesden found No. 49, George-street, Hulme, and knocking at the door of the humble-looking cottage, he asked the woman who answered the summons if she could tell him anything of a woman named Margaret Hampton who had lodged in that house about 30 years ago.

The woman stared at him, but said she knew nothing of the person he sought. She had lived there only eighteen months. The amateur detective had expected something like this. He had thought the whole matter over carefully, and was ready with another question, as soon as the woman had concluded.

"Do you know anybody hereabouts who has lived in the neighborhood for a long time? There is usually one or two of that sort in a street."

"I believe there is," the woman said, brightening up. "I've heerd say as owd Nanny Roscoe 'as lived in't street sin' hoo wur o little wench."

"Where does she live now?"

"Cross road theer at number 52."

"Thank you. I am much obliged."

He smiled pleasantly, lifted his hat, and crossed the street towards the house indicated. He tapped lightly upon the half-opened door, and again a woman came to enquire as to his wants.

"Nanny Roscoe lives here I believe?" he interrogated.

The woman before him was too young to be the one he was seeking. She had just left the wash-tub it seemed.

"Hoo does, sur; dun yo' want her?"

"I wish to speak to her for a few minutes if I can do so," he replied.

"Cum in then, un ah'll tell her. Hoo's ma mother, un hoo's next doour washin' for a naybur. Ah'll fotch her in a minute."

She dusted a chair and Arthur seated himself thereon. Then she bustled out the back way, returning in a few moments with her mother—a plump, apple-faced little woman, considerably over half a century old, and hale and vigorous still, as was attested by her active movements and suds-covered arms, which she was busy wiping on her large sack-cloth apron.

"Yo' wanten ma eawr, Polly says, sur?"

"I do. I suppose you have lived about here a long time?"

"Ah 'ave. Ah've lived in this very heawse o'er forty heeurs."

"Do you remember a woman named Margaret Hampton, who used to live over the way, at No. 49?"

"Ah should think ah do. Whah, mon, ah wur ut her weddin'."

"She is married, then?"

"Hoo is. Hoo married a man fro Pendleton cawd Jonty Leigh, un they went o' livin' theer after. Ah went to their heawse o tahme or two. Bur it's o great while neaw sin' ah seed oather on um."

"Where did they live when you visited them last."

"Somewhere near Scowcroft's Pits; ah forget name o't' street. Jonty wur a coaler."

Arthur thanked the old woman for her information, pressed a shilling into her chubby palm, and went away gratified with the progress he was making. His way to Pendleton lay through Market-street, and dropping in at his uncle's office Arthur informed his relative of the discoveries he had been fortunate enough to make that morning.

Mr. Willesden was pleased with his nephew's success; urged him to follow up the scent he had found, and, after lunching at one of the city restaurants, Arthur set forth for Pendleton.

On arriving thither he at once enquired for Scowcroft's Colliery, and finding it, commenced to search in the adjacent streets for Jonathan Leigh, collier. Here again the amateur detective was in luck's way, for he chanced to call at the house of one of the old workmates of the man he was seeking, who told him that Leigh and his wife had gone to Ashford many a year ago, and for all he knew to the contrary were there still.

By noon next day Arthur Willesden was at Ashford. He alighted at the railway-station just as the steam whistles at the collieries and mills were emitting their shrill stridulous screams, telling to all whom it concerned that the time for the midday meal had come.

Strolling out of the station, undecided which way to go, for the man at Pendleton had not been able to offer him any definite information as to the street wherein his old comrade resided, Willesden happened to see some pits a little distance away, and towards them he went with the intention of making further enquiry concerning the man and woman he was in quest of.

Crossing a dilapidated stile Arthur came to a waggon road, and proceeding along this in the direction of the collieries he noticed a pit-brow girl approaching at a quick pace, evidently hurrying home-ward for dinner. He glanced casually at the young woman as she drew near, but his indifference changed quickly into deepest interest as his eyes rested upon her face.

"Pardon me," he said as he and the girl met, "but may I ask you to tell me the name of this colliery?"

He had doffed his hat in the most deferential manner, as if she to whom he spoke wore silken attire instead of corduroy breeches and print jacket; his handsome countenance had assumed its most winning aspect, his voice was low and pleasant.

"It is called Crawford's Colliery," the girl answered, pausing a moment.

"Thank you. I am much obliged."

The girl went her way and Arthur Willesden followed her with his eyes. He had intended to detain her a little longer, but the self-possession usually at his command had left him, and he could not frame just then other questions for her to answer.

"By Jove!" he muttered as he watched her mount the stile, "what a beauty she is. I never saw a sweeter face in all my life. And working on the pit brow too."

The girl was out of sight now, but Arthur did not resume his walk. The slope of the waggon road seemed to have escaped the fate of the surrounding fields, for here the grass was green and luxuriant with a thin sprinkling of wild flowers.

Arthur flung himself down on the bank, mind filled with thoughts quite different from those that had brought him to Ashford. The prospect of speedily finding Jonathan Leigh and his wife had lost much of its interest for him, and all his enthusiasm in that direction was threatened with a sudden extinction.

There was a good deal of the unprincipled Lothario about this comely youngster, and more than one simple maiden had ample cause to rue her acquaintance with him. And seated there on that sunny slope he was preparing his net for fresh prey in the shape of the handsome pit-brow girl to whom he had spoken a minute or two ago.

Nor did Arthur Willesden anticipate much trouble in enmeshing his contemplated victim. With his good looks, ample means, and cunning artifices it would be a surprise to him if he was not able to accomplish his designs in a few weeks' time. This humble girl must perforce be flattered by the attentions of a gentleman. The presents he would make her would turn the creature's head, and if she were at all like the ordinary girl of her class the rest would be easy.

Thus mused Arthur Willesden, and presently he arose from the grassy slope, and, turning his back upon the colliery retraced his steps down the waggon road, remounted the stile, and back through the fields. He had an idea that the girl lived in one of those pretty old-fashioned whitewashed cottages he remembered passing, and it was to test the truth of this fancy that he had returned.

The houses in question were only a couple of hundred yards away, and stood in the midst of a piece of common land fronting the high-road. There were about a dozen altogether, and each one had its strip of garden filled with green plants and bright-hued old-time flowers, a vivid contrast to the many barren fields within easy eye-range.

As Willesden strolled slowly toward the cottages with their thick roofs of thatch and snowy walls he saw the pit girl to whom he had previously spoken emerge from the furthermost in the row. Walking onward at a quicker pace he met her beside the end of the garden, and raising his hat he spoke thus—

"You will pardon me, I am sure, for intruding upon you again when I say I am a stranger to the place and have been directed to these cottages for lodgings. May I ask if you know anyone about here who requires a lodger?"

"I think my mother does," the young woman replied after some slight hesitation.

"Indeed!" and his dark handsome face assumed its most winning aspect. "As I see you are hurrying back to work I will not trouble you to return with me; but perhaps you will point out the house and give me your mothers name."

"It is the farthest house, and my mother is called Margaret Leigh—or Mrs. Leigh."

"Thank you. Good morning, Miss Leigh."

"Good morning."

They parted. She returned to her work at the colliery; he walked leisurely to the cottage indicated, wondering if it could be possible that this sweet-faced pit lassie's mother were the woman in quest of whom he had come to Ashford.

Upon the heels of this fancy there flashed an idea—a cunning knavish scheme that would require much time and trouble on his part to bring to a successful conclusion. But if this Mrs. Leigh was the wife of Jonathan Leigh, of Pendleton, and the sister of the rich Australian, then would he strain every force at his command to consummate his scheme.