Chapter III

Philip’s Mother

The winter that Dash came to the cottage where Philip lived with his mother and grandfather was a very long and hard one. A great political crisis had, in some mysterious way, affected the price of coal; there were long weeks when only half the usual number of men were employed in the mines, and this meant that many little children in the miners’ cottages went often supperless to bed, while the men would gather in groups in the street and talk gloomily of the hard times, which seemed to offer little hope of improvement. There was much illness in the town, too; a season of unusual rain and fog, less fire than usual to keep the chill out of the houses, and constitutions weakened by anxiety and lack of food made ready a fertile soil for the fever which attacked and carried off many scores of victims, especially among the little children and the aged; the good village doctor was kept busy day and night, and his old-fashioned hooded phaeton, with its patient old gray horse which all the children in the village knew and petted, might be seen constantly going back and forth from house to house, sometimes until quite late into the night.

Mag was one of the few who had steady work, but her wages had been reduced one-half, and with all her clever management it was sometimes difficult to keep the little household warmed and fed. Philip’s earnings had ceased altogether, and although he had more time above-ground, yet he would gladly have exchanged this unaccustomed freedom for the toil which would have brought a few extra comforts into their little home. It made his tender heart ache, too, to see the lines of anxiety grow each day deeper on the faces of Mag and his grandfather; often when he was playing with Dash he would find his mother’s eyes fastened upon them both, with a sad intensity which would sometimes lead him to run to her and put his little arms close about her neck, whispering:

“Don’t worry, mother dear; God will take care of us.” And on these occasions Dash would always join the group, thrusting his cold nose into their faces, and making it so evident that he shared their distress that they would laugh in spite of themselves at his awkward efforts to express his affection and sympathy.

Dearly as he loved her, Philip stood in awe of his silent mother, and he used sometimes to wonder in his childish way why it was that even when work had been plenty and wages high she was still so sad and grave, so unlike her noisy, gossipy neighbors, who he noticed used sometimes to shake their heads as though in kindly pity when she passed their doors on her way to work. Philip had heard the miners, too, say as they looked after her retreating figure:

“Poor lass! Poor Maggie!”

But whatever the sorrow that had darkened her life, she never allowed it to blind her to the troubles of others, and her neighbors seemed to understand this, for if ever sickness or accident befell any of them, who so quick as Mag to help or befriend? Many a blessing followed her that winter as, her work for the day finished, she would hurry from house to house on countless errands of mercy, often going quietly without her supper, that some little delicacy prepared by her own hands might find its way to an ailing neighbor. Philip noticed that when his mother returned from these kind errands she always seemed more contented than usual, and the happiest time in the whole day was when, her bonnet removed and her shawl neatly folded and laid away, she would light the evening lamp and sit quietly down to her sewing, while her father dozed contentedly in his chair before the fire (sometimes, alas! a feeble enough blaze) and Philip and Dash played happily together on the hearth.

Philip never remembered but one occasion when his mother had spoken to him other than very gently, but that once he never forgot. It was an evening when, tired of romping with Dash, the little boy had curled up before the fire with a picture-book which had been loaned to him by the overseer’s child. It was a rare treat, and Philip soon became quite absorbed in this new object of interest. But Dash was determined not to be cheated out of his usual half hour of play with his young master, and after waiting as long as he thought that even the best-behaved dog could be expected to do, he began to pull at Philip’s sleeve as though to say: “Come, old fellow. Time’s up, you know!”

But as Philip paid no attention to this, he began to bark and frisk about him in such a lively and disturbing manner that Philip pushed him away several times, saying, “Down, Dash,” in a vexed and impatient voice; but the little dog persisted in teasing and annoying him all the more for being rebuffed, and at last Philip grew angry, and struck and kicked the dog several times. Dash was so astonished at this unusual behavior that for a moment he stood looking at his master in silent reproach, and then he turned sadly away, and ran, yelping and whining, to Mag. She turned and caught her little son by the arm, holding him so tightly that he cried out in surprise and pain. His mother’s great sorrowful eyes were fixed upon him with an expression so unusual that he remembered it long afterward. She was very pale as she cried:

“Shame on ye, Philip lad, to hurt the brute that loves ye an’ canna’ strike back! Oh, Philip, Philip, ye must keep down that temper, my little lad, or it will bring you to the woe that’s wearing me out.”

She sank into a chair, covering her face with her trembling hands, and rocking herself to and fro as she said softly, and as though speaking to herself:

“Oh, Mag, ye have given your own wicked temper to the child, to be a curse to him as it has been to yourself!”

She dropped her hands at her side and gazed at Philip with such mournful eyes that although he could not understand the meaning of her words, he was frightened and shrank into his corner, his face burning with shame and remorse. Dash had stood looking from one to the other, as though bewildered by such a strange scene, and presently he crept up to Philip, thrusting his nose timidly into the boy’s hand, as much as to say:

“Don’t feel so badly, Philip. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me, and it was mean to tease you when I knew you wanted to read. Come, let bygones be bygones--that’s my motto.”

And Philip patted his rough head, and the companions felt that they had been mutually understood and forgiven. But with Mag it was different. She took up her sewing again, to be sure, and went on with her work as usual, but she paid no heed to Philip’s timid efforts to explain and ask forgiveness. Indeed, she seemed not to see him, for her thoughts had wandered apparently far away; and after a while Philip stole off to bed, wondering sadly why his fit of ill-temper should have so strangely moved his silent mother.

The next morning Mag seemed still constrained and unhappy, and went about her work in an absent-minded way, scarcely heeding Philip’s timid efforts at conversation; so shortly after breakfast he stole quietly out of the house with Dash. They did not return until dinner-time, and as they approached the house Philip perceived with a sinking of the heart that the good doctor’s carriage was fastened to the gate-post in front of their little cottage. He flew rather than ran the remainder of the distance, and his mother met him at the door, a warning finger on her lip.

“Hush!” she said; “your grandfather is ill. I saw he was not over-well this week past, and this morning he could not eat; so when I saw the doctor pass, I hailed him in. I fear--it may be--the fever.”

She spoke with a catch in her voice, but she tried to smile as she put her arm around Philip with more than her usual tenderness and drew him into the house. The doctor was coming out of the sick man’s room, and he was looking rather grave; but he said little, only leaving some powders, with directions as to food and other matters, promising to call again later in the day. The old man grew no worse, however, and indeed in a few days he persisted in leaving his bed and coming out to his favorite seat beside the fire; but he seemed to have but little strength, and to have grown much older in those few days of illness.

The first evening that he took his place again in the family circle was a memorable one for Philip. The boy had always been a great favorite with his grandfather, who delighted to ask him questions about what he had seen during the day; there was never much to tell, but Philip had a whimsical fashion of making a great deal of a small adventure in relating it, and often some trifling remark would suggest past events to the old man, and he would tell the boy strange stories of the past, which though often repeated were always new and of absorbing interest to his grandson and to Mag, who was ever an interested listener.

On this particular evening, however, she seemed listless and distraught, and after a while she left her sewing and knelt in front of the fire in a drooping attitude, which made Philip ask at last half timidly (for since the episode with Dash he had not felt quite at ease with his mother):

“Are ye cold, mother dear? Shall I put a few coals on the fire?” She shook her head without replying, and after a moment Philip asked his grandfather for a story; but, to the great surprise of both, Mag suddenly spoke:

“Wait a moment,” she said, “both of ye; it is my turn to tell the story to-night, an’ ye must listen patiently while I tell it, even though it may seem over-long.”

She put her hand to her throat as though something there choked her, and in the flickering firelight her eyes gleamed strangely. Philip was so dumbfounded at the idea of his silent mother telling him a story that he looked from her to his grandfather in amazement. The old man shook his head.

“My poor lass!” he said softly. “Perhaps it will ease the poor troubled mind of ye to tell it to the lad.”

And Mag began her story in a cold, hard voice, with her eyes still fixed upon the fire and her position unchanged.