Chapter V

Philip’s Father

But she did not go on for full five minutes, and there was no sound in the room but the crackling of the fire and the ticking of the clock on the mantel-shelf. Dash was the first to break the silence, which even he seemed to find oppressive; he got up from his place under the table, and coming over to Mag, gravely put his two paws in her lap and looked up into her face in a coaxing way he had when he wanted something; it was an appeal which Mag never resisted, and she patted him gently on the head, saying, “Good doggie! Lie down here, by the fire where it is warm, an’ I will try and tell Philip more about the gentleman we were speaking of just now.

“His name was Philip; it’s right ye should know that much.”

“The same as mine,” said the boy; “that’s strange. What was the name of the lass?”

“Never mind a name for her,” said grandfather hastily.

Mag went on as if she had not heard the question:

“He worked for his wife, Philip did, with the paints, an’ made pictures to send up to London to be sold, an’ the next year when the baby came, an’ there was more money needing, he worked harder than ever, till he was worn like a shadow. He was very sad and quiet them times, with the weight that was on him of caring for a family, and him not reared with even the thoughts of earning his own living. She, the wife, never noticed how the toil was wearing on him; she wasn’t much more than a child, an’ when he grew so still and weary-like, she fretted for the pleasant words and free-hearted laugh that used to be like music to her. Then she’d scold him, with the evil tongue she had, when things went against her liking, an’ he bore every word like a saint. Once when the money was lacking entirely, an’ she hadn’t the patience to wait for the payment he was looking for from London, she turned on him worse than ever; an’ when he couldn’t be driven to make her an answer, she grew more bitter and ugly, till at last she told him if he was like other men he’d go down to work in the mine. She was frightened after she said it, for it was like an insult to liken a born gentleman to them rough miners; but he made no answer even to that, only just got up from his chair an’ walked out of the house, she following him to the very door an’ flinging rough words after him to the last.”

“Leave it now, Mag,” implored the old man, who, to Philip’s amazement, had been shaking his head and groaning during his daughter’s rapidly spoken narrative.

But Mag went on again as if she had not noticed the interruption. This time, however, she spoke with an effort, as if the words were dragged from her by a force she could not resist.

“The foolish woman repented her of all her wicked words as soon as she lost sight of him at the turn of the road, but the pride an’ temper that was in her kept her back from going after him. The thought wouldn’t leave her the day through, that the jibes of her had sent him off to his hurt in some way, an’ she wasn’t greatly astonished, but her heart was grieved awful, when one of the neighbors told her that she’d seen her husband going down the shaft.

“When it comes near night she took up the baby an’ walked over to the mine, ready to throw herself on her knees to Philip before them all when he come up out of it, an’ beg him to forgive the temper of her that drove him to take her at her words an’ go down to seek for work that was ill-fitting a gentleman. There was a crowd coming over from the shaft, early as it was, an’ as she come nearer she saw some of the men carrying one between them that looked, by the way the hands hung, as if he had no life in him. There was no need to tell her who it was, there was no call to tell her how it happened, for she knew that it was Philip before they brought him a step nearer. It was no use for the women to come around to comfort her, to tell her ’twas an accident that took the life that was a hundred times better worth saving than her own. Her heart told her ’twas herself killed him by the rage that drove him to take her at her word, an’ it turned to lead in her bosom, an’ ever since she has waited for the punishment that is coming, for she knows that her life will be taken as his was. The same way that others long for life, she longs for death; an’ she dare not take her life with her own hands, or many a time she would have done it, for waiting an’ waiting is a part of her punishment, an’ she will shirk none of it. But, oh! it’s a weary, weary life, an’ it takes patience to bear it.” She rose at the last words, which were uttered in a sort of moan, and, opening the cottage door, walked out into the cloudy darkness, which was not even lighted by stars. Philip, excited by her strange manner and the story he had heard, sprang up as if to follow her, but his grandfather stopped him.

“Let ’er be, lad,” he said; “she goes out often that way nights after you are sleeping, an’ she comes back the better for it, so I never try to hinder her. That was a hard story for her to tell, an’ I’d spared her if she’d let me.”

“But why did she tell it, an’ why did she say I must hear it sometime?” asked Philip, almost in a whisper.

“It was folly in her, sheer folly,” was the answer. “But she had the notion to tell thee; an’ now it is said, thee needs to think no thought about it again.”

“But did I ever see the lass?” persisted the boy curiously.

“If thee did, thee wouldn’t know it,” was the unsatisfactory answer.

“I think she was a rare one to save the men that time,” said Philip.

“Ay, was she, true enough,” said the old man proudly.

“What became of the baby?” asked Philip.

“From the day,” said his grandfather, “that they took the dead body of her husband out of the door to bury him, the poor young widow went down to the mine to work along with the men, an’ till the boy was old enough to run she took him on her back with her, tied in a big shawl. She has a strange notion that she is to meet a violent death down there, the same as her man did. Some folks say she’s crazed with the trouble; but however it is, no one can put her off from believing that, sooner or later, her life must go to pay for his.”

Philip was deeply moved by what he had heard, and very gradually he began to understand that the story was a true one, and that it concerned him and his parents very closely; his mother had come in and resumed her drooping attitude before the fire, and presently he went timidly over to her and laid his cheek close to hers. “Mother,” he said softly, “I think I can guess who the brave girl was who saved the men’s lives, and, mother dear, if my father loved her so very much, would he lay it up against her that she spoke a bit too quickly just that once?”

With a quick cry Mag gathered her little boy into her arms, breaking into sobs and tears which were the relief her sad heart needed.

“Oh, father!” she murmured, “to think he knows it all, an’ yet he does not hate his poor, wicked mother.”

“No, no,” cried Philip, weeping too. “I love ye more than ever, my own dear mother, an’ I mean to try and fill my father’s place, an’ take such good care of ye, mother dear.”

“Bravely spoken, little lad,” said grandfather, his brown wrinkled face beaming satisfaction on the group by the fire. “I always told ye, Mag, that ’twould be far better the boy should be told, an’ besides he had a right to know about his father, who was a real gentleman, an’ one for his son to be proud of, though I may be a little late in saying so, God forgive me! You see I was so over-fond of your mother, boy, that if an angel from heaven had wanted to marry her I would have thought him scarce good enough; an’ then, too, I had a foolish pride about our being such ignorant folks, an’ he so learned and able to paint all them wonderful pictures, that I was feared he’d feel scorn of us.”

The old man sighed penitently, and Mag laid her hand lovingly on his knee.

“I’ll not deny ye was a little hard on my husband,” she said tremulously, “but it was all meant kindly enough, an’ as my little Philip said just now, perhaps _now_ he understands it all.”

“I am sure of it,” said Philip softly, patting her cheek.

After that Mag talked more freely to the boy of his father, and indeed it seemed to afford her both relief and pleasure to speak at last upon a subject which had so long lain heavily on her heart. She told Philip of her first meeting with the handsome young artist, who was staying then in the neighborhood at a large house now vacant, which Philip remembered to have seen on a memorable visit to a neighboring town, and which belonged to the family of his father’s dearest friend and college chum, Frederick Ashden. The two friends had come to Ashden for the summer vacation, and Philip Norton, who had really a marked talent for painting, was quite enraptured with the opportunities for sketching which he found in the picturesque mining village.

It was in the course of one of his long rambles about the country in search of subjects that the young artist had met the handsome village girl, whose dark beauty he at once proceeded to transfer to canvas. Mag was easily persuaded to pose for a series of sketches which prolonged their intercourse through many a long summer afternoon, when her father was away working in the mine and the motherless girl was free to do as she pleased. They were as happy as birds, and with scarcely more thought for the future; and then it was that the neighbors began to shake their heads, and to gossip about the handsome gentleman who was far too fine for the daughter of a poor miner. After a while their hints and whisperings reached the ears of the girl’s father--and the rest we know.

But there was much that Philip did not learn until long afterward, and which even Mag did not understand, for she never more than dimly guessed that in marrying her, Philip Norton had literally given up everything which had hitherto made his life worth living. His parents had died when he was very young, and he had been adopted by his uncle and aunt, a childless couple who had set their entire affections and hopes upon their promising young nephew. His hasty and unsuitable marriage had wellnigh broken their hearts, and immediately upon hearing of it they wrote to him imploring him, as he was not yet of age, to have the marriage annulled, offering to settle a comfortable allowance upon his wife if she would consent to live apart from him. It is needless to say that Philip Norton rejected their offers with scorn, and as they would not receive his wife, he requested that in future all communications between them should cease. His monthly remittances, which were forwarded to him as usual, he returned unopened, too proud to accept the aid which he so sorely needed; for his pictures sold but slowly and brought pitifully small prices. Indeed, his work at this time was sadly lacking in inspiration, for he no longer worked with the love of his art, which had once been the motive power of his labor, but with the painful effort born of a wearing anxiety to earn the money which should free him from the galling dependence upon his hard-working father-in-law which became day by day more unbearable.

He felt keenly, too, the separation from his friends, and especially did he miss the companionship of Frederick Ashden; yet he had himself insisted upon a cessation of their intercourse.

“I know what you will say of my marriage,” he wrote to his friend, “and as I do not wish to hear it from you, I think it best that in future we should not meet. Our paths in life will henceforth diverge very widely. I have chosen mine and am happy in the choice; may yours be equally happy. God bless you, and farewell!--Philip.”

Mag realized in a dim way that her husband had given up much in abandoning his career and settling down to the narrow life with her and her father in their humble home; but, passionately as she loved him, she was able to enter into but few of his thoughts, and he soon began sadly to realize this, and many other things which he would scarcely confess to himself. He was harassed, too, by fears for the future; Mag shared his anxiety, and then one day she spoke the fatal words of reproach which had driven her young husband to his death, and for which her life since that day had been one long, vain regret.

There was one thing which Philip learned from his mother which troubled him greatly. His father’s uncle and adopted father, a clergyman, had, within two years, received the appointment to a neighboring parish, and shortly after his arrival he had written very kindly to Mag, as indeed he had done before, begging that she would let bygones be bygones, and allow him to assist her in any way in his power, especially in the education of her son. Mag had treated this as she had done the former offers, with silent disdain; but when she told Philip he flushed painfully.

“I am sure my father’s people meant it kindly,” he said timidly, “and oh! mother dear, if only they could know ye I am sure that they would love ye like everyone else.”

But Mag stopped him almost angrily.

“Hush, Philip!” she said; “not for the whole world would I have those proud people know what a poor, humble, ignorant woman my Philip had chosen for his wife. No, I will not accept help from such as them; so never speak of it again.”

And Philip, remorseful and abashed, never did.