Chapter 2

The labor-roughened hands moved with their old nervous habit, and the answer came in an odd, jerky, half-connected way: “I dunnot know why it should ha' done. I mun be mad, or summat. I nivver had no hope nor nothin': theer nivver wur no reason why I should ha' had. Ay, I mun be wrong somehow, or it wouldna stick to me i' this road. I conna get rid on it, an' I conna feel as if I want to. What's up wi' me? What's takken howd on me?” his voice breaking and the words ending in a sharp hysterical gasp like a sob.

Bess wrung her towel with a desperate strength which spoke of no small degree of tempestuous feeling. Her brow knit itself and her lips were compressed. “What's happened?” she demanded after a pause. “I conna mak' thee out.”

The look that fell upon her companion's face had something of shame in it. His eyes left the mountain side and drooped upon his clasped hands. “Theer wur a lass coom to look at 'th place today,” he said--“a lady lass, wi' her feyther--an' him. She wur aw rosy red an' fair white, an' it seemt as if she wur that happy as her laughin' made th' birds mock back at her. He took her up th' mountain, an' we heard 'em both even high up among th' laurels. Th' sound o' their joy a-floatin' down from the height, so nigh th' blue sky, made me sick an' weak-loike. They wur na so gay when they comn back, but her eyes wur shinin', an' so wur his, an' I heerd him say to her as 'Foak didna know how nigh heaven th' top o' th' mountain wur.'”

Bess wrung her towel again, and regarded the mountain with manifest impatience and trouble. “Happen it'll coom reet some day,” she said.

“Reet!” repeated the lad, as if mechanically. “I hadna towd mysen' as owt wur exactly wrong; on'y I conna see things clear. I niwer could, an' th' more I ax mysen' questions th' worse it gets. Wheer--wheer could I lay th' blame?”

“Th' blame!” said Bess. “Coom tha' an' get a bite to eat;” and she shook out the towel with a snap and turned away. “Coom tha,” she repeated; “I mun get my work done.”

That night, as Seth lay upon his pallet in the shanty, the sound of Langley's horse's hoofs reached him with an accompaniment of a clear, young masculine voice singing a verse of some sentimental modern carol--a tender song ephemeral and sweet. As the sounds neared the cabin the lad sprang up restlessly, and so was standing at the open door when the singer passed. “Good-neet, mester,” he said.

The singer slackened his pace and turned his bright face toward him in the moonlight, waving his hand. “Good-night,” he said, “and pleasant dreams! Mine will be pleasant ones, I know. This has been a happy day for me, Raynor. Goodnight.”

When the two met again the brighter face had sadly changed; its beauty was marred with pain, and the shadow of death lay upon it.

Entering Janner's shanty the following morning, Seth found the family sitting around the breakfast-table in ominous silence. The meal stood untouched, and even Bess looked pale and anxious. All three glanced toward him questioningly as he approached, and when he sat down Janner spoke: “Hasna tha' heerd th' news?” he asked.

“Nay,” Seth answered, “I ha' heerd nowt.”

Bess interposed hurriedly: “Dunnot yo' fear him, feyther,” she said. “Happen it isna so bad, after aw. Four or live foak wur takken down ill last neet, Seth, an' th' young mester wur among 'em; an' theer's them as says it's cholera.”

It seemed as if he had not caught the full meaning of her words; he only stared at her in a startled, bewildered fashion. “Cholera!” he repeated dully.

“Theer's them as knows it's cholera,” said Janner, with gloomy significance. “An' if it's cholera, it's death;” and he let his hand fall heavily upon the table.

“Ay,” put in Mrs. Janner in a fretful wail, “fur they say as it's worse i' these parts than it is i' England--th' heat mak's it worse--an' here we are i' th' midst o' th' summer-toime, an' theer's no knowin' wheer it'll end. I wish tha'd takken my advice, Janner, an' stayed i' Lancashire. Ay, I wish we wur safe at home. Better less wage an' more safety. Yo'd niwer ha' coom if yo'd listened to me.”

“Howd thy tongue, mother,” said Bess, but the words were not ungently spoken, notwithstanding their bluntness. “Dunnot let us mak' it worse than it need be. Seth, lad, eat thy breakfast.”

But there was little breakfast eaten. The fact was, that at the first spreading of the report a panic had seized upon the settlement, and Janner and his wife were by no means the least influenced by it A stolidly stubborn courage upheld Bess, but even she was subdued and somewhat awed.

“I niwer heerd much about th' cholera,” Seth said to her after breakfast. “Is this here true, this as thy feyther says?”

“I dunnot know fur sure,” Bess answered gravely, “but it's bad enow.”

“Coom out wi' me into th' fresh air,” said the lad, laying his hand upon her sleeve: “I mun say a word or so to thee.” And they went out together.

There was no work done in the mine that day. Two of three new cases broke out, and the terror spread itself and grew stronger. In fact, Black Creek scarcely comported itself as stoically as might have been expected. A messenger was dispatched to the nearest town for a doctor, and his arrival by the night train was awaited with excited impatience.

When he came, however, the matter became worse. He had bad news to tell himself. The epidemic had broken out in the town he had left, and great fears were entertained by its inhabitants. “If you had not been so entirely thrown on your own resources,” he said, “I could not have come.”

A heavy enough responsibility rested upon his shoulders during the next few weeks. He had little help from the settlement. Those who were un-stricken looked on at the progress of the disease with helpless fear: few indeed escaped a slight attack, and those who did were scarcely more useful than his patients. In the whole place he found only two reliable and unterrified assistants.

His first visit was to a small farm-house round the foot of the mountain and a short distance from the mine. There he found the family huddled in a back room like a flock of frightened sheep, and in the only chamber a handsome, bright-haired young fellow lying, upon the bed with a pinched and ominous look upon his comely face. The only person with him was a lad roughly clad in miner's clothes--a lad who stood by chafing his hands, and who turned desperate eyes to the door when it opened. “Yo're too late, mester,” he said--“yo're too late.”

But young as he was--and he was a very young man--the doctor had presence of mind and energy, and he flung his whole soul and strength into the case. The beauty and solitariness of his patient roused his sympathy almost as if it had been the beauty of a woman; he felt drawn toward the stalwart, helpless young figure lying upon the humble couch in such apparent utter loneliness. He did not count much upon the lad at first--he seemed too much bewildered and shaken--but it was not long before he changed his mind. “You are getting over your fear,” he said.

“It wasna fear, mester,” was the answer he received; “or at least it wasna fear for mysen'.”

“What is your name?”

“Seth Ray nor, mester. Him an' me,” with a gesture toward the bed, “comn from th' same place. Th' cholera couldna fear me fro' _him_--nor nowt else if he wur i' need.”

So it was Seth Raynor who watched by the bedside, and labored with loving care and a patience which knew no weariness, until the worst was over and Langley was among the convalescent.

“The poor fellow and Bess Janner were my only stay,” the young doctor was wont to say. “Only such care as his would have saved you, and you had a close race of it as it was.”

During the convalescence nurse and invalid were drawn together with a stronger tie through every hour. Wearied and weak, Langley's old interest in the lad became a warm affection. He could scarcely bear to lose sight of the awkward boyish figure, and never rested so completely as when it was by his bedside.

“Give me your hand, dear fellow,” he would say, “and let me hold it. I shall sleep better for knowing you are near me.”

He fell asleep thus one morning, and awakened suddenly to a consciousness of some new presence in the room. Seth no longer sat in the chair near his pillow, but stood a little apart; and surely he would have been no lover if the feeble blood had not leaped in his veins at the sight of the face bending over him--the innocent, fair young face which had so haunted his pained and troubled dreams. “Cathie!” he cried out aloud.

The-girl fell upon her knees and caught his extended hand with a passionate little gesture of love and pity. “I did not know,” she poured forth in hurried, broken tones. “I have been away ever since the sickness broke out at home. They sent me away, and I only heard yesterday--Father, tell him, for I cannot.”

He scarcely heard the more definite explanation, he was at once so happy and so fearful.

“Sweetheart,” he said, “I can scarcely bear to think of what may come of this; and yet how blessed it is to have you near me again! The danger for me is all over: even your dear self could not have cared for me more faithfully than I have been cared for. Raynor there has saved my life.”

But Cathie could only answer with a piteous, remorseful jealousy: “Why was it not I who saved it? why was it not I?”

And the place where Seth had stood waiting was vacant, for he had left it at the sound of Langley's first joyous cry. When he returned an hour or so later, the more restful look Langley had fancied he had seen on his face of late had faded out: the old unawakened heaviness had returned. He was nervous and ill at ease, shrinking and conscious.

“I've comn to say good-neet to yo',” he said hesitatingly to the invalid. “Th' young lady says as she an' her feyther will tak' my place a bit. I'll coom i' th' mornin'.”

“You want rest,” said Langley; “you are tired, poor fellow!”

“Ay,” quietly, “I'm tired; an' th' worst is over, yo' see, an' she's here,” with a patient smile. “Yo' wunnot need me, and theer's them as does.”

From that hour his work at this one place seemed done. For several days he made his appearance regularly to see if he was needed, and then his visits gradually ended. He had found a fresh field of labor among the sufferers in the settlement itself. He was as faithful to them as he had been to his first charge. The same unflagging patience showed itself, the same silent constancy and self-sacrifice. Scarcely a man or woman had not some cause to remember him with gratitude, and there was not one of those who had jested at and neglected him but thought of their jests and neglect with secret shame.

There came a day, however, when they missed him from among them. If he was not at one house he was surely at another, it appeared for some time; but when, after making his round of visits, the doctor did not find him, he became anxious. He might be at Janner's; but he was not there, nor among the miners, who had gradually resumed their work as the epidemic weakened its strength and their spirits lightened. Making these discoveries at nightfall, the doctor touched up his horse in some secret dread. He had learned earlier than the rest to feel warmly toward this simple co-laborer. “Perhaps he's gone out to pay Langley a visit,” he said: “I'll call and see. He may have stopped to have a rest.”

But before he had passed the last group of cabins he met Langley himself, who by this time was well enough to resume his place in the small world, and, hearing his story, Langley's anxiety was greater than his own. “I saw him last night on my way home,” he said. “About this time, too, for I remember he was sitting in the moonlight at the door of his shanty. We exchanged a few words, as we always do, and he said he was there because he was not needed, and thought a quiet night would do him good. Is it possible no one has seen him since?” in sudden alarm.

“Come with me,” said his companion.

Overwhelmed by a mutual dread, neither spoke until they reached the shanty itself. There was no sign of human life about it: the door stood open, and the only sound to be heard was the rustle of the wind whispering among the pines upon the mountain side. Both men flung themselves from their horses with loudly-beating hearts.

“God grant he is not here!” uttered Langley. “God grant he is anywhere else! The place is so drearily desolate.”

Desolate indeed! The moonbeams streaming through the door threw their fair light upon the rough boards and upon the walls, and upon the quiet figure lying on the pallet in one of the corners, touching with pitying whiteness the homely face upon the pillow and the hand that rested motionless upon the floor.

The doctor went down on his knees at the pallet's side, and thrust his hand into the breast of the coarse garments with a half-checked groan.

“Asleep?” broke from Langley's white lips in a desperate whisper. “Not--not”--

“Dead!” said the doctor--“dead for hours!” There was actual anguish in his voice as he uttered the words, but another element predominated in the exclamation which burst from him scarcely a second later. “Good God!” he cried--“good God!”

Langley bent down and caught him almost fiercely by the arm: the exclamation jarred upon him. “What is it?” he demanded, “What do you mean?”

“It is--a woman!”

Even as they gazed at each other in speechless questioning the silence was broken in upon. Swift, heavy footsteps neared the door, crossed the threshold, and Janner's daughter stood before them.

There was no need for questioning. One glance told her all. She made her way to the moonlit corner, pushed both aside with rough strength, and knelt down. “I might ha' knowed,” she said with helpless bitterness--“I might ha' knowed;” and she laid her face against the dead hand in a sudden passion of weeping. “I might ha' knowed, Jinny lass,” she cried, “but I didna. It was loike aw th' rest as tha' should lay thee down an' die loike this. Tha' wast alone aw along, an' tha'' wast alone at th' last. But dunnot blame me, poor lass. Nay, I know tha' wiltna.”

The two men stood apart, stirred by an emotion too deep for any spoken attempt at sympathy. She scarcely seemed to see them: she seemed to recognize no presence but that of the unresponsive figure upon its lowly couch. She spoke to it as if it had been a living thing, her voice broken and tender, stroking the hair now and then with a touch all womanly and loving. “Yo' were nigher to me than most foak, Jinny,” she said; “an' tha' trusted me, I know.”

They left her to her grief until at last she grew calmer and her sobs died away into silence. Then she rose and approaching Langley, who stood at the door, spoke to him, scarcely raising her tear-stained eyes. “I ha' summat to tell yo' an' sum-mat to ax yo',” she said, “an' I mun tell it to yo' alone. Will yo' coom out here?”

He followed her, wondering and sad. His heart was heavy with the pain and mystery the narrow walls inclosed. When they paused a few yards from the house, the one face was scarcely more full of sorrow than the other, only that the woman's was wet with tears. She was not given to many words, Bess Janner, and she wasted few in the story she had to tell. “Yo' know th' secret as she carried,” she said, “or I wouldna tell yo' even now; an' now I tell it yo' that she may carry the secret to her grave, an' ha' no gossiping tongue to threep at her. I dunnot want foak starin' an' wonderin' an' makkin' talk. She's borne enow.”

“It shall be as you wish, whether you tell me the story or not,” said Langley. “We will keep it as sacred as you have done.”

She hesitated a moment, seemingly pondering with herself before she answered him. “Ay,” she said, “but I ha' another reason behind. I want summat fro' yo': I want yo're pity. Happen it moight do her good even now.” She did not look at him as she proceeded, but stood with her face a little turned away and her eyes resting upon the shadow on the mountain. “Theer wur a lass as worked at th' Deepton mines,” she said--“a lass as had a weakly brother as worked an' lodged wi' her. Her name wur Jinny, an' she wur quiet and plain-favored. Theer wur other wenches as wur well-lookin', but she wasna; theer wur others as had homes, and she hadna one; theer wur plenty as had wit an' sharpness, but she hadna them neyther. She wur nowt but a desolate, homely lass, as seemt to ha' no place i' th' world, an' yet wur tender and weak-hearted to th' core. She wur allus longin' fur summat as she wur na loike to get; an' she nivver did get it, fur her brother wasna one as cared fur owt but his own doin's. But theer were one among aw th' rest as nivver passed her by, an' he wur th' mester's son. He wur a bright, handsome chap, as won his way ivverywheer, an' had a koind word or a laugh fur aw. So he gave th' lass a smile, an' did her a favor now and then--loike as not without givin' it more than a thowt--until she learned to live on th' hope o' seein' him. An', bein' weak an' tender, it grew on her fro' day to day, until it seemt to give th' strength to her an' tak' it both i' one.”

She stopped and looked at Langley here. “Does tha' see owt now, as I'm getten this fur?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered, his agitation almost master ing him. “And now I have found the lost face that haunted me so.”

“Ay,” said Bess, “it was hers;” and she hurried on huskily: “When you went away she couldna abide th' lonesomeness, an' so one day she said to her brother, 'Dave, let us go to th' new mine wheer Mester Ed'ard is;' an' him bein' allus ready fur a move, they started out together. But on th' way th' lad took sick and died sudden, an' Jinny wur left to hersen'. An' then she seed new trouble. She wur beset wi' danger as she'd niwer thowt on, an' before long she foun' out as women didna work o' this side o' the sea as they did o' ours. So at last she wur driv' upon a strange-loike plan. It sounds wild, happen, but it wasna so wild after aw. Her bits of clothes giv' out an' she had no money; an' theer wur Dave's things. She'd wore th' loike at her work i' Deepton, an' she made up her moind to wear 'em agen. Yo' didna know her when she coom here, an' no one else guessed at th' truth. She didna expect nowt, yo' see; she on'y wanted th' comfort o' hearin' th' voice she'd longed an' hungered fur; an' here wur wheer she could hear it. When I fun' her out by accident, she towd me, an' sin' then we 've kept th' secret together. Do yo' guess what else theer's been betwixt us, mester?”

“I think I do,” he answered. “God forgive me for my share in her pain!”

“Nay,” she returned, “it was no fault o' thine. She niwer had a thowt o' that. She had a patient way wi' her, had Jinny, an' she bore her trouble better than them as hopes. She didna ax nor hope neyther; an' when theer coom fresh hurt to her she wur ready an' waiting knowin' as it moight comn ony day. Happen th' Lord knows what life wur give her fur--I dunnot, but it's ower now--an' happen she knows hersen'. I hurried here to-neet,” she added, battling with a sob, “as soon as I heerd as she was missin', th' truth struck to my heart, an' I thowt as I should be here first, but I wasna I ha' not gotten no more to say.”

They went back to the shanty, and with her own hands she did for the poor clay the last service it would need, Langley and his companion waiting the while outside. When her task was at an end she came to them, and this time it was Langley who addressed himself to her. “May I go in?” he asked.

She bent her head in assent, and without speaking he left them and entered the shanty alone. The moonlight, streaming in as before, fell upon the closed eyes, and hands folded in the old, old fashion upon the fustian jacket: the low whisper of the pines crept downward like a sigh. Kneeling beside the pallet, the young man bent his head and touched the pale forehead with reverent lips. “God bless you for your love and faith,” he said, “and give you rest!”

And when he rose a few minutes later, and saw that the little dead flower he had worn had dropped from its place and lay upon the pulseless breast, he did not move it, but turned away and left it resting; there.