Read Ebook: Philip: The Story of a Boy Violinist by Hungerford Mary C Mary Churchill Young Virginia C

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Ebook has 691 lines and 45261 words, and 14 pages

"Thy head grows dull, Philip, from sitting so much in the house. Go now an' have a run with Dash in the fresh air."

And sometimes when Philip would be loath to leave his book, his mother would shake her head more decidedly, and perhaps push him gently out of the house, closing the door behind him; while Philip, knowing that it was only love which prompted her seeming harshness, would shake himself out of his dreamy mood, and cry, "Come, Dash, mother is right; let's have a race. One, two, three! Go!" And away they would both scamper.

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 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 :

"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.

Mag's Story

"Long ago, aye, very long ago, it seems now, there was a girl with a temper so bad that no one could stand her ways."

"Oh, lass," interrupted her father, "don't ye say that. Let me begin the story for thee."

Then the old man took it up in the dialect of the miners, which to the readers of this would hardly seem like English, and for their benefit must be put into plainer language.

"Yes, there was a girl," he began, "an' the handsomest one ever I saw. Maybe she had somewhat of a temper, but no one could look into her face and think a bit blame for what she said. An' what a voice she had! There was not a linnet could sing like her, an' when all went straight she was singing all the time. There was no one to look after this girl, poor lammie, for the mother of her died before she had sense to miss her, an' left her to the care of a foolish old father, who had small enough knowledge of the proper way to bring up a little lass. He took her down into the mine with him sometimes, but it wasn't to her taste--the darkness fretted her, she wanted more liberty. If there had been a school at the place it would have been the making of her, for she had a quick mind, an' it was a great worry to the father that she couldn't be put to something fitting for a little lass; but he was near daft with the advising of one an' another. One's wife would be for having her sent to town to be put to a trade; another's wife was for having her sent to learn service with some great lord's housekeeper; an' there wasn't a man's wife of them all but had some plan to drive him crazy with, an' not one of them telling of a way that had a possibility in it, or that the girl took a liking to, for she'd fly out at all the ones that came advising. Not that she was a bad lass, if you took her fair, but wilful-like, an', maybe, too quick with her tongue when she took a turn; but that was more the father's fault, who had never taught her the right ways for a little lass."

Philip did not find the story as interesting yet as some of the more exciting ones his grandfather told sometimes, of the three or four years he had been at sea when he ran away from home; but he listened patiently for what was to come, glancing anxiously at his mother, who still knelt in front of the fire, with her head bent low on her breast and her hands clasped in front of her. Philip had never seen her cry before, but now, to his surprise, great tears gathered in her mournful eyes, and once he was sure he heard a stifled sob; but the story began to grow more interesting then, and in listening he forgot to watch her.

"Ay, she was a rare lassie!" pursued the old man; "an' when she was but just at her growth, an' not half come to her strength, she saved the lives of two of the best men in the mines."

"Oh, grandfather, how did she do that?" interrupted Philip.

"I can't be telling ye the whole of it, because one story inside of another spoils the both to the taste; but I'll give ye a notion of how it was," resumed the old man.

"There was a side shaft in those days to a vein that isn't worked now; an' being the nighest to some of their houses the men used to go up and down on it, though the superintendent was sayin' all he could against their using it, because there wasn't a very safe way of running it. There was a hand-windlass to the top to work the bucket, an' a snubbing-post near to give the rope a turn 'round so a man could hold it back.

"Well, the lass used to come every night to watch the men getting out of that shaft, 'cause she knew the foolish father of her would be coming up wearying to see if his bairn that had to be left alone the day through was all safe. So one night she stood watching the first load of night-men going down to the mine, knowing that when the bucket came up the father'd be in it; an' she watched the men's faces, going down into the dark, turning up to look at her, an' one of 'em throwing a joke at her for being like a boy bairn more than a lassie. Poor thing, with only a great rough father, an' no one to show her the ways of women folks, what shame was it of hers? When they went down from the sight of her, she turns to the man at the rope, an' what does she see? Just the rope paying itself out an' no one to hold it back, an' him grinding his chin into the earth in a fit. She looks quick to see if there is help coming, but never a man was in sight, an' the rope slipping away. Then she knew the danger they were in, for the old shaft went far deeper than the gallery the rope left them at, an' when the end of it ran out the bucket would drop down where the water had broken in long ago and forced them to give up the lower drift.

"She hadn't much time to spare when the loss of a minute would mean death to the men. So what does she do then, do you think, this lassie that had none of the soft ways of a girl bairn? Why, just gives the rope a turn around her waist, an' then braces her two feet against a stone an' pulls against the roller, an' waits for the jerk. An' there was the men down below not knowing but what Michael held the rope the same as ever, getting off the bucket all safe, an' the lassie's own father an' the other men climbing in an' giving the signal to be fetched up, not knowing that the heft of 'em was dragging on the body of the poor lass, who was past feeling then, for she had fainted into a dead swoon. That's the way the new men found her when they came to the shaft to take their turn at going down, an' her dragged up against the post an' held there by the weight of the bucket hanging, an' Michael lying by groaning an' gripping the ground still."

"Oh, grandfather! did it kill her?" gasped Phil.

"Better if it had--better if it had!" groaned Mag, raising her bent head, but not turning around.

Grandfather wiped his eyes and cleared his throat once or twice, as if he found the recollection of that time overwhelming; then, after two or three long whiffs at his pipe to keep it from quite going out, began again in a tremulous voice, which grew steadier as he went on.

"I can't say as 'twould 'a' been better for her if she had," said he, apparently heeding Mag's words more than Philip's question; "happen it might ha' saved her worse trouble, but it wasn't to be. She was mangled though, an' parson came over when he heard of it, bringing the town doctor with him, an' they found a deal of the ribs crushed and one shoulder put out of joint; an' the wives of the men she saved an' the mothers of them nursed and cared for her, an' there's not a man in the mine to this day, nor a woman belonging to him, that wouldn't stand up for her against the world, an' well they might. But the best is to come: the papers got the story of it, an' the greatest gentry in the land got to know of what the little lass did for the men; an' the Queen, God save her, sent her a gold medal. 'For the Saving of Human Life' was writ on to it, an' some great society sent her another in a velvet case.

"An' now, Maggie, woman," said he coaxingly to his daughter, "up and tell the lad who was the little lassie, an' let him hear no more about her."

"Nay," said the woman, rising and turning around with her eyes dry and glistening now, "it's all to be told; if ye cannot tell it, I must."

"Save us all, woman dear," said the old man, rising and patting his daughter soothingly on the arm; "don't get into such a wax. If the little lad must hear the whole story through, why then he must, an' who can tell it him better nor me? But there's no need for his hearing more."

"Yes, father, you can tell it if you will, but ye must tell it all, an' keep nothing back, or I shall have to tell it myself; for I am determined that my child shall know just what a wicked temper can bring one to, if it's let to go on and get the mastery."

As Mag said this she turned wearily to the little stand where her basket of clothes for mending stood, and seated herself by it, but not to sew. Pushing the candle and work away from her, she put her folded arms upon the table and dropped her head upon them, turning her face away from the others.

Philip had become much interested in the story of the heroic girl who had risked so much to save the miners, and he was anxious to hear more about her; but the old man seemed in no hurry to go on with the story. He knocked the ashes out of his pipe, refilled it, took an unnecessarily long time in lighting it, and made various delays, till at last an uneasy movement of his daughter made him start off on it at last.

"Well, this lass as I'm telling of," he began, turning to Phil, "this brave one that the whole of the men was willing to lay down their lives for, got all over her hurts and bruises, and was 'round on her feet again as well as ever. They was feared, they was, both doctor an' parson, that the spine of her back had gotten a bending that would never get out of it; but no fear for her--when she left her bed she was as straight as a Maypole, an' there couldn't have been a face more bonny than hers, an' it grew bonnier every day till it was more trouble than ever to me--to the father, I mean--to know a way to look after one that was like a young queen for beauty.

"She had no liking those times for going down into the mines, or, for that matter, for work of any kind. There was many an honest lad among the workmen that fair doated on the sight of her, but she had no care for one of them; an' her father was content to have it so, for he was proud of his handsome daughter, an' secretly he was believing in his heart that there was none quite good enough to be a husband for her.

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