At the Pit's Mouth.

Hastings Standard, Issue 160, 31 October 1896, Page 4

At the Pit's Mouth.

I " No. no ; I wur a fool to hope or think sic a tiling. Tin-re be anither luau tha lovest; a yoonger man, a betther man nor me. It be \\ ill Benson. Dunnot answer, lass, I know it. Well, fergi' me what ft' said, Goodbve, -Jessie, and God bless thee, lass, God bless thee ?" Thus Steven Armstrong, as he turned away from the cottage where Jessie MacUavitt lived—that cottage with the gay flowers around its porch that made the one bright patch of brightness in this dismal, dust begrimed country side, blackened everywhere by coal, saddened by the lives of men whom destiny had cast to delve and burrow beneath the fair earth that other men might grow rich. Isnt, .somehow, to-day Steve Armstrong could see no brightness in anything, lie had been a fool, and no mistake, this great, stalwart, broadshouldered miner ! rle was well past 40; hair becoming grey, and sparse on top —quite old to her. He had been a bachelor all these years. Me might have known it was sheer madness now to lavish all the wealth of his great manly heart on prettv, winsome Jessie. She did not want an old fogey like him. At first she seeim-d to hear his title with gentle tenderness and pity. .Bad, indeed, must be the woman whose heart remains untouched by the love of a true and honest man. Then a word or two she dropped almost unconsciously bad revealed the truth. Of course, Will P-enson was the man. He had been a blind fool not to have seen it long ago. \\ ill was 20 years younger than himself. On Sundays Will was quite a ma-her (the Americanism had grown into common use even here). W ill was just the lad to pleasr the girl's fancy. And so, having settled that matter in his own mind, Armstrong walked slowly and sadly away about his business. 11. Tt was Saturday night. P»ar and parlor of the Miners' Arms were crowded with men. Here the hard earned money tlew merrily; money which should"have gone to wife and w.-'ans at home -money which might have been as a tower of strength in fighting the battle- that labor and poverty always have to fi^ht. Will IJensoa was there in the midst of a noisy throng, reeking of be<>rs. spirits and rank tobacco. He had had a great deal too much to drink already. Suddenly some one laid hand upon his "arm. He turned tipsily, and encountered the serious, steadfast gaze of Steven Armstrong, who was not drunk, anil had only just entered the public house. " Dunnot tak' ony moo,"' the latter whispered, gently, but fimly. •• Who told thee to interfere, Maister Treacher ? " "No one. I ask thee not to fort" sake o' girl who loves thee." " Did :dic tell thee to coom pryin' afther me ? " '■ Tha knmvest better no that. I ask thee for her sake, and fits tha own good." ■' Hah ! I've been! yond' stuff fro' t' blue ribbon fowk afore now.', "A' be none o' them. I hold that a chap as canna' tak' a glass or two an' stop when he ha' gotten enough is na worthy o' bein' called a mon. 1 believe in total abstinence na moor nor I do in drunkards." " Then what t' devil be'est jawin' to me about?" the young man said liercely. " I ask thee not t' spend all t' neet here. Think o' her who's to be tha wife. These chaps do thee no good. They'll mak' thee spend tha brass, and when 'tis all gone they'll only laugh at thee." '• Show met' mon as 'll laugh at me ! Ye daren't! lt'> tha thyself as are doin' it. Come outside, then, and we'll see who's t' best mon!" '• I winna tight wi' thee—and certainly not now." Armstrong answered, slowly and with dignity ; it was not the retractation of a coward. Mis well meant remonstrances had proved worse than useless ; and from that time these two men felt each other to be rivals.

Horror and consternation arc spreading far and wide through the grimy Lancashire town. A terrible explosion has just been heard. They know only too well what that means ; and the poor women, both young and old, are rushing wild and terror stricken to the pit's mouth. ] >o\vn in the u workings " the excitement is at its height. Men are running to the bottom of the shaft, running for tin.ir lives ; for the noxious afterdamp is choking them and they know only too well that many of them are destined never to see the light of day again. The cage is going up and down again as quickly as may be, but it will only hold a limited number. They must patiently wait their turn, and that turn may mean life or death. '• There be room for one moor," the miners shout. " Come along, Steve Armstrong; it be tha turn." But he does not move. '•No." he answers; "I be old a' alone. Here's a young fellow as agotten a mitther; let 'an go instead this time." It was Will Benson who stood by his side. You, Armstrong! You mak' room for me ! " he exclaimed. ■• What dost suppose a'd do ? A' fieht fair—when a' want to tight." "•• You do this for ma sake ? " •■Not for thine, mon; for hers! Go ! " The words were few—there was no time for more—but they had a rough heroic dignity about them. Benson stepped into the cage without another word ; the signal was given, and they went up towards the light and air above. From those about the pit's mouth a ringing cheer arose as the cage reached

the surface. They knew that so many, at least, of their mates were safe, and some of tiie women went away with lu arts full of joy and thankfulness. The word went quickly round that Stove Armstrong had seat up Will Benson instead of himself. Pretty Jessie McPavit-t was there. When she heard the whisper she understood. A woman's instinct is much the same after all, whether she be a princess or only a rough miner's lass. Benson came towards her, but she seemed hardly to notice him. She was waiting for some one else. The cage was let down again. Some anxious minutes followed that seemed like hours. Once more it appeared with its load of men. Jessie pressed eagerly forward. Great heavens ! he whom she sought was not there ! Several voices asked after him—Jessie dared not trust herself to do so—and then came the appalling answer—- " Choke-damp ha' taken him, and bit wall fallen in ower him ! " Suddenly a woman's voice rang out —Jessie MacDavitt's : " Then ho be i' danger—dying — dead mayhap! He gave his life for one o' ye. Aren't ye men ? Are none o' ye goin' to save un'? Then I wuil! " She pressed forward toward the pit, but a dozen strong arms retained her, and one old fellow said : " Keep back, lass ! It'll be death to go down there for nigh an hour yet. This be 110 place for women fowk." She heeded not, and breaking away from them, entered the cage. Two or three men followed her, ashamed to think that a girl should be braver than they ; and down they went, from the light into the darkness ; down among the noxious, deadly gasses —down to the unknown ! A long, long time now elapsed, or so it seemed to the anxious watchers. Two or three cages full of miners came up, but they were not among them. (ireat heavens! was it possible that all had perished in the heroic attempt '? The news that Jessie had gone below reached her mother, and Mrs MaeDavitt — with her sleeves tucked up, fresh from the washtub. her cheeks pale as death, her eyes streaming rushed madly to the spot. Even at that moment the cage was coming up again. A deafening cheer rang out, loud and long, upon the aii. It was they—they at last, thank God ! But were they alive ? Two inanimate forms were lying down upon the black, dusty bank —the forms of Jessie MaeDavitt and Steve Armstrong. IV. Jessie MaeDavitt sat alone, at work, in the little front parlor of her mother's cottage. She was quite well again now, but her recovery from the eflects of her adventure in the mine had been slow and painful. There was a knock at the door. She called out: " Coom in!"' in sweet, cheery tones. It was Steven Armstrong who entered the apartment- She looked up, surprised, and colored up to her very brow as she rose to greet him. She bad not seen him since that fearful day ; perhaps this was the reason of her confusion. He did not wear his working, nor yet his " shiftin' " clothes, but was habited in a tweed suit and wide-a-wake. How brave and noble he looked, albeit a trifle pale just now. " Mr Armstrong," she said, " 1 am so glad to see you fettle again. I haven't seen you since—" " Not since then —no ; it wur churlish o' me not to coom an' thank thee —only—only there be nae thanks possible for sic things as that-. Oh, Jessie, why didst do it; why didst risk tha life ?" " Because you gave your chance o' life to him," she answered simply, but with an unsteady tremor in her voice. " Now I ha' come to bid thee goodbye," Armstrong said, like a man who has an unpleasant duty to perform and wants to get it over quickly. " A' be goin' away." " (join' away!'' she echoed. '' Wheer to ?" " Reet away—foriver. To America or Australy—A' hardly know where yet. A' be tired o' t' life here. But remember, if there be ivver onything I con do for thee, a' wull. Tha shalt know where I go to, and if tha should ivver want a friend or a helpin' hond, a'll come to thee if 'twere half across t' world ! If a han't said mooch, remember a' can nivver hope to pay ma' debt to thee!" "Oh, dunnot talk like that, please dunnot talk about it —I —-I hadn't an idea you wore thinkin* o' goin' away —it's—ye've took me so sudden like——l—dunnot know what to say." "Say, Jess, ma lass? Just say: ' Goodby, and God bless thee, Steve Armstrong,' or soom sic trords as a'll be able to tak' wi' me, an' cherish i' memory o' thee when a' be far away." " I'll say ' God bless thee, Steve Armstrong,' wi' all ma heart, but not ' goodby !' " Jessie said, in a voice that was even more unsteady with emotion than before. " Ah, dunnot it mun be. I say—tha would not torture me '?" " Wouldn't tha stay, Steve, if a were to ask ye ?" " There's naething I wouldna do that you bid me—excep' that—excep' that, why. a' be goin, away fro' thee ?" " Fro' me!" " Surely, a' needna tell thee all ower again. A' wish thee an' tha husband well wi all ma heart—but I canna stay." "Ye said just now ye'd do anything for me." Jessie answered clasping her hands, and the bright color mantled in her cheek hotter and redder than ever —such a coy, pretty blush ! They were hard words for a girl to speak, but she had made up her mind all at once, and felt impelled to go on. " Ye said ye nivver could hope to repay yer debt to me, Suppose I show yet" way? Stay here for ma sake, an'—dunnot ye understand ?—dunnot mak' me have to say ony moor " "What madness is this? And t" nion tha'rt plighted to " " We are na plighted'now. He be-

gone reefc away. Heven't ye heerd?" " No ; I hav na been mooch among t' chaps o' late." " It was a small thing that parted us ; something I asked un to give up forma sake —only t' drink. But he said no ; no wench should ivvcr mak' a milk sop o' him. Then a' cam' to compare ye both togither; he, who wouldn't even do that mooch; you, who would ha' given yer very life for ma sake. A' think t' were at t' pit mouth t' thought first cam to me. A' weighed both i' scales, and then a' knew which way ma heart had gone!" And that was where she nestled now her pretty head; to that brave heart which was to be her home forever more.—St. Paul's.