THE NOVELIST.

Mt Benger Mail, Volume I, Issue 50, 13 April 1881, Page 2

THE NOVELIST.

THE MINE BY THE SEA. Chaptee I. The little seaport town of Saintby is j built upon the shores of a natural harbor, formed by a break in the line of cliffs, which, with but few interrupt j tions, stretch along the north-western j coast of the county of Fellshire. The i white-washed houses perched in irre- j gular lines upon the steep hill-sides, atd long disused fort commanding the; bay, and the ships and fishing-smacks moored to the quays within the harbor, i give an air of picturesqueness and cheerfulness to the town which is hardly sustained by a neater view of the I narrow dingy streets, and an experi- j ence of the many mingled odours of the , quays and beach. Yet the little town J is prosperous in its way; a consider- J able trade is done in the export of coal and iron ore from the mines of the neighborhood; many boats are employed in the iishing trade; beside, Saintby is the market town whither the farmers of the surrounding districts every week bring the produce [of their farms for sale. Immediately to the south of Saintby the cliffs make a bold sweep in a westerly direction, and the headland thus formed, on which a lighthouse has been built, is always spoken of by the country people under the general name of * The Heads." Further on the cliffs recede again and soon come to an end, being succeeded by a long stretch of very fertile level country skirting the sea. The commencement of this plain is only about five miles in a direct line from Saintby, and this conGguration of the land has given rise to a legend among the people that the headland had once been an island, the sea then flowing over the site of the present Saintby, and through the deep valley which stretches behind the cliffs and ends in the level track ,of eouutippspoken of. Saintby is a quiet dull little town, yet it has sights and wonders of its own. Its coal mines, sunk close to the shore, their underground workings stretching for miles beneath the bottom of the sea, are, though the natives do not think so, its most remarkable feature. And of these, the Westray mine, which was situated on a strip of . land at the base of the sandstone cliff, and immediately overlooked the sea, | was, at the time of my story, one of the j largest and most productive. Mrs Benson kept the toll-bar at Baby, a little hamlet lying on the main road from Saintby to Ravington, the nearest market town to the south. I; say Mrs Benson kept it, although her > husband's name was painted above the i door, but he was now, after an ad- j venturous life as a sailor in the old ; fighting days of the navy, a crippled bedridden old man, and all the work of i collecting the tolls, keeping the house ! bright and clean, and cultivating the little patch of garden belonging to it, was performed by Mrs Benson and her daughter Agnes, a handsome freshfeatured girl of eighteen. . Raby was about two miles from Saintby, and lay on the inward slope of the lime cliffs. To anyone who chose to climb from the seashore up the desolate face of those precipitious cliffs, on mounting to the summit a strangely different scene presented itself to his eyes. The hill-sides, both that on which he stood and that facing him, and separated by the narrow valley at his feet, were covered with clustering trees and rich meadow land, and completely sheltered by the rocky barrier from all rough winds and the blistering touch of the sea foam that in the wild winter storms was often flung high up the slopes of the seaward side. "Mother, here's George again!" said Agnes, one autumn evening, as she was ironing her mother's caps on a broad table beneath the cottage window, just at the moment when the shadow of a visitor on his way to the door fell over her work. " Come thi ways in, George—come thi ways in !" cried, in a cheery but not very musical voice, the old womau, who was occupied in bending over the tire in preparation of oat-cakes for the family

1 supper. She did not turn to him im- , mediately, evidently being on too j familiar terms with him for ceremony. The door opened, and with slow ' slightly halting step the visitor came ! forward. He was a tall man, but stoopj ed a good deal, leaning on a stick that j he always carrie'd with him ; this, with the perceptible drag of his left foot in J walking, being the result of a terrible : accident in the Westray mine, in which | he, together with many others, had sufj fered. But it was also to this accident ' that his friendship with the Bensons j was owing. Abdut five years before, young Tom Benson, Agues's brother, | when working in the mine, was crushed ! to death by the fall of a huge mass of i coal, and in the attempt to rescue his friend George Heimers—for that was ; his name—had also been struck, and • suffered injuries from which he had j never quite recovered. Ever since her j Tom's death Mrs Benson had welcomed Heimers to the cottage, and of late he had got into the habit of coming there very frequently, under the pretext of giving Agnes writing lessous. His face was pale and thin, with no special regularity or beauty in his features, but still with something characteristic in it—a look of cleverness and power, with a curious earnestness of manner that made oue soon forget the rough hewn lines on his face. He came forward into the kitchen. " Well, mother !"—for ever since her son's death he called her by this name —"you look finely to-day. And so does Agnes. How's the old man ?" " Badly, George, badly enough ; them rheumatics plague him terrible. But, hist, he hears every word int' next room. Hast had thi supper V " Nay, I want no supper; thank you all the same," he answered, and turned toward Agnes. u I came to ask if Agnes would have her lesson to-night, or would come a walk on t' cliff. It's so bonny fine with sun setting over t' sea, Agnes!" j, V dresser, as the long table was called, at which Agnes was still continuing her ironing operations. " Ay, George, tak her out—tak her out a bit," said the old woman. " She's been that queer o' late I canna mak out what's come to her. Why, what dost think ? She gave sixpenny change for a fourpenny bit at tow-bar this morning j and what wi' breakiug things and forgetting what a body says she makes me clean daft sometimes. ; Thee tak her in the fresh air, and see if thou can brighten her up a bit." " Nay, mother, there's this ironing to finish." The girl looked round with a deep blush upon her face and a supplicating j look toward her mother, but the old ! woman would not heed this, and Agnes i had to get her bonnet and shawl —for I the autumn evenings were now rather ; chilly—and accompany George in a stroll on the cliffs. "You mustn't quite believe all 1 mother says about me," she began in a low voice, as they sauntered together up the lawn, sheltered by tall hedges rich with autumn flowers on the hillside. " But, George, I don't know how it is," she added, turning with quick impulsive gesture to him; " you're patient and kind, and mother —well, she's impatient and kind, and other people, they're just about the same as they always were ; but things don't seem to fit in now as they used to—they don't always in this world, do they, George?" " Why, what do you know about all that V cried George, in honest amazement ; and then he came nearer to her with an instinctive impulse of help, though as he did this she slightly drew away from him. " Men's troubles and women's are not always alike," he went on, with a softened voice j " but when things go wrong with me Agnes, I've got a bit of philosophy for them ; keep on and worry them till tbey come right again—make them come right. One can only do one's best you know. There's a deal o' things wrong with me just now at the pit and other places beside; hut I know this—l'll have a fight before I give in. There's the master wants money badly for his son, who's in the army, and I tell him he's working tho coal far too near the sea—-

that's one thing. And sometimes wheQ I'm down spirited, I think I'll give it up and go to places where men don't work in holes in the dark, and where there's such beautiful things as a collier like me can only dream of sometimes. Still, I'll stick to it and fight it out. But, Agnes, what troubles thee ? Can I help?" "I'm strong enough for two, lass, and thou know'st I'll doit if I can."

" Nay, George, it's only silly fancies of mine, that's f>II," she said, bending over some flowers by the wayside, and so contriving to hide her tears, " Things are gone a bib awry, but perhaps they'll come straight seme time." They had now reached the edge of the cliff, aud were leading upon the grassy hedge that had' been placed there to prevent the cattle falling over. The sun was setting behind the western sea, with all the broad crimson glories of illumineu clouds and glittering expanse of waters. Agnes had taken off her bonnet and laid it beside her. Splendidly beautiful 3he looked as she stood there, her long wavy hair of softest golden, exquisitely moulded features, and complexion bright and rosy with the hues of country life. Her girlish figure and innocent child-like ways almost eutirely concealed a strength of will and latent passion of which none but Heimers had as yet a suspicion. He.stood by her side, while his eyes wandered over that scene—the tranquil flashiug waters stretched out before them, the glories of cloudland around and above, and the long range of scarped cliffs rising above the sea line to right and left. And then they were fixed upon her face, lit up also with that ethereal brightness from the west, and softly and slowly he spoke again : "Agnes, I've made up my mind to spea-k it out, come what may ! I'm going to tell a bit o' my troubles that p'raps thee never guessed at. It's only ten years since I came here, and before that—well never mind, it's all ower and louc for umv, Tliiags had becpi • different with me before. I spoke different, lived different from what I do now. All at once I found myself ruined, with my name blackened for ever, and I chose men should think me dead. I went to the pit and worked there. Tom, thy brother, was the first that showed me any kindness, then thy mother, and then —Agnes, there was a bit of kindness in thy voice and ways, and I began to hope a little. And I came o' nights to the toll-bar, and the more I came the more I hoped and longed for thee. And now it's out. Agnes, canst thou care a bit for a rough feliow like I am ?"

" Oh, George! I never thought- -of that," she fill tiered out. "Never thought!" said he, laying hold of her hand with passionate grasp. " Never thought, when I used to guide these little fingers o' winter nights in our schooliug, how I longed to seize them and tell thee all, or that when we wandered about on these cliffs and talke.l o' all strange things in the big world, I was anything more than the stern old school-master 1 Well, I was a fool. Curse it all !" and he stamped with sudden rage and impatience. Her head was bent low, and the tears were fast falling again. " Agnes, dear, look up," he went on, with a sudden change in his voice ; " I see it's no use ; I was a fool to think any woman could care for me again. "Well, never mind. I won't trouble you in this way any more. But, oh, if you could only love me, child!" he broke out with another burst of passion. " I would make you so happy—happier far than any of the poor fools about here could do."

" Oh, George, didn't I say it was all a mistake the way things go V she said, looking appealingly into his face. " You were so good, George, I never thought of that, and then—there was another, and he used to court me, though neither you nor mother knew; and I love him, oh, George, so much ! But I don't know how it is, things have gone wrong, and I don't know whether he cares for me now, and I'm so wretched !"

Heimers was4oo generous to ask the name. Still, he thought he might watch over and help her, and there was no knowing but she might learn to love

\ him at last. So, with some hope yet I left, lie talked of other matters, the fair at Saxby, the new steamer anchored in Saintby harbour, and so on, till it was time to return to the cottage. He would not go in that night, but wandered instead for many hours by the sea shore with the gently murmuring waves and the countless gleaming stars for company. Then he returned to the mine in which he was overlooking, and did not leave it till again the sun was setting on the following day. A week went past, when one night George, weary and disheartened (for things were going on very badly in the mine), strolled along the beach, till he came to some seaweed-covered rocks. Lying down and resting his head upon his hand, he remained there motionless for a long time with his eyes fixed upon the waves that in restless mood were beating upon the rocks before him. It was about 9 o'clock, and the night was now very dark. All at once he heard footsteps approachiug by the narrow path which wound along the side of the cliff at a little distance above his head. He looked up ,though the darkness was too great to see anyone, but at he same time heard voices, and evidently the speakers had stopped just above where he was lyiug. At the same instant he recoguised their voices. They were Agnes Benson and her cousin Jim Massey, a good-looking, hard-working fellow, ignorant and thoughtless, and too fond of spending his money in pub-lic-houses, with no ambitiou to be anything higher in life than a working collier, but with no worse faults that Heimers knew of. It was bitter torture for him to listen but he could not move from where he was without being discovered, and he did not wish that. The lovers' quarrel had evidently been made up ; their talk was half banter aud half in earnest of a happy future in which none but themselves/ should have a part, t and George detected in the soft tones of Agnes' voice a joyous ring that he had not before heard in it. Then came the sound of kisses interchanged, and still George had to listen. Then they passed away up the hillside, in the direction of Agnes's home.

George Heiniers stood erect, his back against the cliff. All was still, save for the long melancholy cry of a sea gull that chanced to fly past him, and the hoarse sound of the waves beating at his feet with the grating rattle of the pebbles as each spent wave drew back from the shore. The thick darkness was about him and within his soul. Terrible to him was the clamour of those waves as they rushed up the beach, and then retiring dragged with them their prey from the shore. The sound was in his ears like the dirge of his hopes overthrown, his life drawn downward, downward, by the waves of pitiless fate to the depths of that ocean of despair that never more gives up its dead.

(Tobe continued.)