ON GREENHOW HILL
To Love's low voice she lent a careless ear; Her hand within his rosy fingers lay, A chilling weight. She would not turn or hear; But with averted face went on her way. But when pale Death, all featureless and grim, Lifted his bony hand, and beckoning Held out his cypress-wreath, she followed him, And Love was left forlorn and wondering, That she who for his bidding would not stay, At Death's first whisper rose and went away. RIVALS.
'Ohe, Ahmed Din! Shafiz Ullah ahoo! Bahadur Khan, where are you? Comeout of the tents, as I have done, and fight against the English. Don'tkill your own kin! Come out to me!'
The deserter from a native corps was crawling round the outskirts of thecamp, firing at intervals, and shouting invitations to his old comrades.Misled by the rain and the darkness, he came to the English wing of thecamp, and with his yelping and rifle-practice disturbed the men. Theyhad been making roads all day, and were tired.
Ortheris was sleeping at Learoyd's feet. 'Wot's all that?' he saidthickly. Learoyd snored, and a Snider bullet ripped its way throughthe tent wall. The men swore. 'It's that bloomin' deserter from theAurangabadis,' said Ortheris. 'Git up, some one, an' tell 'im 'e's cometo the wrong shop.'
'Go to sleep, little man,' said Mulvaney, who was steaming nearest thedoor. 'I can't arise an' expaytiate with him. 'Tis rainin' entrenchin'tools outside.'
''Tain't because you bloomin' can't. It's 'cause you bloomin' won't, yelong, limp, lousy, lazy beggar, you. 'Ark to'im 'owlin'!'
'Wot's the good of argifying? Put a bullet into the swine! 'E's keepin'us awake!' said another voice.
A subaltern shouted angrily, and a dripping sentry whined from thedarkness--
''Tain't no good, sir. I can't see 'im. 'E's 'idin' somewhere down'ill.'
Ortheris tumbled out of his blanket. 'Shall I try to get 'im, sir?' saidhe.
'No,' was the answer. 'Lie down. I won't have the whole camp shootingall round the clock. Tell him to go and pot his friends.'
Ortheris considered for a moment. Then, putting his head under thetent wall, he called, as a 'bus conductor calls in a block, ''Igher up,there! 'Igher up!'
The men laughed, and the laughter was carried down wind to the deserter,who, hearing that he had made a mistake, went off to worry his ownregiment half a mile away. He was received with shots; the Aurangabadiswere very angry with him for disgracing their colours.
'An' that's all right,' said Ortheris, withdrawing his head as he heardthe hiccough of the Sniders in the distance. 'S'elp me Gawd, tho', thatman's not fit to live--messin' with my beauty-sleep this way.'
'Go out and shoot him in the morning, then,' said the subalternincautiously. 'Silence in the tents now. Get your rest, men.'
Ortheris lay down with a happy little sigh, and in two minutes therewas no sound except the rain on the canvas and the all-embracing andelemental snoring of Learoyd.
The camp lay on a bare ridge of the Himalayas, and for a week had beenwaiting for a flying column to make connection. The nightly rounds ofthe deserter and his friends had become a nuisance.
In the morning the men dried themselves in hot sunshine and cleanedtheir grimy accoutrements. The native regiment was to take its turn ofroad-making that day while the Old Regiment loafed.
'I'm goin' to lay for a shot at that man,' said Ortheris, when he hadfinished washing out his rifle. ''E comes up the watercourse everyevenin' about five o'clock. If we go and lie out on the north 'ill a bitthis afternoon we'll get 'im.'
'You're a bloodthirsty little mosquito,' said Mulvaney, blowing blueclouds into the air. 'But I suppose I will have to come wid you.Fwhere's Jock?'
'Gone out with the Mixed Pickles, 'cause 'e thinks 'isself a bloomin'marksman,' said Ortheris with scorn.
The 'Mixed Pickles' were a detachment of picked shots, generallyemployed in clearing spurs of hills when the enemy were too impertinent.This taught the young officers how to handle men, and did not do theenemy much harm. Mulvaney and Ortheris strolled out of camp, and passedthe Aurangabadis going to their road-making.
'You've got to sweat to-day,' said Ortheris genially. 'We're going toget your man. You didn't knock 'im out last night by any chance, any ofyou?'
'No. The pig went away mocking us. I had one shot at him,' said aprivate. 'He's my cousin, and _I_ ought to have cleared our dishonour.But good luck to you.'
They went cautiously to the north hill, Ortheris leading, because, as heexplained,'this is a long-range show, an' I've got to do it.' His was analmost passionate devotion to his rifle, which, by barrack-room report,he was supposed to kiss every night before turning in. Charges andscuffles he held in contempt, and, when they were inevitable, slippedbetween Mulvaney and Learoyd, bidding them to fight for his skin as wellas their own. They never failed him. He trotted along, questing like ahound on a broken trail, through the wood of the north hill. At lasthe was satisfied, and threw himself down on the soft pine-needledslope that commanded a clear view of the watercourse and a brown, barehillside beyond it. The trees made a scented darkness in which an armycorps could have hidden from the sun-glare without.
''Ere's the tail o' the wood,' said Ortheris. ''E's got to come up thewatercourse, 'cause it gives 'im cover. We'll lay 'ere. 'Tain't not arfso bloomin' dusty neither.'
He buried his nose in a clump of scentless white violets. No one hadcome to tell the flowers that the season of their strength was longpast, and they had bloomed merrily in the twilight of the pines.
'This is something like,' he said luxuriously. 'Wot a 'evinly clear dropfor a bullet acrost! How much d'you make it, Mulvaney?'
'Seven hunder. Maybe a trifle less, bekaze the air's so thin.'
WOP! WOP! WOP! went a volley of musketry on the rear face of the northhill.
'Curse them Mixed Pickles firin' at nothin'! They'll scare arf thecountry.'
'Thry a sightin' shot in the middle of the row,' said Mulvaney, the manof many wiles. 'There's a red rock yonder he'll be sure to pass. Quick!'
Ortheris ran his sight up to six hundred yards and fired. The bulletthrew up a feather of dust by a clump of gentians at the base of therock.
'Good enough!' said Ortheris, snapping the scale down. 'You snickyour sights to mine or a little lower. You're always firin' high. Butremember, first shot to me. O Lordy! but it's a lovely afternoon.'
The noise of the firing grew louder, and there was a tramping of men inthe wood. The two lay very quiet, for they knew that the British soldieris desperately prone to fire at anything that moves or calls. ThenLearoyd appeared, his tunic ripped across the breast by a bullet,looking ashamed of himself. He flung down on the pine-needles, breathingin snorts.
'One o' them damned gardeners o' th' Pickles,' said he, fingering therent. 'Firin' to th' right flank, when he knowed I was there. If I knewwho he was I'd 'a' rippen the hide offan him. Look at ma tunic!'
'That's the spishil trustability av a marksman. Train him to hit a flywid a stiddy rest at seven hunder, an' he loose on anythin' he sees orhears up to th' mile. You're well out av that fancy-firin' gang, Jock.Stay here.'
'Bin firin' at the bloomin' wind in the bloomin' tree-tops,' saidOrtheris with a chuckle. 'I'll show you some firin' later on.'
They wallowed in the pine-needles, and the sun warmed them where theylay. The Mixed Pickles ceased firing, and returned to camp, and left thewood to a few scared apes. The watercourse lifted up its voice in thesilence, and talked foolishly to the rocks. Now and again the dull thumpof a blasting charge three miles away told that the Aurangabadis were indifficulties with their road-making. The men smiled as they listened andlay still, soaking in the warm leisure. Presently Learoyd, between thewhiffs of his pipe--
'Seems queer--about 'im yonder--desertin' at all.'
''E'll be a bloomin' side queerer when I've done with 'im,' saidOrtheris. They were talking in whispers, for the stillness of the woodand the desire of slaughter lay heavy upon them.
'I make no doubt he had his reasons for desertin'; but, my faith!
I makeless doubt ivry man has good reason for killin' him,' said Mulvaney.
'Happen there was a lass tewed up wi' it. Men do more than more for th'sake of a lass.'
'They make most av us 'list. They've no manner av right to make usdesert.'
'Ah; they make us 'list, or their fathers do,' said Learoyd softly,his helmet over his eyes. Ortheris's brows contracted savagely. He waswatching the valley. 'If it's a girl I'll shoot the beggar twice over,an' second time for bein' a fool. You're blasted sentimental all of asudden. Thinkin' o' your last near shave?'
'Nay, lad; ah was but thinkin' o' what had happened.'
'An' fwhat has happened, ye lumberin' child av calamity, that you'relowing like a cow-calf at the back av the pasture, an' suggestin'invidious excuses for the man Stanley's goin' to kill. Ye'll have towait another hour yet, little man. Spit it out, Jock, an' bellow melojusto the moon. It takes an earthquake or a bullet graze to fetch aught outav you. Discourse, Don Juan! The a-moors av Lotharius Learoyd! Stanley,kape a rowlin' rig'mental eye on the valley.'
'It's along o' yon hill there,' said Learoyd, watching the baresub-Himalayan spur that reminded him of his Yorkshire moors. He wasspeaking more to himself than his fellows. 'Ay,' said he, 'Rumbolds Moorstands up ower Skipton town, an' Greenhow Hill stands up ower PatelyBrig. I reckon you've never heeard tell o' Greenhow Hill, but you bito' bare stuff if there was nobbut a white road windin' is like ut;strangely like. Moors an' moors an' moors, wi' never a tree for shelter,an' gray houses wi' flagstone rooves, and pewits cryin', an' a windhovergoin' to and fro just like these kites. And cold! A wind that cuts youlike a knife. You could tell Greenhow Hill folk by the red-applecolour o' their cheeks an' nose tips, and their blue eyes, driveninto pinpoints by the wind. Miners mostly, burrowin' for lead i' th'hillsides, followin' the trail of th' ore vein same as a field-rat. Itwas the roughest minin' I ever seen. Yo'd come on a bit o' creakin' woodwindlass like a well-head, an' you was let down i' th' bight of a rope,fendin' yoursen off the side wi' one hand, carryin' a candle stuck ina lump o' clay with t'other, an' clickin' hold of a rope with t'otherhand.'
'An' that's three of them,' said Mulvaney. 'Must be a good climate inthose parts.'
Learoyd took no heed.
'An' then yo' came to a level, where you crept on your hands and kneesthrough a mile o' windin' drift, an' you come out into a cave-place asbig as Leeds Townhall, with a engine pumpin' water from workin's 'atwent deeper still. It's a queer country, let alone minin', for the hillis full of those natural caves, an' the rivers an' the becks drops intowhat they call pot-holes, an' come out again miles away.'
'Wot was you doin' there?' said Ortheris.
'I was a young chap then, an' mostly went wi' 'osses, leadin' coal andlead ore; but at th' time I'm tellin' on I was drivin' the waggon-teami' th' big sumph. I didn't belong to that country-side by rights. I wentthere because of a little difference at home, an' at fust I took up wi'a rough lot. One night we'd been drinkin', an' I must ha' hed more thanI could stand, or happen th' ale was none so good. Though i' them days,By for God, I never seed bad ale.' He flung his arms over his head, andgripped a vast handful of white violets. 'Nah,' said he, 'I never seedthe ale I could not drink, the bacca I could not smoke, nor the lass Icould not kiss. Well, we mun have a race home, the lot on us. I lostall th' others, an' when I was climbin' ower one of them walls built o'loose stones, I comes down into the ditch, stones and all, an' broke myarm. Not as I knawed much about it, for I fell on th' back of my head,an' was knocked stupid like. An' when I come to mysen it were mornin',an' I were lyin' on the settle i' Jesse Roantree's houseplace, an' 'LizaRoantree was settin' sewin', I ached all ovver, and my mouth were likea lime-kiln. She gave me a drink out of a china mug wi' gold letters--"APresent from Leeds"--as I looked at many and many a time at after."Yo're to lie still while Dr. Warbottom comes, because your arm'sbroken, and father has sent a lad to fetch him. He found yo' when he wasgoin' to work, an' carried you here on his back," sez she. "Oa!" sez I;an' I shet my eyes, for I felt ashamed o' mysen. "Father's gone to hiswork these three hours, an' he said he'd tell 'em to get somebody todrive the tram." The clock ticked, an' a bee comed in the house, an'they rung i' my head like mill-wheels. An' she give me another drinkan' settled the pillow. "Eh, but yo're young to be getten drunk an' suchlike, but yo' won't do it again, will yo'?"--"Noa," sez I, "I wouldn'tif she'd not but stop they mill-wheels clatterin'."'
'Faith, it's a good thing to be nursed by a woman when you're sick!'said Mulvaney. 'Dir' cheap at the price av twenty broken heads.'
Ortheris turned to frown across the valley. He had not been nursed bymany women in his life.
'An' then Dr. Warbottom comes ridin' up, an' Jesse Roantree along with'im. He was a high-larned doctor, but he talked wi' poor folk same astheirsens. "What's ta big agaate on naa?" he sings out. "Brekkin' thathick head?" An' he felt me all ovver. "That's none broken. Tha' nobbutknocked a bit sillier than ordinary, an' that's daaft eneaf." An' soa hewent on, callin' me all the names he could think on, but settin' my arm,wi' Jesse's help, as careful as could be. "Yo' mun let the big oaf bidehere a bit, Jesse," he says, when he hed strapped me up an' given me adose o' physic; "an' you an' Liza will tend him, though he's scarcelinsworth the trouble. An' tha'll lose tha work," sez he, "an' tha'll beupon th' Sick Club for a couple o' months an' more. Doesn't tha thinktha's a fool?"'
'But whin was a young man, high or low, the other av a fool, I'd liketo know?' said Mulvaney. 'Sure, folly's the only safe way to wisdom, forI've thried it.'
'Wisdom!' grinned Ortheris, scanning his comrades with uplifted chin.'You're bloomin' Solomons, you two, ain't you?'
Learoyd went calmly on, with a steady eye like an ox chewing the cud.
'And that was how I come to know 'Liza Roantree. There's some tunes asshe used to sing--aw, she were always singin'--that fetches GreenhowHill before my eyes as fair as yon brow across there. And she wouldlearn me to sing bass, an' I was to go to th' chapel wi' 'em whereJesse and she led the singin', th' old man playin' the fiddle. He was astrange chap, old Jesse, fair mad wi' music, an' he made me promise tolearn the big fiddle when my arm was better. It belonged to him, andit stood up in a big case alongside o' th' eight-day clock, butWillie Satterthwaite, as played it in the chapel, had getten deaf as adoor-post, and it vexed Jesse, as he had to rap him ower his head wi'th' fiddle-stick to make him give ower sawin' at th' right time.
'But there was a black drop in it all, an' it was a man in a black coatthat brought it. When th' Primitive Methodist preacher came to Greenhow,he would always stop wi' Jesse Roantree, an' he laid hold of me from th'beginning. It seemed I wor a soul to be saved, and he meaned to do it.At th' same time I jealoused 'at he were keen o' savin' 'Liza Roantree'ssoul as well, and I could ha' killed him many a time. An' this went ontill one day I broke out, an' borrowed th' brass for a drink from 'Liza.After fower days I come back, wi' my tail between my legs, just to see'Liza again. But Jesse were at home an' th' preacher--th' Reverend AmosBarraclough. 'Liza said naught, but a bit o' red come into her face aswere white of a regular thing. Says Jesse, tryin' his best to be civil,"Nay, lad, it's like this. You've getten to choose which way it'sgoin' to be. I'll ha' nobody across ma doorstep as goes a-drinkin',an' borrows my lass's money to spend i' their drink. Ho'd tha tongue,'Liza," sez he, when she wanted to put in a word 'at I were welcome toth' brass, and she were none afraid that I wouldn't pay it back. Thenthe Reverend cuts in, seein' as Jesse were losin' his temper, an' theyfair beat me among them. But it were 'Liza, as looked an' said naught,as did more than either o' their tongues, an' soa I concluded to getconverted.'
'Fwhat?' shouted Mulvaney. Then, checking himself, he said softly, 'Letbe! Let be! Sure the Blessed Virgin is the mother of all religion an'most women; an' there's a dale av piety in a girl if the men wouldonly let ut stay there. I'd ha' been converted myself under thecircumstances.'
'Nay, but,' pursued Learoyd with a blush, 'I meaned it.'
Ortheris laughed as loudly as he dared, having r
egard to his business atthe time.
'Ay, Ortheris, you may laugh, but you didn't know yon preacherBarraclough--a little white-faced chap, wi' a voice as 'ud wile a birdoff an a bush, and a way o' layin' hold of folks as made them thinkthey'd never had a live man for a friend before. You never saw him,an'--an'--you never seed 'Liza Roantree--never seed 'Liza Roantree....Happen it was as much 'Liza as th' preacher and her father, but anywaysthey all meaned it, an' I was fair shamed o' mysen, an' so I become whatthey call a changed character. And when I think on, it's hard to believeas yon chap going to prayer-meetin's, chapel, and class-meetin's wereme. But I never had naught to say for mysen, though there was a deal o'shoutin', and old Sammy Strother, as were almost clemmed to death anddoubled up with the rheumatics, would sing out, "Joyful! Joyful!" and'at it were better to go up to heaven in a coal-basket than down to helli' a coach an' six. And he would put his poor old claw on my shoulder,sayin', "Doesn't tha feel it, tha great lump? Doesn't tha feel it?" An'sometimes I thought I did, and then again I thought I didn't, an' howwas that?'
'The iverlastin' nature av mankind,' said Mulvaney. 'An', furthermore,I misdoubt you were built for the Primitive Methodians. They're a newcorps anyways. I hold by the Ould Church, for she's the mother of themall--ay, an' the father, too. I like her bekaze she's most remarkableregimental in her fittings. I may die in Honolulu, Nova Zambra, or CapeCayenne, but wherever I die, me bein' fwhat I am, an' a priest handy, Igo under the same orders an' the same words an' the same unction as tho'the Pope himself come down from the roof av St. Peter's to see meoff. There's neither high nor low, nor broad nor deep, nor betwixt norbetween wid her, an' that's what I like. But mark you, she's no mannerav Church for a wake man, bekaze she takes the body and the soul av him,onless he has his proper work to do. I remember when my father died thatwas three months comin' to his grave; begad he'd ha' sold the shebeenabove our heads for ten minutes' quittance of purgathory. An' he did allhe could. That's why I say ut takes a strong man to deal with the OuldChurch, an' for that reason you'll find so many women go there. An' thatsame's a conundrum.'
'Wot's the use o' worritin' 'bout these things?' said Ortheris. 'You'rebound to find all out quicker nor you want to, any'ow.' He jerked thecartridge out of the breech-block into the palm of his hand. ''Ere's mychaplain,' he said, and made the venomous black-headed bullet bow likea marionette. ''E's goin' to teach a man all about which is which, an'wot's true, after all, before sundown. But wot 'appened after that,Jock?'
'There was one thing they boggled at, and almost shut th' gate i' myface for, and that were my dog Blast, th' only one saved out o' a littero' pups as was blowed up when a keg o' minin' powder loosed off in th'store-keeper's hut. They liked his name no better than his business,which were fightin' every dog he comed across; a rare good dog, wi'spots o' black and pink on his face, one ear gone, and lame o' one sidewi' being driven in a basket through an iron roof, a matter of half amile.
'They said I mun give him up 'cause he were worldly and low; and wouldI let mysen be shut out of heaven for the sake on a dog? "Nay," says I,"if th' door isn't wide enough for th' pair on us, we'll stop outside,for we'll none be parted." And th' preacher spoke up for Blast, as had alikin' for him from th' first--I reckon that was why I come to like th'preacher--and wouldn't hear o' changin' his name to Bless, as some o'them wanted. So th' pair on us became reg'lar chapel-members. But it'shard for a young chap o' my build to cut traces from the world, th'flesh, an' the devil all uv a heap. Yet I stuck to it for a long time,while th' lads as used to stand about th' town-end an' lean ower th'bridge, spittin' into th' beck o' a Sunday, would call after me,"Sitha, Learoyd, when's ta bean to preach, 'cause we're comin' to heartha."--"Ho'd tha jaw. He hasn't getten th' white choaker on ta morn,"another lad would say, and I had to double my fists hard i' th' bottomof my Sunday coat, and say to mysen, "If 'twere Monday and I warn't amember o' the Primitive Methodists, I'd leather all th' lot of yond'."That was th' hardest of all--to know that I could fight and I mustn'tfight.'
Sympathetic grunts from Mulvaney.
'So what wi' singin', practising and class-meetin's, and th' big fiddle,as he made me take between my knees, I spent a deal o' time i' JesseRoantree's house-place. But often as I was there, th' preacher fared tome to go oftener, and both th' old man an' th' young woman were pleasedto have him. He lived i' Pately Brig, as were a goodish step off, but hecome. He come all the same. I liked him as well or better as any man I'dever seen i' one way, and yet I hated him wi' all my heart i' t'other,and we watched each other like cat and mouse, but civil as you please,for I was on my best behaviour, and he was that fair and open that I wasbound to be fair with him. Rare good company he was, if I hadn't wantedto wring his cliver little neck half of the time. Often and often whenhe was goin' from Jesse's I'd set him a bit on the road.'
'See 'im 'ome, you mean?' said Ortheris.
'Ay. It's a way we have i' Yorkshire o' seein' friends off. You was afriend as I didn't want to come back, and he didn't want me to come backneither, and so we'd walk together towards Pately, and then he'd setme back again, and there we'd be wal two o'clock i' the mornin' settin'each other to an' fro like a blasted pair o' pendulums twixt hill andvalley, long after th' light had gone out i' 'Liza's window, as both onus had been looking at, pretending to watch the moon.'
'Ah!' broke in Mulvaney, 'ye'd no chanst against the maraudin'psalm-singer. They'll take the airs an' the graces instid av theman nine times out av ten, an' they only find the blunder later--thewimmen.'
'That's just where yo're wrong,' said Learoyd, reddening under thefreckled tan of his cheeks. 'I was th' first wi' 'Liza, an' yo'd thinkthat were enough. But th' parson were a steady-gaited sort o' chap, andJesse were strong o' his side, and all th' women i' the congregationdinned it to 'Liza 'at she were fair fond to take up wi' a wastrelne'er-do-weel like me, as was scarcelins respectable an' a fightingdog at his heels. It was all very well for her to be doing me good andsaving my soul, but she must mind as she didn't do herself harm. Theytalk o' rich folk bein' stuck up an' genteel, but for cast-iron pride o'respectability there's naught like poor chapel folk. It's as cold as th'wind o' Greenhow Hill--ay, and colder, for 'twill never change. Andnow I come to think on it, one at strangest things I know is 'at theycouldn't abide th' thought o' soldiering. There's a vast o' fightin'i' th' Bible, and there's a deal of Methodists i' th' army; but to hearchapel folk talk yo'd think that soldierin' were next door, an' t'otherside, to hangin'. I' their meetin's all their talk is o' fightin'. WhenSammy Strother were stuck for summat to say in his prayers, he'd singout, "Th' sword o' th' Lord and o' Gideon." They were allus at it aboutputtin' on th' whole armour o' righteousness, an' fightin' the goodfight o' faith. And then, atop o' 't all, they held a prayer-meetin'ower a young chap as wanted to 'list, and nearly deafened him, tillhe picked up his hat and fair ran away. And they'd tell tales inth' Sunday-school o' bad lads as had been thumped and brayed forbird-nesting o' Sundays and playin' truant o' week-days, and how theytook to wrestlin', dog-fightin', rabbit-runnin', and drinkin', till atlast, as if 'twere a hepitaph on a gravestone, they damned him acrossth' moors wi', "an' then he went and 'listed for a soldier," an' they'dall fetch a deep breath, and throw up their eyes like a hen drinkin'.'
'Fwhy is ut?' said Mulvaney, bringing down his hand on his thigh with acrack.' In the name av God, fwhy is ut? I've seen ut, tu. They cheat an'they swindle an' they lie an' they slander, an' fifty things fifty timesworse; but the last an' the worst by their reckonin' is to serve theWiddy honest. It's like the talk av childher--seein' things all round.'
'Plucky lot of fightin' good fights of whatsername they'd do if wedidn't see they had a quiet place to fight in. And such fightin' astheirs is! Cats on the tiles. T'other callin' to which to come on. I'dgive a month's pay to get some o' them broad-backed beggars in Londonsweatin' through a day's road-makin' an' a night's rain. They'd carry ona deal afterwards--same as we're supposed to carry on. I've bin turnedout of a measly arf-license pub down Lambeth way, full o' grea
sy kebmen,'fore now,' said Ortheris with an oath.
'Maybe you were dhrunk,' said Mulvaney soothingly.
'Worse nor that. The Forders were drunk. _I_ was wearin' the Queen'suniform.'
'I'd no particular thought to be a soldier i' them days,' said Learoyd,still keeping his eye on the bare hill opposite, 'but this sort o' talkput it i' my head. They was so good, th' chapel folk, that they tumbledower t'other side. But I stuck to it for 'Liza's sake, specially asshe was learning me to sing the bass part in a horotorio as Jesse weregettin' up. She sung like a throstle hersen, and we had practisin'snight after night for a matter of three months.'
'I know what a horotorio is,' said Ortheris pertly. 'It's a sort ofchaplain's sing-song--words all out of the Bible, and hullabaloojahchoruses.'
'Most Greenhow Hill folks played some instrument or t'other, an' theyall sung so you might have heard them miles away, and they were sopleased wi' the noise they made they didn't fair to want anybody tolisten. The preacher sung high seconds when he wasn't playin' theflute, an' they set me, as hadn't got far with big fiddle, again WillieSatterthwaite, to jog his elbow when he had to get a' gate playin'. OldJesse was happy if ever a man was, for he were th' conductor an' th'first fiddle an' th' leadin' singer, beatin' time wi' his fiddle-stick,till at times he'd rap with it on the table, and cry out, "Now, you munall stop; it's my turn." And he'd face round to his front, fairsweating wi' pride, to sing th' tenor solos. But he were grandest i' th'choruses, waggin' his head, flinging his arms round like a windmill, andsingin' hisself black in the face. A rare singer were Jesse.
'Yo' see, I was not o' much account wi' 'em all exceptin' to 'LizaRoantree, and I had a deal o' time settin' quiet at meetings andhorotorio practises to hearken their talk, and if it were strange to meat beginnin', it got stranger still at after, when I was shut on it, andcould study what it meaned.
'Just after th' horotorios come off, 'Liza, as had allus been weaklylike, was took very bad. I walked Dr. Warbottom's horse up and downa deal of times while he were inside, where they wouldn't let me go,though I fair ached to see her.
'"She'll be better i' noo, lad--better i' noo," he used to say. "Thamun ha' patience." Then they said if I was quiet I might go in, and th'Reverend Amos Barraclough used to read to her lyin' propped up among th'pillows. Then she began to mend a bit, and they let me carry her on toth' settle, and when it got warm again she went about same as afore. Th'preacher and me and Blast was a deal together i' them days, and i' oneway we was rare good comrades. But I could ha' stretched him time andagain with a good will. I mind one day he said he would like to godown into th' bowels o' th' earth, and see how th' Lord had builded th'framework o' th' everlastin' hills. He were one of them chaps as hada gift o' sayin' things. They rolled off the tip of his clever tongue,same as Mulvaney here, as would ha' made a rare good preacher if he hadnobbut given his mind to it. I lent him a suit o' miner's kit as almostburied th' little man, and his white face down i' th' coat-collar andhat-flap looked like the face of a boggart, and he cowered down i' th'bottom o' the waggon. I was drivin' a tram as led up a bit of an inclineup to th' cave where the engine was pumpin', and where th' ore wasbrought up and put into th' waggons as went down o' themselves, meputtin' th' brake on and th' horses a-trottin' after. Long as it wasdaylight we were good friends, but when we got fair into th' dark,and could nobbut see th' day shinin' at the hole like a lamp at astreet-end, I feeled downright wicked. Ma religion dropped all away fromme when I looked back at him as were always comin' between me and 'Liza.The talk was 'at they were to be wed when she got better, an' I couldn'tget her to say yes or nay to it. He began to sing a hymn in his thinvoice, and I came out wi' a chorus that was all cussin' an' swearin' atmy horses, an' I began to know how I hated him. He were such a littlechap, too. I could drop him wi' one hand down Garstang's Copper-hole--aplace where th' beck slithered ower th' edge on a rock, and fell wi' abit of a whisper into a pit as no rope i' Greenhow could plump.'
Again Learoyd rooted up the innocent violets. 'Ay, he should see th'bowels o' th' earth an' never naught else. I could take him a mileor two along th' drift, and leave him wi' his candle doused to cryhallelujah, wi' none to hear him and say amen. I was to lead him downth' ladder-way to th' drift where Jesse Roantree was workin', and whyshouldn't he slip on th' ladder, wi' my feet on his fingers till theyloosed grip, and I put him down wi' my heel? If I went fust down th'ladder I could click hold on him and chuck him over my head, so as heshould go squshin' down the shaft, breakin' his bones at ev'ry timberin'as Bill Appleton did when he was fresh, and hadn't a bone left when hewrought to th' bottom. Niver a blasted leg to walk from Pately. Niver anarm to put round 'Liza Roantree's waist. Niver no more--niver no more.'
The thick lips curled back over the yellow teeth, and that flushed facewas not pretty to look upon. Mulvaney nodded sympathy, and Ortheris,moved by his comrade's passion, brought up the rifle to his shoulder,and searched the hillside for his quarry, muttering ribaldry about asparrow, a spout, and a thunder-storm. The voice of the watercoursesupplied the necessary small talk till Learoyd picked up his story.
'But it's none so easy to kill a man like you. When I'd given up myhorses to th' lad as took my place and I was showin' th' preacher th'workin's, shoutin' into his ear across th' clang o' th' pumpin' engines,I saw he were afraid o' naught; and when the lamplight showed his blackeyes, I could feel as he was masterin' me again. I were no better norBlast chained up short and growlin' i' the depths of him while a strangedog went safe past.
'"Th'art a coward and a fool," I said to mysen; an' I wrestled i' mymind again' him till, when we come to Garstang's Copper-hole, I laidhold o' the preacher and lifted him up over my head and held him intothe darkest on it. "Now, lad," I says "it's to be one or t'other onus--thee or me--for 'Liza Roantree. Why, isn't thee afraid for thysen?"I says, for he were still i' my arms as a sack. "Nay; I'm but afraidfor thee, my poor lad, as knows naught," says he. I set him down on th'edge, an' th' beck run stiller, an' there was no more buzzin' in my headlike when th' bee come through th' window o' Jesse's house. "What dosttha mean?" says I.
'"I've often thought as thou ought to know," says he, "but 'twas hardto tell thee. 'Liza Roantree's for neither on us, nor for nobody o'this earth. Dr. Warbottom says--and he knows her, and her mother beforeher--that she is in a decline, and she cannot live six months longer.He's known it for many a day. Steady, John! Steady!" says he. And thatweak little man pulled me further back and set me again' him, and talkedit all over quiet and still, me turnin' a bunch o' candles in my hand,and counting them ower and ower again as I listened. A deal on it wereth' regular preachin' talk, but there were a vast lot as made me beginto think as he were more of a man than I'd ever given him credit for,till I were cut as deep for him as I were for mysen.
'Six candles we had, and we crawled and climbed all that day while theylasted, and I said to mysen, "'Liza Roantree hasn't six months to live."And when we came into th' daylight again we were like dead men to lookat, an' Blast come behind us without so much as waggin' his tail. WhenI saw 'Liza again she looked at me a minute and says, "Who's telled tha?For I see tha knows." And she tried to smile as she kissed me, and Ifair broke down.
'Yo' see, I was a young chap i' them days, and had seen naught o' life,let alone death, as is allus a-waitin'. She telled me as Dr. Warbottomsaid as Greenhow air was too keen, and they were goin' to Bradford, toJesse's brother David, as worked i' a mill, and I mun hold up like a manand a Christian, and she'd pray for me. Well, and they went away, andthe preacher that same back end o' th' year were appointed to anothercircuit, as they call it, and I were left alone on Greenhow Hill.
'I tried, and I tried hard, to stick to th' chapel, but 'tweren't th'same thing at after. I hadn't 'Liza's voice to follow i' th' singin',nor her eyes a-shinin' acrost their heads. And i' th' class-meetingsthey said as I mun have some experiences to tell, and I hadn't a word tosay for mysen.
'Blast and me moped a good deal, and happen we didn't behave ourselvesover well, for they
dropped us and wondered however they'd come to takeus up. I can't tell how we got through th' time, while i' th' winter Igave up my job and went to Bradford. Old Jesse were at th' door o' th'house, in a long street o' little houses. He'd been sendin' th' children'way as were clatterin' their clogs in th' causeway, for she wereasleep.
'"Is it thee?" he says; "but you're not to see her. I'll none have herwakened for a nowt like thee. She's goin' fast, and she mun go in peace.Thou'lt never be good for naught i' th' world, and as long as thou livesthou'll never play the big fiddle. Get away, lad, get away!" So he shutthe door softly i' my face.
'Nobody never made Jesse my master, but it seemed to me he was aboutright, and I went away into the town and knocked up against a recruitingsergeant. The old tales o' th' chapel folk came buzzin' into my head. Iwas to get away, and this were th' regular road for the likes o' me. I'listed there and then, took th' Widow's shillin', and had a bunch o'ribbons pinned i' my hat.
'But next day I found my way to David Roantree's door, and Jesse cameto open it. Says he, "Thou's come back again wi' th' devil's coloursflyin'--thy true colours, as I always telled thee."
'But I begged and prayed of him to let me see her nobbut to saygood-bye, till a woman calls down th' stairway, "She says John Learoyd'sto come up." Th' old man shifts aside in a flash, and lays his hand onmy arm, quite gentle like. "But thou'lt be quiet, John," says he, "forshe's rare and weak. Thou was allus a good lad."
'Her eyes were all alive wi' light, and her hair was thick on the pillowround her, but her cheeks were thin--thin to frighten a man that'sstrong. "Nay, father, yo mayn't say th' devil's colours. Them ribbonsis pretty." An' she held out her hands for th' hat, an' she put allstraight as a woman will wi' ribbons. "Nay, but what they're pretty,"she says. "Eh, but I'd ha' liked to see thee i' thy red coat, John, forthou was allus my own lad--my very own lad, and none else."
'She lifted up her arms, and they come round my neck i' a gentle grip,and they slacked away, and she seemed fainting. "Now yo' mun get away,lad," says Jesse, and I picked up my hat and I came downstairs.
'Th' recruiting sergeant were waitin' for me at th' corner public-house."Yo've seen your sweetheart?" says he. "Yes, I've seen her," says I."Well, we'll have a quart now, and you'll do your best to forget her,"says he, bein' one o' them smart, bustlin' chaps. "Ay, sergeant," saysI. "Forget her." And I've been forgettin' her ever since.'
He threw away the wilted clump of white violets as he spoke. Ortherissuddenly rose to his knees, his rifle at his shoulder, and peered acrossthe valley in the clear afternoon light. His chin cuddled the stock, andthere was a twitching of the muscles of the right cheek as he sighted;Private Stanley Ortheris was engaged on his business. A speck of whitecrawled up the watercourse.
'See that beggar? . . . Got 'im.'
Seven hundred yards away, and a full two hundred down the hillside, thedeserter of the Aurangabadis pitched forward, rolled down a red rock,and lay very still, with his face in a clump of blue gentians, while abig raven flapped out of the pine wood to make investigation.
'That's a clean shot, little man,' said Mulvaney.
Learoyd thoughtfully watched the smoke clear away.
'Happen there was a lass tewed up wi' him, too,' said he.
Ortheris did not reply. He was staring across the valley, with the smileof the artist who looks on the completed work.