Hathersage: a tale of North Derbyshire

Front matter

HATHERSAGE: rM of ilorfl) Pcibus^irc. BY CHARLES EDMUND HALL. Author of "An Ancient Ancestor," &Y., &c. " I held it truth, with him who sings To one clear harp in divers tones, That men may rise on stepping-stones Of their dead selves to higher things." LONDON : HORACE COX, Windsor House, Bream's Buildings, E.C. 1896. LONDON : PRINTED BY HORACE COX, WINDSOR HOUSE, BREAM'S BUILDINGS, E.C. TO THE READER. SINCE this story was written, a new railway has been opened through the district where most of the incidents occur. Hathersage now figures in " Bradshaw," and much of the quiet charm of the place has consequently disappeared. Vale and village have become the happy hunting-ground of hordes of pleasure-seekers ; big excursion-trains from neighbouring towns bring their freights of passengers into a locality, which, a couple of years ago, was inaccessible except by the high-road, and ten miles away from the nearest station.

Although not generally known, Charlotte Bronte, in her famous novel of " Jane Eyre," made Hathersage the scene of the latter portions of her story — a fact, which, many years ago, the present writer was first in bringing before public notice. Place-names have been altered, but the actual locality is unmistakable. With regard to the following tale — and in order to forestall any hint of plagiarism — the Author desires To the Reader. to state that, while engaged in writing it, prizes were offered in Truth for a story to be written under certain conditions, and he was induced to use some of his materials and to take part in the competition ; with the fortunate result of winning the first prize, in a contest which was participated in by about one hundred competitors. This prize-story, entitled " I Revoke !

" duly appeared in Truth. Authors' Club, February, 1896. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. Shelter at a Wayside Inn . . . i II. The Stonywell Mine Manager . ■ 9 III. Making an Enemy . . . .12 IV. Five Days Entombed .... 20 V. The Graysons of Moor Lees . . 33 VI. Supper at the Rectory ... 45 VII. Wenderfield Farm . . . 51 VIII. An Evening at Holly House . . 60 IX. A Double Rencontre .... 67 X. The Pleasures of Youth ... 73 XL The Money-Lender tj XII. A Fool and his Money . . .82 XIII. A Trying Interview . , . .88 XIV. Sudden Temptation . . . -95 XV. The Cricket Match at Donfield . 103 XVI. The Woodford Family . . .116 VI Contents. CHAPTER PAGE XVII. Grouse-Shooting Day .... 134 XVIII. A Secret and Alarming Interview 147 XIX. John's Last Night at Hathersage . 155 XX. Driven from Home . . . 163 XXI. In Winter Quarters . . -178 XXII.

Chapter I

shelter at a wayside inn. One stormy night in the month of November, now some dozen years ago, a travel-stained pedestrian was wearily climbing a steep mountain road, which, to all appearances, led nowhere save into the darkness. Bleak uplands stretched away before and behind him ; dark, spectral ridges closed him in on either side. He had already walked some miles from the railway station, and the distance had seemed longer than usual, on account of the roughness of the road, and the fury of the wind and rain, which came full in the traveller's face. The man was, however, well accustomed to bad weather, and did not take much notice of the storm. He evidently had some object in view, and with it his mind was fully occupied. The village that he was seeking could not now7 be very far distant, but there was no one about of whom he might ask his way.

The only sounds he heard in that wild and desolate region were those made by blackcock when startled from the heather, or those of the lapwing, repeating its almost human cry, as it winged its low7 flight across the darkened landscape. B Hathersage. 2 At length he reached the summit of the ascent ; and then he could dimly see, a short distance before him, a feeble light gleaming, beacon-like, through the gloom. It was no Will-o'-the-Wisp, no phosphorescent illusion, but a genuine candle — of the dip persuasion — that was guttering in a cottage window. It could not be the village he was seeking, for, though he strained his eyes, he could detect only that one light. The cottage proved to be a small wayside inn. Another road crossed the one by which he had come, close by the inn. It was a much broader and better kept thoroughfare, and there was a toll-gate not far on which gleamed white amidst the dark surroundings.

The man paused, considering what it would be wisest for him to do. Then he tapped loudly at the tavern door. Although it was late for country-folk to be astir, he knew that the inmates could not have retired to rest, as the candle was still burning on the window-sill. He waited aw-hile, but there was no response to his summons ; then he knocked again, and louder than before. At last the door was opened by a big brawny individual in shirt-sleeves, with a pipe hanging loosely between his lips, who stood on the threshold in a contemplative and questioning attitude. " Will you kindly tell me if I am on the right road for a place called Stonywell, and how far it is from here ?" asked the traveller. " Oh, yes, ye're on t' reet road. Keep stroit aheead. It's 'oppen two moil fro' here." " Two miles ! and I am dead beat already.

All I want is a roof to cover me and some food to eat, for I am terribly hungry. I have business in Stonywell to-morrow, but should be glad to stay here for the night, if you can take me in." "Wull," hesitated Boniface, scratching his head, " may 'oppen we con, may-'oppen we conna. But stoiy thee here a minnit, and I'll osk the missus." Shelter at a Wayside Inn. 3 He went indoors, and presently returned with a buxom, though rather sour-vjsaged, landlady, who was almost as big as her husband. She regarded the new-comer with evident distrust; and she had already informed her husband, during a brief colloquy in the kitchen, that she " niver put ony faith i' fly-by-nights." "And so it's a bed and some vittle as ye're a' wantin'. yong mon?" she said, in a high-pitched tone of voice, looking keenly at the dripping wanderer as she spoke.

" Yes, ma'am, if you would be so good as to accommodate me. I can pay you for board and lodging, and you will not find me a troublesome guest." The woman seemed mollified by this answer, and also by the tone of the speaker's voice. The "fly-by-night" might possibly be a gentleman, she conjectured, for all his shabby, mud-bespattered garments. " Well, coom in, sur, and set ye darn by t' foireside a bit. Yer mun be co'd and wet sich a neet as this is." So saying, the woman, pushing her husband in front of her, led the way ; and the stranger, nothing loth, followed the pair into a rudely furnished kitchen, where the candle that had directed him to the place glimmered fitfully upon the walls and rafters. A worn-out armchair, literally on its last legs, was wheeled up for him in front of the fire, and he sank into it gratefully with a sigh of relief, thankful enough to find rest at last.

The flickering firelight, falling full upon the traveller's face as he leaned back in the chair, revealed handsome features, which were, however, furrowed with lines of care, and bronzed to an almost tawny hue with prolonged exposure in sunny lands. A drooping moustache and a long beard entirely covered the lower part of his face, and a curly mass of dark brown hair partially concealed a square and powerful-looking forehead. Searching eyes, blue in colour, peered out from under two shaggy brows. Altogether B Hathersage. 4 the face of the man was an uncommon one. The clothes that he was wearing gave no indication of their having been cut by a first-class tailor, and they were now decidedly ragged in places, frayed at the edges, and otherwise disfigured by long fellowship with small means, hard work, and wild weather.

At sight of the weary look that was on the face of her i^uest, the heart of the hostess was softened towards him. Assisted by her husband, she hastily set about preparing a savoury meal of fried ham and poached eggs — the staple, the never-failing dish of out-of-the-way country inns all the world over — adding a foaming tankard of good ale to wash it down with. The stranger watched these preparations with the utmost satisfaction, keeping a judicious silence, and waiting patiently until his hostess should summon him to partake of the good things. Outside, the storm was raging as furiously as when he found shelter. Humble as this roadside tavern was, it proved a pleasant enough refuge for the wayfarer. It was a sweet enough temporary home for one who — being an outcast and a wanderer on the face of the earth — knew no place which he might call by that dear and sacred name.

He had not, however, always been homeless. As he sat there in the ruddy glow of the firelight, a vision rose before him of another and very different hearthstone. Familiar forms had gathered around its blaze, in days that now seemed far distant. He thought of the time of his boyhood, when his life was bright with perpetual sunshine ; when there were no sorrows, no regrets, no strifes, no weary toil, no hardships, no privations — when his life had been full of present joy, and enriched with golden promise for the future. Ah ! when does the future which we anticipate in our youth time ever fulfil our expectations ? Not even the richest, the wisest, the noblest among us realise in after-life all that w7e hoped for when we were young. Our airy Shelter al a Wayside Inn. 5 castles, that seem in youth time so substantial, vanish as the mists of morning.

A man may become great in many unexpected ways, but very rarely can he secure just that laurel crown which, of all others, he had hoped to win. The ambitions of one's earlier years so seldom blossom imo attainments. Youth looks fonvard to the future full ot a feverish longing for what shall be ; and when the years have rolled round the man looks back upon the past with a regretful sigh, because of what has not been achieved, and never now can be. Our tired traveller, seated in his tavern chair, and waiting for his food, recalled to mind his boyish dreams and hopes. He, too, though still comparatively young, had cause to sigh over a wasted life, and to mourn over the unrealised hopes of his early years. The voice of his hostess, summoning him to his supper, roused him from his reverie. The transition to " matter corporeal from matter incorporeal,' to use the language of the law, was but the work of a moment ; and, when seated at the well-spread board, the ham and eggs, the crisp loaf, and the foaming tankard were fully enjoyed by the half-famished guest.

Meanwhile the landlady, who was now in thorough good humour, and most charitably disposed towards her lodger, set about preparing his bed-room for the night. The meal despatched, the traveller, looking considerably the better for it, wheeled his chair round to the chimney corner, and took mental stock of his host, who was lying half asleep on the horsehair sofa on the other side of the hearth, with the clay pipe still hanging loosely from his lips. With the exception of their colloquy at the tavern door, very few w7ords had passed between the two men. Hunger is usually silent, or at most monosyllabic ; but a well-filled stomach is provocative of unlimited loquacity. And so it proved in the present instance ; for the stranger, as soon as he had lit his pipe — a blackened clay which might have been own brother Hathersage. to the landlord's — and stretched out his legs far enough on the hot hearth to enable his steaming shoe leather to be well toasted by the coals, aroused his companion by asking him a question.

" Can you tell me, my most estimable, but somewhat sleepy, benefactor " he began jocosely, while the other started up from his recumbent attitude, yawned prodigiously, and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, " can you tell me how far the Red Caulk lead mine is from Stonywell?" The benefactor hesitated, endeavouring to collect his scattered senses, and, as soon as the nature of the question had dawned upon him, replied — " 'Oppen two moil, 'oppen three, but I conna say for shure. Be yer goin' theer?" " Yes, to-morrow, I expect. I hear that new hands are wanted underground, as many of the old ones have left in consequence of some dispute. Do you think that there is any chance of my meeting with employment ?" " What, darn in th' moine ?" Yes.' The landlord seemed a good deal surprised, and looked curiously at his guest.

" Whoiy, yer donna mane to say as you 're a moiner?" "Not at present, but I intend to be if I can get a job. I was born in a lead-mining country, and know enough of the work to make me think that someone hereabouts will employ me, stranger though I am in the neighbourhood. I am quite willing to begin at the bottom, and work my way up. My ambition is to become some day a practical mining engineer. I have no money to spend on the necessary training, so, consequently, I must teach myself by the experiences that are to be gained with the sweat of my brow. Some day, perhaps, I may be clever enough to get the post that I covet. But not yet awhile. There are many mines about here, I am told ?" Shelter at a Wayside Inn. 7 " O, yes, a very mony. Th' ground's riddled throer wi' 'em. Yer mun gang to Ston'll to-morrow, and see Mester Elliott.

He'st moine manager on' overseer, on' ivrything connected w7i' the moines hereaboots, on' he'll give yer a situation, if he's sotisfied loike as ye'll do. But it's 'ard work lead-moinin' is. 'Ard work, and poor pay. Best thing 'ud be for yer to buy a share in a moine, and dig on yer own hook." " Buy a share ?" echoed the other, with a ringing laugh. " Why, when I have paid you for my board and lodging here to-night, I shall barely have five shillings left. But thanks for your information ; I shall certainly call upon this Mr. Elliott to-morrow morning. Meanwhile, as we both appear to be yawning, I think we had better go to bed." The landlord, nothing loth, rose from his comfortable sofa, and proceeded to light his lodger to an unpretentious, but orderly, bed-chamber. Here the traveller, who had slept in many a worse place in his time, being thoroughly worn out, soon fell into a sound slumber.

The sunshine next morning, peeping through the latticed windows of the little hostelry, announced to its inmates that the storm of the preceding night had passed away. The weather, so often wet and beclouded in these high latitudes, was again serene. There were pleasant country sounds about the house. A few fowls cackling together on the roadway in front of the door ; a cow lowing in a paddock, impatient to be milked ; half a score ducklings scrimmaging on a weed-covered pond. On every side the landscape was of the bleakest character. It was a land which seemed to lie on the outskirts of civilisation, inhabited only by sheep and shepherds, where the shriek of the railway engine, the noise of the busy world, and the voice of public opinion never penetrated. An expanse of heath and rugged grass land— intersected by low stone walls — surrounded this solitary homestead, with here and there a white road winding Hathersage. serpent-like among the dark browns, and greens, and yellows.

On one side, just over the brow of a hill, could be seen the massive tower of Stonywell parish church, which was quite minster-like in its proportions, and a prominent object for many miles around. There was nothing else, either of beauty or of interest, to relieve the drear monotony of the scene. No wealth of woodland, no luxuriant under growth, no leafy hedgerows, no shady lanes. Nothing but an endless undulating limestone waste, with stone but mortarless walls, and scattered flocks of mountain sheep browsing on the parti-coloured herbage. The landlord and his wife were up betimes, going about their various duties in kitchen and paddock, and talking to one another in their strong north-country dialect. Their lodger, thoroughly dead beat the night before, was later in putting in an appearance, but when he did so he found a homely and plentiful breakfast awaiting him.

This disposed of, he made ready for an immediate start to the village of Stonywell. the place which he hoped might prove his residence for some time to come, since he had journeyed far. and was quite weary of a wandering life. Paying his bill, and bidding farewell to the worthy pair who had been such friends in need to him, he took up his bundle, containing all his worldly possessions, and trudged once more upon his way.

Chapter II. The Stonywell Mine Manager

Stonywell, though only a badly built and poor-looking country town, was important enough in its way. A cattle market was held there once a month, which all the farmers, and drovers, and labourers from the country round attended ; and two or three fairs also took place there in the course of the year. Some few of the inhabitants were engaged in cotton and silk weaving ; the remainder were either agricul turists or miners. There was a fine church and a large churchyard, but there were no grand houses to speak of; it was a town whose social ideas were not very exalted, whose inhabitants stood pretty much on an equality, and whose means of living were circumscribed. Inquiring at an inn for Mr. Elliott's house, the stranger was directed to it, and was fortunate enough to find that gentleman at home.

He was ushered into a small parlour, a foot or two below the level of the High-street, which it overlooked. An office-desk, tw70 high stools, and a couple of cane-bottomed chairs comprised the furniture of the apartment. The mine manager soon made his appearance. He was a short, rather spare-looking man, with a grave and serious expression of countenance. He received his visitor with an inclination of the head, and then, pointing out a chair on which he might be seated, asked him to state his business. The man briefly explained his desire to obtain work in one of the mines. "You are a stranger to the neighbourhood, I presume," said Mr. Elliott, " and are not acquainted with the mining laws and customs that are peculiar to this district?" Hathersage. 10 " On the contrary, I know more about the theory of lead mining than about its practice.

I was partially trained, when young, in this particular branch of knowledge, with the view of my becoming engineer to a company which was then being organised. Circumstances, however, have hitherto prevented my carrying out my original intentions, and now poverty compels me to seek for employment of an altogether lower kind, and from a simple beginning I must hope to rise in time by my own exertions." " Do you carry with you any testimonials or references from past employers ? I should hardly care to take a perfect stranger in this way off-hand. We usually know something even about our humblest labourers, and about their capabilities, before we engage them. I can see that you look strong, sinewy, and healthy, well fitted for the work you wish to undertake, and that is certainly a recommendation in your favour, but I know nothing else — not even your name."

" Indeed, sir, I am sorry that I possess no credentials of any sort to show you. I can only ask you to give me a trial on my merits, for I stand here without a friend in the world to speak a word in my favour. My name, sir, is Middleton — John Middleton." Mr. Elliott paused, hesitated, looked rather graver than was his wont, and then addressed the young man again. " Well, my good fellow, I have no objection — in in capacity as agent and general manager for the actual owner of the mine — to give you a trial, as the mine is somewhat short-handed at present. You will, of course, have to begin quite at the beginning, and work for the present under one of the other men, who will be your master to all intents and purposes, and pay you out of his own wage, which will be increased for the purpose.

Let me see, I think Tim Furness would be as likely a man as any. He is an honest, decent old fellow, and would deal justly and kindly by you. If The Stonywell Mine Manager. 11 you felt so disposed, he would probably undertake, at a small cost, to board and bed you as well in his own cottage, which is a neat little place down in Grindle Dale. He has only a wife and one child, if I remember rightly." "I should feel only too grateful, sir, if such an arrange ment could be brought about." " Then come with me now to the mine, and we will send for Tim and see what he says. I was just off there when you arrived. The dog-cart will be at the door in a minute, if you will wait here till I return." So saying, Mr. Elliott left the room. A few minutes later he and the new workman started off together in the dog-cart for the Red Caulk mine, some two to three miles away.

Over a wide moorland tract they drove, illumined by gleams of sunshine, revealing patches of rich colour in which an artist's eye would have revelled, and which even John Middleton, intent though he was on other things, could not help admiring. The brownish purple of the now faded heather was the prevailing tint, but there were brighter hues here and there — the vivid scarlet of the bilberry and the glowing orange of the bracken. The gay gold, too, of the gorse — which is always somewhere in bloom — the bronze and pale amber on the decaying masses of fern, the sheen of lichen stains on the grey granite boulders, and the varying colours on the sedges, and rushes, and long reed-grasses which abounded near the running springs, presented well-nigh every shade and tint of colour, from deep red to russet brown, from brown to green, and from yellow into white.

Chapter III. Making An Enemy

On arriving at the mine, which presented a busy scene in the very midst of a wilderness of silent and desolate scenery, Mr. Elliott and his companion, after alighting from their vehicle, proceeded on foot to the cupola, or smelting-house, which stood near the edge of the shaft. Here several stalwart men were engaged in running the ore into pieces by means of a reverberating furnace. Outside, under a thatched shed, or fleak, as it was called, some women — young, middle-aged, and old — were hard at work breaking the freshly-gotten ore with heavy hammers on a knockstone. Others were putting the bits thus broken into a wooden sieve, and rinsing them in a large tub, afterwards throwing the lighter rubbish, as they skimmed it off, through a hole in the wall, that it might be transferred to the buddle-dam for further cleansing.

Mr. Elliott called to one of these women, who seemed to be younger and comelier than the rest : " Lucy Furness, is your father down below?" The girl opened her eyes in timid astonishment at being questioned by the manager, then bobbed a curtsey, and replied simply in the affirmative. " Then send Robert Voule down by the bucket to say that I want to speak with him here for a few minutes." The girl, wondering, but silent, gave the requisite order, and then went on with her work. A short time intervened, during which the manager conversed with some of the workpeople, and John Middleton had time to look around on the novel scene which surrounded him. Presently an elderly man, whose garments were grimy, and freely besprinkled with shining particles of ore, emerged from the mouth of the shaft, crossed the hillock, and, touching his cap to Mr. Elliott, waited to hear what that gentleman had to say to him.

" Here is a new hand for you, Tim. Vou can do with one, I think. I want him to work under you for the present, as he will require some instruction. He is a stranger in these parts, and will need a home of some sort ; so do you think you and your wife would care to have him for a lodger ? He is willing to take less w7age from you if some such arrangement can be made." The miner scratched his head meditatively, and looked with big inquiring eyes into John Middleton's face. "Well, sur," he said after a pause, " our whoam is nobbut a small koind o' plaace, as yer may know, but if th' missus is willin', and he's willin' " — pointing his finger at John — " I doan't see but what it moit be monaged." So it was arranged that John Middleton should enter the service of the old miner forthwith. After thanking Mr. Elliott for what he had done for him, the young man followed his new master into a small coe, or shed, which was used by the miners for changing their clothes, and for the protection of their tools, &c. " If ye'll go down wi' me now," said Tim, " I con show yer a thing or two afore my shift is over.

I most days leave work at foor o'clock. Yer con huv Som Priestley's clo's, which are laid on th' stone yonder." John deposited in a corner the small bundle which he cairied with him, and then proceeded to array himself in the mining costume which Tim had allotted to him for temporary purposes ; they were rough-looking garments of coarse cloth, smeared with yellow clay, and scintillating Hathersage. 14 with bright bits of lead, that gleamed like the spangles on the dress of an acrobat. Tim meanwhile went to speak to his daughter. She was still hard at her work, breaking bing-ore on the knockstone. "Lucy, when thee gets whoam," he said, "tell th' mother as Mester Elliott has gi'en me a lod to work under me, and thot he's to live wi' us for th' present." The girl looked more astonished than ever.

Even little events like these were great enough in the monotony of a life such as hers. But all she said was " Yes, fayther," as Tim went back to the coe. She was a good-looking young woman, this Lucy Furness. strong and robust, showing more of the physique of a man than of a woman, as she stood in her odd work-a-day attire, wielding a big hammer in her two hands. Quite a queen she was among the girls of that locality ; none of the rest of them could vie with her in bodily attractions. Consequently she often became a source of jealousy and dispute among them. Lovers she had many, but she did not regard any of them with any special show of favour ; and one of them, the one that was most importunate of them all — a mining lad named Dennis Froggatt — she positively disliked. He was an evil-minded fellow, and had come of a bad stock ; he was a drinker, an idler, and a ne'er-do-well ; but his fondness for Lucy was of that persistent, passionate nature which will take no denial.

She had, therefore, a troublesome time of it with him and the rest, and she was sometimes disposed to think that good looks were more of a curse to her than a blessing. At four o'clock in the afternoon — when the eight hours shift was ended — Tim Furness and John Middleton struck work, and left the mine. The latter had been initiated into some of the mysteries connected with his new employment, although, to Tim's surprise, he had proved much less of a novice at the work than might have been expected. They proceeded on foot to Tim's cottage, which was rather more than a mile away from the mine. It stood at the bottom of a deep secluded glen that was shut in by the hills, and also here and there by the grey scarp of a precipitous limestone crag. A small stream, known as the Grindle Brook, meandered through the dale, and skirted the boundary fences of the homestead.

The cottage itself was a neat low structure ; it was thatched with turf and straw, over which, in the summer-time, green moss and yellow stonecrop trailed, meeting the climbing ivy — which almost enveloped the rest of the dwelling — on the eaves. As the two men entered the house through a porch of green trellis-work, a pleasant domestic picture — made pleasanter still by contrast with the November gloom without — presented itself to their eyes. It was not quite dusk yet, and the cottage interior was only illuminated by the ruddy glow of a wood fire. In one corner sat Tim's wife, a little woman with comely features, turning an old fashioned spinning-wheel, the humming whirr of which gave life and movement to the scene. Beside the wheel stood Lucy, in a clean print gown, carding wool for her mother.