Rensselaer Republican, Volume 23, Number 13, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 27 November 1890 — Master of the Mine. [ARTICLE]

Master of the Mine.

By Robert Buchanan.

CHAPTER 111. ATTER TEH TEARS. I BEGIN LIFE IN EARNEST. Thb prologue over, the drama of my life begins. There is always a pro logue of some sort, in which the keynote of life is generally struck for good or eTil, p’easure or pain. Mine is the episode of Little Madeline. Much of the spirit of what has been told will survive in the events which I am now about to narrate. MadelineG rah am fa dea at once and for jarer out of my boyish existence. I neither saw nor heard from her directly ; but rome months after her arrival in her distant home, there arrived a wondeiful parcel, full of dried fruits, nu's, and other foreign edibles, addressed, in the hand I knew, to Master Hugh Trelawnev,at Munster's. My schoolmates laughed wildly on its arrival. 1 tore it open, expecting to find some message in writing, showing me that I was not forgotten. There was not a line. With a somewhat heavy heart I distributed more perishable fruits among my schoolmates, reserving a very little for myself—for I had no heart to eat. 1 stored up many of the nuts in my trunk, till they were quite mouldj... and, rotten. 1 When 1 was obliged to throw them away, I seemed to cast away at the came moment all my hope of seeing Dy dear little love again. No other message—no other gift—•ver came; though I wrote, in my round, boyish hand, a little letter of thanks and kind wishes. All grew silent Little Madeline might be lying In her grave, far over the lonely waters, for aught I knew to the contrary.

I remained at Munster's until I was fourteen. In all these years I never forgot Madeline, never ceased to mention her name every night when I prayed by my bedside, never relinquished the thought of some day sailing across the ocean, and looking on the dear bright face again. This intense and solitary passion her came, if I may 60 express it, the secret strength of my - life. It brightened the coarse and indigent experience of school life, tilled It with tender and mysterious meanings and associations; it made me inquiring and tender, instead of hard sad mean; it determined my tastes in favor of beauty, and made me reverence true womanhood wherever I saw it. In a word, it gave to my too commonplace experience just the coloring es romance it needed, and made the iry reality of life blossom with simple poetry, in a dim religious light from faraway. What wonder, then, if at fourteen t found myself reading imaginative books and writing verses—of which early compositions, be certain, Madeline was the chief and never-wearying feenae. I had taken tolerable advantage of Munster's tuition, and was sufficiently ""well grounded in the details of an ordinary English education. I had, moreover, a smattering of Latin, which in my after struggle for subsistence turned out very useful, I should have progressed still further under the care of my schoolmaster, but at this period my father died and I found myself cast upon the world. It is not my purpose—it Is unneceslary —to enlarge on my own private history, and I shall touch ifpon it merely in so far as it affects the strange incidents in which 1 afterward became tn actor. Things were at this point when I one morning received the startling intelligence that roy--father was dead and that 1 was left alone in all

the world. The first feeling which the news produced in me was one of very confused and dubious sorrow. Of late years I had seen very little of my father. Since I had come to Munster's I had been left there, never even goiDg home for my holidays as the other boys did. Munster’s was my home, and to all intents and purposes Mr. and Mrs. Munster were a father and mother to me. Still, for all that, the knowledge that I had a father in some remote quarter of the globe, who paid for my maintenance and came to Mur.ster’6 about once in six or eight months to spend an hour with me, had been a source of some satisfaction and caused me now, for a Bhort time at least, to deplore his loss. Then came other and more complicated thoughts. If I had no longer a father to pay for my maintenance, what was to become of me? for, as I knew, I had no other relation in the world. Puzzled by these thoughts, and seeing no solution to them, I could do nothing but wait in eagerness and dread for what was to follow. The next morning, when I was dressing, Mrs. Munster came into my bedroom and handed me a jacket with a crape band on the left arm; she also pointed to a cap which she had brought in with her, and said:.

‘•You must wear this one now, Hugh.” Then she turned, bent her kindly eyes upon me, and kissed my forehead and murmured, “My poor boy!” I ventured to inquire whether I was <0 see my poor father in his coffin or to follow him to the grave. The tears came into the woman’s eyes, and 6he took me by the hand. ... “You will never see him again,” she said, “never. He died in America I and was buried before we received the news. But you are a brave boy,” she added, “and must not grieve. It is sad for you. dear, but trouble is sure to come sootoer or later. If it comes when one is; young, so much the better, for one is better able to bear it.” “Mrs. Munster,” I said piteously “what is to become of me?” The good lady shook her head. 1 “I don’t know, my dear,” she replied, “your poor lather has not !eft

! you a sixpence . Pugh," she I added suddenly, * ‘have you any relations'?' 1 ••No," I replied, "not one." ••Are you sure?" she continued. "Think, my dear." I did think, but H woe of no nse. My train would not conjure up one being to whom I could possibly lay any claim. —^ •■No uncles,oraunts,or cousins?" persisted Mrs. Munster; when suddenly I exclaimed — ■ ‘Yes, Mrs, Munster; now I remember: I'vo got an aunt. At least I had an aunt; but she may .be dead, like father.” ••Let us hope cot." said Mrs. Munster, “Well, my dtar, tell me what she is like, and where she is to be found.” T don’t know what she is like,” I replied; “1 never saw her.” • Never saw her?" “No; she never came near us; but I’ve heard father speak about her. bhe was my mother’s sister, and her name, is M artha Pendragon, and she lives at Cornwall.” “Martha Pendragon,” repeated Mrs. Munster. “Is she married?” I reflected a-THoment, then I remembered having seen letters addressed to "Mrs. Pendragon,” and I saidas much. ••And where does she live?" “St. Gurlott’s, Cornwall.” Mrs. Munster wrote it down. “ -Mrs. Martha Pendragon, St Gurlott's, Cornwall.’ It looks promising, as I dare say. St. Gurlott’s is a very 6mall place. Make yourself as contented as you can for a few days my dear. I yrill write to the lady and ask hor what she means to do," I could do nothing else but wait, and I accordingly did so; though I found it utterly impossible to take Mrs. Munster’s adv;ce, and preserve a contented frame of mind.

My exceedingly hazy recollections of my aunts communications were by no means such as to inspire confidence. I began to ask myself, for the first time, why it was she had never been permitted to visit my mother in her home; why my mother, who was evidently .fond of her sister, had never made a journey into Cornwall to see her; and. above all, why my aunt had never come to visit my mother when she was dyiDg? Thus I speculated for four days; at the end of that time I saw Mrs. Munster receive a letter, open it, read it, and glance strangely at me. "It is from your aunt, my dear.’’she said: then looking at the letter again, she added: “She is your aunt. I suppose?" From Mrs. Pepdragnn? 1 asked. “Yes,” she replied, with a strange smile. “From your aunt Martha.” I wanted to hear more, but no more came. Mrs. Munster again turned her attention to the letter, and began studying it as intently as if she were carefully working out some abstruse mathematical problem. Presently her husband came into the room, and she handed him the letter. My curiosity received a fresh stimulus when I saw him start of sight of it, read it twice and then glance, as I thought, half pityingly at me. “I suppose it’s all right,” he said, turning to his wife;“the boy must go.” She nodded her head-thoughtfully. “It seems a pity, doesn’t it, after the education he has had?” she said to her husband; then, turning to me, 6he added. “Let me see, Hugh, how old are you now?” I replied that I was fourteen. “And are youjsure you have no other relations except this, this Aunt Martha as she calls herself ?’’ i I replied that during the last few days I had been racking my brain incessantly on that subject, but without avail. - ;• ■ - ——

■ ••Well,” she Said, ‘ I suppose your aunt Martha is better than nobody, my dear—she seems a good natured sort of person, and is quite willing to give you a home; but it seems a pity to take you from school before your education is complete, and if we could find another relation who would let you stay here it would be so much better for you, I will write again to your aunt, she may know of 6ome one, though you do not —jour father’s relations, for instance; but if she does not, why, the only thing you can do is to go to Cornwall.” 1 accordingly had to wait a few more days, at the end of which time another letter was received from my mysterious relative. This time it failed to bring with it disgust or amazement, and conveyed only disappointment. ••Your aunt tells me she is your only relative on your mother’s side,” said Mrs. Munster, "and your father’s family she knows nothing about. She has fixed Thursday as the day on which you ard to go to her; therefore, my dear child, I see no help for it; you must leave us!" Thus it was settled. On the Thursday morning, I. accompanied by my small stock of luggage, started on my travels, and saw the last of Munster’s,

CHAPTER IV. JOHN RUDD, POET AND CARRIER. Munster’s was situated in the suburbs of Southampton. It was arranged, therefore, that 1 should journey by a small steamer as far as Falmouth, and thence by road to St. Gurlott's-on-Sea. I was conducted to the boat by Mr. Munster. On arriving at Falmouth, after an uneventful passage, I was met on board by a rough looking person, who informed me that he had been deputed by “Missus Pendragon” to convey me and my belongings to St. Gurlott's. What manner of man he was I could scarcely tell, beyond realizing the fact that he was of tremendous height,that he wore a white beaver hat, and that his figure was wrapped in an enormous frieze coat which reached to his ankles. He gave a glance, at me. and then said in a peculiar pipy voice: r.. • ‘Come, lad, gie's the tip about your

boxes, and we'll move on: the mare’s got a journey afore ’un, and we’m best newt be late!" I moved aft, and pointed oat to him my little trunk. He looked at it in much the same way that a giant might look at a pebble, put it quietly under his arm, and moved off again, inviting me to follow. We crossed the gangway, and came on to the quay. Here we fbund a large van, and a tat,sleepylooking roan horse. The .wagon was roofed with black tarpaulin, and on the side was painted, In large white letters: ‘ ‘JOHN RUDD, CARRIER ST.GETRLOTT’S.’' On comipg up to t.he vehicle, my conductor paused and disposed of my trunk, then, turning to me “Come, young master, jump in ” he gave me a lift which summarily placed me inside and on the top of my box; then, be Tore I had time to recover myself, I feit that the wagon was jolting along. What the day wa3 like, and what 6ort of a prospect we were passing through I had not the remotest idea; the tarpaulin and the enormous figure of the driver completely shutting me in from the world. I waited for awhile, thinking, perhaps, my companion might turn communicative and make some suggestion as to my better disposal; but none came. He sat like a dog. and, beyond a few disjointed exclamations to the horse, uttered not a sound.

As he evidently had no intention whatever of taking the slightest further notice of me, I thought it best to approach him. I aoeordir gly shouted • -Hi!’’ several times and gave him a few vigorous pokes in the back; but neither of these attempts producing the slightest effect, I concluded he must be asleep. I accordingly swung off the van behind, and running beside the horse, hullo’d to him from the road. This trick told better. Mr. Rudd, who seemed, indeed, to have become oblivious of the world, gradually turned his face towards me, and gazed at me fora time with a-vacuous stare. Then he pulled up the horse with a jerk, ••The Lord preserve ’ee!" ho said, "what’s the lad doin’thar?" I explained that I had swung out of the wagon, because it was not pleasant inside, and added: “Have you got room up there for two, Mr. Rudd?" Instead of replying to my question, he gave a chuckle, and said: “You’m a smart ’un: Mr. Rudd, eh? jNttw, haw did you come to knaw that thar’, young master, eh?" I explained that I had concluded from his appearance that he must be the master of the van, upon which “John Rudd” was painted; but he only chuckled again and piped: ‘•You’m a little ’un to be such a scliolaid!”

As I saw he was about to become fossilised again, I hastened to repeat my former question. Mr. Rudd abstractedly at the seat and them at me., ‘•Mayn't I come up?” I said. "It’s so close inside the van. and I would rather ride beside you, Mr. Rudd.” Then, without giving him time for a refusal, I leapt up and nestled beside him. - Mr. Rudd made no protest—he simply said, "Move on, mare,” and the mare moved on forthwith. We had left Falmouth behind us, and were moving cumbrously along the high road. Looking to the right and to the left I could see nothing but undulating sweeps of land, bleak and barren, with the stony highway stretching before us, and winding about, serpent fashion, until it was lost to view. We were travelling westward, evidently, and, as far as prospect went, we might be going forward into the Desert. There was not a cart or horse or human being to bo seen anywhere; and the ODly sound was the rattle of the wagon, as it passed along over the rough road.

It was past mid day, and the sun was as hot as it had been any day that summer. As I felt it Scorching my face and head, I looked at my companion, and marvelled again. His huge ulster coat was buttoned up to his chin, and his great round face was shaded by his broad felt hat. He was by ho means a bad looking man, and he was still j’oung—only five-and-thirty, or thereabouts. His skin was tanned and weather beaten, and his eyes were fixed upon the mare with his habitual dreamy stare. Finding it was useless to expect him to talkrT sat for a time quietly bjr his side, watching with some amount of interest the rough and stony track we were following; then, when* we had covered a mile or so. the mare went along at a walk, and I leapt lightly into the road and kept pace beside her. My change of position once more aroused my companion from his trance; he turned his eye slowly upon me and said "I reckon you knaw a ileal?” I replied, modestly, that I knew a thing or two.

0 “•. wonder naw,’he said, “whether you can write?” I answered with some decision tnat I certainly could, at which I thought his face fell. • ‘Poetry, naw ?” he inquired. • • Warses like?” I replied that though I was able to' write a capital hand, I had enly once or twice aspired to ordinal composition; at which he chuckled delightedly, ■ then, fixing his eyes with a fascinated glare upon my face, he repeated in a high shrill voice the following lines:— •‘To Mi<«us Pendragon, who’s always so - i pleasmt. ; John Kudil. of St, Gurlott's brings this little present. 1 Mav ber life be as sweet as best sugar can be. , And theouly hoy water be mixed wi‘ her teal” s “What do you think o’ that?” he l asked anxiously. “Very good.” Lireplied. * “Where P did you read it? lawbook?”

"I didn’t road ’an, master, I wrote un,’ he replied. “Leastways, I phould ha’ wrote ’un if I could write. Naw, you’m a smart chap, pr'rape you could take them lines dawn?” “Of course I could,’ I replied. Whereupon I produced a pencil from my pocket, and, asking Mr. Rudd to repeat the verse again, I transcribed it on the back of an old letter. When I banded up the paper to Mr. Rudd, his face became positively gleefuL “You’re a smart ehap,” he repeated, ‘nawt much doubt o’ that.’ “Do you make much poetry?” I asked. He nodded his head slowly “Agoodish bit,” be replied; leastways, I should if I’d alius a smart ’un like you at hand to take ’tin down. But I’m naw hand at setting dawn at it, and it dawn’t alius keep in my head. ’l'is a gift,’ he continued. ‘lt all began when .1 were -a lad, a driving up and dawn Falmouth way wi’ father. Then I used to hear the old waggon go ‘turn to turn’ alawng the road, and the warses they came and kept time. Lord, to trunk 6’ the thousands of bootiful pomes I ha’ made; they’d make a wallum; and I’ve got ’em all here in my bead, thick as beeain a beehive, all a buzzing together, one atop a t’other,” “Do you live at St. Gurlott’s Mr. Rudd?" “Isß, young master; I drives this ere van three times a week tq Falmouth and back.” I “Then perhaps I’ll be able to take down some of your poems for you. I am going to live there, too, you know!” This idea pleased the drowsy giant immensely. Ha was about to expatiate upon it, wheirs ireavy raindrop falling on his hand brought him from the clouds. “Lawd love the lad," he exclaimed, “how we be a-loitering. Here, jump up, young master, we’m got a good twelve miles afore us yet, and a black night prawmising to come." I took the hand which he extended to me, and which looked like a giant’s paw, and sprang up to my seat beside him. “Hurry up, Martha ” he said, “get on, old gari,” and the mare’s slow walk broke into a trot, which caused the wagon to rattle and shake, and my ieeth to cla'.ler in my head. The prospect still continued bleak, but it was now not quite so desolate. To the right and left of us still stretched the bleak moorland, but now it was broken up by green hillocks and belts Of woodland. Here and there on the meadows were cattle grazing, while at intervals were white-washed cottages with little gardens running down to the roadside. From time to time we rounded some quiet bay, and caught a glimpse of the sea. ~ Presently, far ahead of us. I saw clustering houses, from the midst of which arose a church spire. “What is that?" I asked. He seemed to know by instinct what I meant, for he replied without taking his eyes off the horse, “That, young master, be Craigruddock. We’ll stavvp there for a bit of summat to eat and drink, and to gie the mare a re9t.”

When we entered the village of Craigruddock our appearance caused no little stir. John Rudd was evidently woll known—for as the lumbering waggon went rattling down the little street, shock-headed children came peeping out of the doorways, and here and there a peasant woman made her appearance, and nodded cheerfully to us as we went by. For each and all John Rudd had a good-humored grin, which I thought broadened a little as the waggon was pulled up with a jerk before the door of the inn. Here, after some little trouble, we got something to eat, a few boiled eggs, and some home-baked bread. When the horse had been rested, wo started again on our journey. The warm day was succeeded by a cold evening, and with the darkness came rain. I was glad to follow John Rudd’s example, to wrap myself well up in my overcoat, before I again took my seat behind the mare. We jolted on again, covering what seemed to me an interminable space. The darkness rapidly increased, the rain continued to fall; and worn out with fatigue 1 fell into a fitful doze. At length, however, John Rudd’s voice aroused me indeed.

“Wawk up, young master,” said he; “we’m gettin’ pratty nigh your place,” I roused myself and looked about me, but there was nothing 'to be seen. Darkness encompassed us on evqry hand; the wind was sighing softly, making a sound like the distant murmur of the sea. Presently the waggon stopped. The carrier jumped down, and waited for me to do the same; then he gave a peculiar whistle as he went round to the back of the wagon to haul out my trunk. The whistle had its effect. The darkness was suddenly penetrated by a light, which seemed quite close to us. and a man’s voice called out in a broad country dialect: “Be that you. John Rudd?* “Iss, mate,’’ returned Rudd. “You katch hold o’ the young gentleman. I ha’.gawt the bawx.” • Be this the lad?” asked the voice, as I fdlt a heavy hand laid upon my shoulder. "Iss.” “Waal, mv lad, you be welcome to St. Gurlott’s!" The hand kept hold of my shoulder and led pie along. The next thing I became conscious of was standing upon the threshold of an open loor. and 61“ the voice of my guide saying heartily: “Yar he he, Martha!” , Then another voice, that, of a woman. answered: •lLawd love the lad; let’s look at un!” and then there was silence.