CHAPTER XI

DAISY BANK

IT was quite dark that evening when Marjorie drew near her journey's end. She had to change at Wolverhampton and to go to another station, that she might travel by the Great Western line.

"What time do I get to Daisy Bank?" she asked the porter who put her box into the van.

"In ten minutes, miss; third station."

She was alone in the carriage, and she sat looking out of the window, and wondering what she would find when she reached her destination. She noticed a bright light in the sky, and after a minute or two she saw that it came from the furnaces of several large ironworks that she was passing. By their bright light she could see the men at work, their faces lighted up by the red glow. But all this time she was carefully counting the stations. One passed; two passed. She must get out at the next.

The train stopped. She could hear the porter shouting, "Dysy Bank, Dysy Bank," with true Staffordshire pronunciation. She got out of the carriage, wondering who would be there to meet her. At first she could see no one; but, as she walked along the platform to get her luggage out of the van, a girl of about twelve years came up to her.

"Are you Miss Douglas?"

"Yes, I am. Have you come to meet me?"

"Yes. You're to leave your box at the station, and father will send for it."

"Can't I get a cab?"

The girl laughed. "Cab!" she said. "I should think not! We've no cabs here."

They left the box in the care of the porter, and the girl led the way to a steep flight of stone steps leading to the road above. Then she went along a roughly made cinder-path, and Marjorie followed a little behind, at times plunging into great pools of water which she could not see in the dim light, and at other times almost falling on the slippery mud. Then they turned into a short street, if street it could be called. It was so irregular that it seemed to Marjorie as if houses of all kinds had been thrown down there, and left to find their own level and own position. They passed one or two squalid shops, which appeared to sell little besides shrivelled oranges and the commonest of cheap sweets.

As they went under the light of one of these, Marjorie glanced at her companion. She was a tall, thin girl, with sharp features and an utterly colourless face. Her hair, which lacked colour almost as much as her face, being of that light yellow ochre tint which has the appearance of having been soaked in soda and water to bleach it; it was untidily done, and hung loosely about her face. She was wearing a brown tam-o'-shanter and a long grey coat, two buttons of which were missing. There was a knowing, womanly look about her face, as if she had never been a child, but had begun life as a grown-up person.

As they walked on together, the street lamps became fewer, with long stretches of darkness between them, and at length the furnace lights formed the only illumination, and these every here and there revealed a scene of utter desolation.

"What a curious place!" Marjorie said to the girl at her side.

"I should just think it is," she answered. "I hate it, and mother does too!"

"Why do you live here, then?"

"Oh! Father is the manager at the works over there. We have to live here, I suppose; it's a hateful place!"

"What is your name?"

"Patty. Did you ever hear such an awful name? I detest it. I can't think how ever they brought themselves to give me a name like that. It's the name of father's aunt, worse luck, and she asked him to call me after her."

"How many are there of you?"

"Seven; isn't it a lot? I wish we weren't such a crowd."

"Are you all at home?"

"Yes. We go to school, of course."

"Then there is a school here."

"Oh yes, a big one. I'm very glad you've come, Miss Douglas."

"Thank you; it's nice to have a welcome."

"You see, we're all so upset since mother got so ill; she's almost always in bed now. She hasn't been up for five weeks at all, and we do get in a muddle. I do what I can, but I can't do much. I have to go to school, you see, and our girl is so slow. She's not a bad sort, but she can't hurry; some people can't. And the boys are so tiresome, and they won't do what I tell them."

"Where are we going now?" asked Marjorie, as they seemed to be leaving the road and turning into the darkness.

"Oh, it's a short cut over the mounds. Take hold of my arm; you can't see, and you'll be walking off into one of the pit-pools. The lakes we call them," she added, with a laugh. "You come from the Lakes, don't you?"

"Yes, from such a lovely place."

"Well, you won't like our lakes, I'm afraid. They're only rainwater that lies in the hollows between the mounds. There are plenty of them about here."

"Isn't it better to keep to the road such a dark night as this?"

"You can't," said Patty, "it's all deep mud; you'd stick fast if you tried."

At length they saw a light, which came from the windows of a square stone house with a small garden in front of it, and Patty took a latchkey from her pocket and opened the door. Immediately a rush was heard from an inner room, and six children of various ages ran out to see the newcomer.

"Shake hands properly, and don't stand staring," said Patty. "Tom and Walter, Miss Douglas; they come next to me. Then there are Nellie and Alice. Oh! Alice, what a dirty pinafore you have. Why didn't you get Bessie to put you a clean one on? And here are the two babies. Come and kiss Miss Douglas, Bob and Evie. They're very dirty; they almost always are dirty, but they're such darlings!"

"How old are they?" asked Marjorie, as she stooped to kiss the cleanest part of the dirty little cheeks.

"Just three; they're twins, you know. Now run away, children; Miss Douglas must come and see mother."

She spoke as though they were all many years younger than herself, and as if all the cares of the household rested on her shoulders. Marjorie followed her upstairs, and she led the way into a bedroom where Mrs. Holtby was lying in bed.

Marjorie thought it was one of the most untidy rooms she had ever seen. Dust lay upon everything, and the table, chest of drawers, bed and floor were covered with all manner of things, crowded together in hopeless confusion. Mrs. Holtby raised herself on her pillow as Marjorie came in.

"I'm glad to see you, Miss Douglas. Oh! What beautiful violets."

Marjorie at once took them out of her coat and gave them to her.

"Oh! How delicious; they remind me of home."

"Did you live in the country?"

"Yes, all my life, till I was married, Miss Douglas. I'm afraid you won't find things very comfortable, but I can't help it."

"No, of course you can't," said Marjorie, kindly.

"Patty has got your room ready, haven't you, Patty?"

"Yes, as well as I could," said the girl; "I'm afraid it isn't very nice."

"Never mind," said Marjorie, "we'll soon get all straight. May I take my things off?"

Patty led the way to a small back bedroom, rather scantily furnished, but, unlike the one she had just left, it was tidy and fairly clean. She was surprised to see a little bunch of ivy lying on the dressing-table.

"Who put this here?" she asked.

"I did," said Patty. "It isn't black; I washed it at the tap. I thought as you came from the country you'd like to see something green."

Marjorie turned round and gave her a kiss.

"Thank you, dear," she said. "I do like it very much."

But, in spite of this kindly thought on Patty's part, it was hard for Marjorie to resist the feeling of home-sickness which crept over her when she was left alone. How could she ever live in such surroundings, so utterly different from everything to which she had been accustomed? But she determined to be brave and hopeful, and went downstairs to find tea ready for her in the dining-room. The cloth was dirty and the food not tempting, but Patty, who poured out the tea, seemed so ashamed of it all, and so anxious that she should have what she wanted, that she felt obliged to eat as much as she could, lest she should be disappointed.

After tea Mr. Holtby came in, a tall silent man, with sandy hair and a most worried expression on his face.

"Glad to see you, Miss Douglas. I hope Patty has taken care of you. Patty, I want some stamps. Just put on your hat and get some."

Without a word Patty set out in the darkness, and soon returned with what he wanted.

"Patty, those boys are quarrelling in the next room; go and see what's the matter," said her father.

"I expect Patty is tired," said Marjorie; "I'll go."

The boys stopped quarrelling when Marjorie entered, and a packet of chocolates which she brought from her pocket soon restored harmony in the back sitting-room, as it was called. She then went up to Mrs. Holtby, that she might learn what she wanted her to do.

Marjorie found that Mrs. Holtby was superior in many ways to her husband, a gentle, kindhearted woman, but borne down by ill-health and the cares of her large family. Her father had been a land-agent, and she had lived in a lonely place in Shropshire, and had known far better days. Marjorie felt sorry for her and anxious to help her.

But it was late when she got to bed that night, and she felt almost as if life in that house would be more than she could bear. And then she remembered that she had come there willing to do God's will, whatever that might be, and she determined to make the best of the home to which she had come, and to do her utmost to brighten it.

The next morning Marjorie was awakened at six o'clock by the "bulls" in the different works calling the men to begin their labour for the day. She jumped up, wondering what the noise was and where she could be. Then she remembered to what a forlorn place she had come the night before, and she determined to make things a little more comfortable as soon as possible. She lighted the gas and dressed quickly, and as she was doing so, she heard Mr. Holtby knocking at the servant's door and telling her to get up.

Marjorie was downstairs long before the maid, and finding a little gas-stove in the back kitchen, she lighted it and boiled some water in a small kettle which was standing on the shelf. Mrs. Holtby was very much surprised when, as soon as her husband had gone downstairs, there came a knock at her door, and Marjorie entered with a cup of tea and a thin slice of bread and butter.

"Oh! How nice," she said. "I am so thirsty; I have had such a restless night. Whatever made you think of it?"

"I have an invalid sister at home," Marjorie said, "so you see, I know what invalids like. Now I will help Bessie to get breakfast ready, and then dress the babies."

The next hour and a half was a very busy time. It was like starting a regiment, to get all those children off to school. Everything that they wanted was lost, and the scampering up and downstairs after books, boots, hats, caps, and coats was a most wearying proceeding.

At last they were off, and the house was quiet; only the two babies were left behind, and they were busily playing on the floor with a large box of bricks. Then Marjorie went upstairs to take Mrs. Holtby's breakfast, and to see what she could do to make her comfortable. She felt that nothing short of a regular spring cleaning of the bedroom would make it really clean and as she longed to see it, but she did not like to propose that the first day. She must get Bessie to help her, if that was to be done, and Bessie could not be driven too fast. She had her own ideas, and these were conservative to the last degree.

So on this first morning, Marjorie contented herself with smaller measures of reform. She brought warm water and sponged the sick woman's face and hands, and then she went quietly about the room, tidying it and clearing away the piles of rubbish which it contained. The children's clothes she carried to their own room, the books and papers she dusted and took downstairs, and then, after shaking up the pillows and straightening the bed clothes, she went downstairs to see what Bessie was doing about dinner.

"What time do they come in, Bessie?"

"One o'clock, and the master a quarter past."

"What is there for dinner?"

"There's a piece of beef; I can cook that."

"That's right, Bessie. What about pudding?"

"Well, we haven't had many puddings lately, not since missus has been ill."

"Do you think I should make one, Bessie?"

"Yes, if you will. They won't half smile if you do."

This, Marjorie discovered, was the Daisy Bank way of expressing great satisfaction.

"Very well, Bessie; let me see what you have in the house."

Marjorie was a good cook, and soon made a large suet pudding with plenty of raisins in it for the children, and a dainty custard pudding for their mother. Then she laid the table for dinner, for which she found a clean table-cloth, washed and polished the electro-plated forks and spoons, made the dull and dirty tumblers shine brightly, by washing them first in hot and then in cold water, and afterwards rubbing them with a dry cloth, and managed to have the dinner cooked and all in readiness by the time that the boys and girls came in from school.

"You have made it nice, Miss Douglas," Patty said as she looked at the table; "I wish mother could see it."

"Will you help me to get mother's dinner ready, Patty?"

"Yes. What shall I do?"

"Find me a little tray; and, Patty, have you any serviettes?"

"Yes, there are some in a drawer upstairs; I'll get one."

Patty was only too delighted to help, and when Mrs. Holtby's dinner was ready, carried the tray with great glee up to the sick room.

Mr. Holtby looked round with satisfaction as he took his place at the head of the table, but he said nothing. He was a most silent man, and Marjorie found that his words of commendation were at all times few and far between.

That afternoon Mrs. Holtby insisted on Marjorie's going out for an hour or two, that she might get some fresh air after her hard work. She proposed taking the twins with her, but their mother said that the roads were too wet for their thin shoes, and that they would be quite happy playing in her room; so she set out alone, not sorry to feel free for a little time.

So far Marjorie had seen practically nothing of Daisy Bank, for it was too dark the night before for her to do more than see the dim outline of what she passed, and from the windows of Colwyn House there was merely a narrow view, shut in by houses on either side. She had not expected to see much to charm her during her walk, but she was hardly prepared for the scene of utter desolation that met her eyes as she went down the muddy lane leading from the house.

On one side of it were a few tumble-down cottages, damp and discoloured; on the other was an open waste, strewn with the remains of old furnace heaps. She looked across this wilderness to the huge pit mounds, rising in all directions, the very picture of gloom and dreariness.

Finding that the lane was still impassable from the depth of mud, she turned upon the waste common, parts of which were covered with thin, smoke-begrimed grass. Here there stood two old houses, even more wretched and forlorn than those she had already passed. The bedroom window of one was partly blocked with wood, and the room was given up to pigeons, which flew in and out at pleasure. The door of the other house was open, and she saw a cock and a hen and three fat ducks walking about as if the whole place belonged to them.

Further on she came upon two ragged women, down on their knees upon an old mound, raking over the muddy ashes, and picking out the wet and dirty cinders which were to be found amongst them, and then stowing them away in an old sack.

"What are you doing?" Marjorie asked.

"Getting cinders for the fire."

"Will they burn?" she asked in astonishment.

"Yes, with a little coal. It's better than no fire at all."

Marjorie walked on, sick at heart, as she thought of the kind of homes that those women must have. The cold, icy wind was blowing in her face, and she shivered as she thought of the apology for a fire which would be kindled with those lifeless cinders.

After this she passed more houses and more mounds; but nowhere in the whole place did she see a vestige of anything whatever that was pleasant to look upon. The houses were destitute of paint, the doors and window-frames were bare and unsightly, the numberless broken panes were filled in with rag or paper. More than one of the houses was in ruins—every window broken, and the walls ready to fall in. The mines below had caused these houses to sink; they had been pronounced unsafe, and had been left deserted, but no one had taken the trouble to clear away the ugly, dismal ruins. There they stood, blackened with furnace smoke, unsightly and melancholy objects.

Only two coal-pits were working, so a man told her, who was smoking a dirty clay pipe at his door. Some had stopped because of bad trade; some were worked out; some had filled with water, and were therefore abandoned. Yet at the mouth of each of these deserted pits, the heavy wooden frame and great wheel still remained—a gloomy memento of more prosperous days.

In every direction in which she looked, Marjorie saw unmistakable marks of squalid, cheerless poverty; the only prosperous-looking building being the public-house at the corner, which appeared to do a thriving trade. The whole country was honeycombed with mines, and, in consequence, many of the houses had sunk below the level of the others in the same row. Everything in Daisy Bank seemed crooked and out of shape. Other cottages were scattered amongst the furnace débris, were built anywhere and everywhere that a place could be found for them, on different levels and in sundry nooks and corners of the hilly waste.

Then she came to higher mounds still, and crossing these she saw deep, black pools in their hollows, stretches of dark, stagnant water, which never reflected anything that was pretty or bright except the moon in God's pure heaven above. Here and there some one, more thrifty than his neighbours, had made a little garden in the waste; but what could grow in such a smoky atmosphere and in such poor and barren soil? A few struggling plants of the most hardy kinds were all that the best garden in Daisy Bank could produce.

Marjorie was glad to get back even to the dismal house in which her lot was cast; it seemed almost cheerful to her after the unkempt hideousness of its depressing surroundings.