That Lass O' Lowrie's. Frances Hodgson Burnett
made her sure. There were not two such women in Riggan. She made her decision in a moment. She stepped across the grass to the hedge with a ready smile.
“You were looking at my flowers,” she said. “Will you have some?”
Joan hesitated.
“I often give them to people,” said Anice, taking a handful from the basket and offering them to her across the holly. “When the men come home from the mines they often ask me for two or three, and I think they like them even better than I do—though that is saying a great deal.”
Joan held out her hand, and took the flowers, holding them awkwardly, but with tenderness.
“Oh, thank yo',” she said. “It's kind o' yo' to gi' 'em away.”
“It's a pleasure to me,” said Anice, picking out a delicate pink hyacinth. “Here's a hyacinth.” Then as Joan took it their eyes met. “Are you Joan Lowrie?” asked the girl.
Joan lifted her head.
“Aye,” she answered, “I'm Joan Lowrie.”
“Ah,” said Anice, “then I am very glad.”
They stood on the same level from that moment. Something as indescribable as all else in her manner, had done for Anice just what she had simply and seriously desired to do. Proud and stubborn as her nature was, Joan was subdued. The girl's air and speech were like her song. She stood inside the hedge still, in her white dress, among the flowers, looking just as much as if she had been born there as ever, but some fine part of her had crossed the boundary.
“Ah! then I am glad of that,” she said.
“Yo' are very good to say as much,” she answered, “but I dunnot know as I quite understand—”
Anice drew a little nearer.
“Mr. Grace has told me about you,” she said. “And Mr. Derrick.”
Joan's brown throat raised itself a trifle, and Anice thought color showed itself on her cheek.
“Both on 'em's been good to me,” she said, “but I did na think as—”
Anice stopped her with a little gesture, “It was you who were so kind to Liz when she had no friend,” she began.
Joan interrupted her with sudden eagerness.
“It wur yo' as sent th' work an' th' things fur th' choild,” she said.
“Yes, it was I,” answered Anice. “But I hardly knew what to send. I hope I sent the right things, did I?”
“Yes, miss; thank yo'.” And then in a lower voice, “They wur a power o' help to Liz an' me. Liz wur hard beset then, an' she's only a young thing as canna bear sore trouble. Seemed loike that th' thowt as some un had helped her wur a comfort to her.”
Anice took courage.
“Perhaps if I might come and see her,” she said. “May I come? I should like to see the baby. I am very fond of little children.”
There was a moment's pause, and then Joan spoke awkwardly.
“Do yo' know—happen yo' dunnot—what Liz's trouble is? Bein' as yo're so young yorsen, happen they did na tell yo' all. Most o' toimes folk is na apt to be fond o' such loike as this little un o' hers.”
“I heard all the story.”
“Then come if yo' loike—an' if they'll let yo', some ud think there wur harm i' th' choild's touch. I'm glad yo' dunna.”
She did not linger much longer. Anice watched her till she was out of sight. An imposing figure she was—moving down the road in her rough masculine garb—the massive perfection of her form clearly outlined against the light. It seemed impossible that such a flower as this could blossom, and decay, and die out in such a life, without any higher fruition.
“I have seen Joan Lowrie,” said Anice to Derrick, when next they met.
“Did she come to you, or did you go to her?” Fergus asked.
“She came to me, but without knowing that she was coming.”
“That was best,” was his comment.
Joan Lowrie was as much a puzzle to him as she was to other people. Despite the fact that he saw her every day of his life, he had never found it possible to advance a step with her. She held herself aloof from him, just as she held herself aloof from the rest. A common greeting, and oftener than not, a silent one, was all that passed between them. Try as he would, he could get no farther;—and he certainly did make some effort. Now and then he found the chance to do her a good turn, and such opportunities he never let slip, though his way of doing such things was always so quiet as to be unlikely to attract any observation. Usually he made his way with people easily, but this girl held him at a distance, almost ungraciously. And he did not like to be beaten. Who does? So he persevered with a shade of stubbornness, hidden under a net-work of other motives. Once, when he had exerted himself to lighten her labor somewhat, she set aside his assistance openly.
“Theer's others as needs help more nor me,” she said. “Help them, an' I'll thank yo'.”
In course of time, however, he accidentally discovered that there had been occasions when, notwithstanding her apparent ungraciousness, she had exerted her influence in his behalf.
The older colliers resented his youth, the younger ones his authority. The fact that he was “noan Lancashire” worked against him too, though even if he had been a Lancashire man, he would not have been likely to find over-much favor. It was enough that he was “one o' th' mesters.” To have been weak of will, or vacillating of purpose, would have been death to every vestige of the authority vested in him; but he was as strong mentally as physically—strong-willed to the verge of stubbornness. But if they could not frighten or subdue him, they could still oppose and irritate him, and the contention was obstinate. This feeling even influenced the girls and women at the “mouth.” They, too, organized in petty rebellion, annoying if not powerful.
“I think yo' will find as yo' may as well leave th' engineer be,” Joan would say dryly. “Yo' will na fear him much, an' yo'll tire yo'rsens wi' yo're clatter. I donna see the good o' barkin' so much when yo' canna bite.”
“Aye,” jeered one of the boldest, once, “leave th' engineer be. Joan sets a power o' store by th' engineer.”
There was a shout of laughter, but it died out when Joan confronted the speaker with dangerous steadiness of gaze.
“Save thy breath to cool thy porridge,” she said. “It will be better for thee.”
But it was neither the first nor the last time that her companions flung out a jeer at her “sweetheartin'.” The shrewdest among them had observed Derrick's interest in her. They concluded, of course, that Joan's handsome face had won her a sweetheart. They could not accuse her of encouraging him; but they could profess to believe that she was softening, and they could use the insinuation as a sharp weapon against her, when such a course was not too hazardous.
Of this, Derrick knew nothing. He could only see that Joan set her face persistently against his attempts to make friends with her, and the recognition of this fact almost exasperated him at times. It was quite natural that, seeing so much of this handsome creature, and hearing so much of her, his admiration should not die out, and that opposition should rather invite him to stronger efforts to reach her.
So it was that hearing Miss Barholm's story he fell into unconscious reverie. Of course this did not last long. He was roused from it by the fact that Anice was looking at him. When he looked up, it seemed as if she awakened also, though she did not start.
“How are you getting on at the mines?” she asked.
“Badly. Or, at least, by no means well. The men are growing harder to deal with every day.” “And your plans about the fans?” The substitution of the