The Home journal. (Perry, Houston County, GA.) 1901-1924, May 21, 1903, Image 8
? ' >■ ; f : ".;V \ Black Rock By RALPH CONNOR m ♦♦♦♦<>♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦ The Whole town was astounded next morning When Slavin went to work In the mines, and Its astonishment only deepened ns the days went on and ho stuck to hJs work. Before three weeks had gone the league had bought and remodeled the saloon and had secured Slavin ns resident manager. The evening of the reopening of Sla ving saloop, ns It was still called, was long remembered In Black Rock. It was the occasion of the first appear ance of the League Minstrel and Dra matic troupe in what Was described as a “hair lifting tragedy, with appropri ate musical selections/' Then there ,was a grand supper, with speeches and great enthusiasm, Which renclicd its cliranx when Nixon rose to propose the toast of the evening, “Our saloon.” His speech was simply a quiet, manly ac count of his long struggle with the deadly enemy. When he came to speak of his recent defeat, ho shid: “And, while I am blamin’ no one but myself, I am glad tonight this sa loon is on our side, for my own sake and for thg salco of those who have been waitin’ long to see me. But be- foro I sit down I want to say that while I ltvo I shall not forget that I owe my life to tjio man that took me that night to his own shack and put mo in his own bed and met mo next mornin’ with an open hand, for I tell you I had sworn to God that mornin’ would be my last.” Geordlo’s speech was characteristic. After, a brief reference to the “myste rious ways o’ Providence,” which he acknowledged he might sometimes fall to understand, ho went on to express S is unqualified approval of the new aloon. "It’s a cozy place, an’ there’s nao sul phur aboot. Besides a’ that,” he went on enthusiastically, “It’ll be a terrible savin’. I’ve Juist been coontin’,” “You bet l” ejaculated a voice, with groat emphasis. “I've juist been coontlq’,” went on Goordio, ignoring the remark and the laugh which followed, “an’ it’s an awfp’ like money ye pit owoif wi’ the whusky. Ye see ye canna due wl’ ane bit tYe maun lmo twa or'three at the vorra least, for it’s no verra forrit yo got wi’ ane glass. Bui wi’ yon coffee ye juist J || get a saxpeuco worth an’ yo wants nae | should stay with them. But there were ’ those who knew how much of what His question suggested a possibility that had not occurred.to her. That he could leave his. work in Black Rock she had hitherto never imagined, but there was other work, and he was fit for good work anywhere. Why. should he not go? I saw the fear in her face, but I saw more than fear in her eyes as for a moment or two she let them rest upon Craig’s face. I read her story, and I was not sorry for either of them. But she was too much a woman to show her heart easily to the man she loved, and her voice was even and calm as she answered his question. “Is this a very large congregation?” “One of the finest In all the east,” I put in for him. “It will be a great thing for Craig.” Craig was studying her curiously. I think She noticed his eyes upon her, for she went on even more quietly: “It will be a great chance for work, and you are able for a larger sphere, you know, than poor Black Rock af fords.” ■ “Who will take Black Rock?” be ask ed. “Let some other fellow have a try at It,” I snid. “Why should you waste yoqr talents here?” “Waste?” cried Mrs. Mavor indig nantly. “Well, ‘bury,’ if you like it better,” I replied. “It would not takevmuch of a grave for that funeral,” said Craig, smiyng. “Oh,” said Mrs. Mavor, "you will be a great man, I know, and perhaps you ought to go now.” But ho answered coolly: “There are fifty men wanting that eastern charge, and there is only one wanting Black Rock, and I don’t think Black Rock is anxious for a change, so I have de termined to stay where I am yet awhile.” Even, my deep disgust and disappoint ment did not prevent me from seeing the sudden leap of joy in Mrs. Mavor’s eyes, but she, with a great effort, an swered quietly: “BJaclc Rock will be very glad and some of us very, very glad.” Nothing could change his mind. There was no ono be knew who could take his place just now, and why should he quit his work? It annoyed me consid erably to feel he was right. Why is it that the. right things are so frequently unpleasant? And if I had had any doubt about the matter nexi Sabbath evening would have removed it, for the men came about him after the service and let him feel in their own way how much they approved his decision, though the self sacrifice involved did not appeal to them. They were too truly western to imagine that any Inducements the east could offer could compensate for his loss of the west* It was only fitting that the west should have the best, .and so the miners took almost as a mat ter of course and certainly as their right that the best man they knew malr. 1 There was another shout of laughter, Which puzzled Geordie much. 1*1 dlnna see the jowlc, but I’ve slip- pit ower in whusky malr nor a hunner dollars.” Then he paused, looking hard before him and twisting his face into extraor dinary shapes'till the men looked at him in wonder. ‘‘I’m rale glad o’ this saloon, but it’s ower late for the lad’that qanna be helplt the noo. He’ll not be needin’' help o’ oors, I doot, but there are ith- ers.” And he stopped abruptly and sat down, with no applause following. But when Slavin, our saloon keeper, rose to reply the men jumped up on the seats aud yelled till they could yell no more. Slavin stood, evidently in trouble with himself, and finally broke out: “It’s speechless I am entirely. Wliat’s come to me I .know not nor how it’s ' come, but I’ll do my best for you.” And then the yelling broke out again. I did not yell myself. I was too busy watching the varying lights in Mrs. Ma yor’s eyes as she looked from Craig to r the yelling men on the benches and ta bles and then to Slavin, and I found myself wondering if she knew what it ,was that came to Slavin. iti CHAPTER XI. THE TWO CALLS. ITH the call to Mr. Craig I fancy I had something to do myself. The call came from a young congregation In an eastern city and was based partly upon his college record and more upon the advice of those among the authorities who knew his work in the mountains. But i fiatter myself that my letters to friends who were of Importance in that congregation were hot without influ ence, for I was of the mind that the man who 1 could handle Black Bock miners as lie could was ready for some thing larger than k mountain mission. That he would refuse I had not im agined, though I ought to have known him better. He Was* but little troubled over it. . He went with, the call and the letters urging his acceptance to Mrs. Mavor. I was putting the last touches came in. She read the letters and call quietly and waited for him to Bpeak. ■ '• W I “Well,” he said, "should 1 go?”" * She started and crew a little, pale. most men consider worth while he had given up, and they lbved him no less for it. Mrs. Mavor’s call was not so easily disposed of. It came close upon the other and stirred Black Rock as noth ing else had ever stirred it before. I found her one afternoon gazing va cantly at some legal documents spread out before her on the table and evi dently overcome by their contents. Thero- was first a lawyer’s letter in forming her that by the death of her husband’s father she had come into the whole of the Mavor estates and all the wealth pertaining thereto. The ■ letter asked for instructions and urged an immediate return with a view to a personal superintendence of the es tates. A letter, too, from a distant cousin of her husband urged her imme diate return for many reasons, but chiefly on account of the old mother, yho had been left alone, with none nearer of kin than himself tOM*are for her and cheer her old age. With these two came another letter from her mother-in-law herself. The crabbed, trembling characters were even more eloquent than,, the words with which the letter closed: “I have lost' my boy, and now rrly husband is gone, and l am a lonely wo- ban. I have many servants and some friends, but none near to me, none-so near and dear as my dead son’s wife. My days are not to be many. Come to me, my daughter. I want you and Lewis’ child.” “Must I go?” she asked, with white lips. “Do you know her well?” I asked. ' “I saw her ( only once or twice,” she answered, “but she has been very good to me.” “She can hardly need you. She has friends. And surely you are needed here.” She looked at me eagerly. , “Do you think so?” she said. { “Ask any man in the camp—Shaw, Nixon, young Winton, Geordie. Ask Craig,” I replied. “Yes, he will tell me," she said. Even as she spoke t Craig came up the steps. I passed, into my studio and .went on with my work, for my days at to Borne of my work-in the .room at the (HI., „... back of Mrs. Mayor’s house when he Black Bock were getting few, and j many sketches remained to be filled in. Through my open door I saw Mrs. Mavor lay her letters before Craig, saying, “I have a call too.”- They tfeqpgbt pot jof .. - v ) He went tnrough the papers,- careful ly laying them down without a word while she waited anxiously, almost im patiently, for him to speak. “Well,” she asked, using his own words to her, “should I go?” “I do not know,” he replied. "That is for you to decide. You know all the circumstances.” “The letters tell all.” Her tone carried a feeling of disap pointment. He did not appear to care. "The estates are large?” lie asked. “Yes, Itifge' enough—twelve thousand a year.” “And has your mother-in-law any one with her?” “She; has friends, but, as she says, none near of kin. Her nephew looks after'the works—iron works, you know. He has shares in them.” ’ “She IS evidently very lonely,” he an swered gravely. “What shall I do?” she asked, and I knew she was waiting to hear him urge her to stay, but he did not see or at least gave no heed. “I cannot say,” he repeated quietly. “There are many things to consider. The estates”— “The estates seem to trouble you,” she replied almost fretfully. He looked up in surprise. I wonder ed at his slowness. “Yes, the estates,” he went on, "and tenants, I suppose; your motherrin-law, your little Marjorie’s future, your own future.” “The estates are in capable hands, I should suppose,” she urged, “and my future depends upon what I choose my work to be.” “But one cartnot shift one’s responsi bilities,” he replied gravely. “These estates, these tenants, have come to you, and with them come duties.” "I do not want them!” she cried. “That life has great possibilities of •good,” he said kindly. “I bad thought that perhaps there was work for me here,” she suggested timidly. “Great work,” he hastened to say. “You have done great work, but you will do that wherever you go. The only question is where your work lies.” “You think I should go,” she said suddenly and a little bitterly. “I cannot bid you stay,” ho answered steadily. "How can I go?” she cried, appealing to him. “Must I go?” How he could resist • that appeal I could not understand. His face was cold and hard and his voice was al most harsh as he replied: “If it is right, you will go, you must go.” Then she burst forth: "I cannot go. I shall stay here. My work is here. My heart is here. How can I go? You thought it worth your while to stay here and work. Why should not I ?” The momentary gleam in his eyes died out, and again he said coldly: “This work was clearly mine. I am needed here.” "Yes, yes!” she cried, her voice full of pain. “You are needed, but there is no need of me.” “Stop! Stop!" he said sharply. "You must not say so.” "I will say it, I must say it!” she cried, her voice vibrating with the in tensity of her feeling. "I know you do not need me. You have your work, your miners, your plans. You need no one. You are strong. But,’! and her voice rose to a cry, “I am not strong by myself. You have made me strong. I came here a foolish girl, foolish and selfish and narrow. God sent me grief. Three years ago my heart died. Now I am living again. I am a woman now, no longer a girl. You have done this for me. Your life, your words, your self—you have shown me a better, a higher, life than I had ever known be fore, and now .you send mo away.” She paused abruptly. “Blind, stupid fool!” I said to myself. Ho held himself resolutely in hand, answering carefully, but his voice had lost its coldness and was sweet, and kind. _ “Have I done this for you? Then surely God has been good to me. And you have helped me more than any words could tell you/’ “Helped!” she repeated scornfully. “Y^s, helped,” he answered, wonder ing at her scorn. “You can do without my help,” she .went on. “You make people help you. You will get many to help you. But I need help too.” She was standing before him with her hands tightly clasped. Her face was pale, and her eyes were deeper than ever. He sat looking up at her in a kind of maze as she poured out her words hot and fast. “I am not thinking of you.” His cold ness had hurt her deeply. “I am self ish. I am thinking of myself. How shall I do? I have grown to depend on you, to look to you. It is nothing to you that I go, but to me”— She. did.not dare to .finish. FBy this time Ciaig was^sfanding be fore her, his face deathly pale. When she came to the end of her words, he said in a voice low, sweet and thrilling j with emotion: “Ah, if you only knew! Do not make me forget myself. You do not guess what you are doing.” “What am I doing? What is there to know but that you. tell me easily to sue was struggling with the tears she was too proud to let him see. He put his hands resolutely, behind him, looking at her as if studying her fdee: for the first' time; ' trhder ^ his searching look she dropped her eyes, and the warm color came slowly up in to- her heck And face. Them as if with a sudden resolve, she lifted her eyes to his and looked back at him unflinch ingly. He started, surprised, drew slowly near, put his hands upon her shoul ders, surprise giving place to Wild joy. She never moved her eyes. They drew him toward her. He took her face be tween his hands, smiled into her eyes, kissed lier lips; She did not move. He stood back from her, threw up his head and laughed aloud. She came to him, put her head upon his breast and, lifting up^her face, said, “Kiss me.” He put ills arms about her, bent down and. kissed her lips again and then rev erently bar'brow; Then, putting her back from him, but still balding both her hands, he cried: “No, you shall not go! I shall never let you go!” •• She gave a little sigh of content and, smiling at him, said: “I can go now.” But even as she spoke the flush died from her face, and she shuddered. “Never!” he almost shouted. “Noth ing shall take you away. We shall work here together.” “Ah, if we could, if we only could!” she said piteously. “Why not?” he demanded fiercely. “You will send me away. You will say it is right for me to go,” she re plied sadly. “Do we not love each other?” was his impatient answer. “Ah, yes, my love,” she said, “but love is not all.” “No!” cried Craig. • “But love is the best.” “Yes,” she said sadly; “love is the best, and it is for love’s sake we will do the best.” “There is no better work than here. Surely this is,best.” And he pictured his plnns before her. She listened eagerly. “Oh, if it should be right,” she cried. “I will do what you say! You are good; you are wise. You shall tell me.” She could not have recalled him bet ter. He stood silent some moments, then burst out passionately: “Why, then, has love come to us? We did not seek it Surely love is of God. Does God mock us?” He threw himself into his chair, pouring out his words of passionate protestation. She listened, smiling, then came to him and, touching his hair as a mother might her child’s, said: “Oh, I am very happy! I was afraid you would not care, and I could not bear to go that way.” “You shall not go!” he cried aloud, as if in pain. “Nothing can make that right’” But she only said: “You shall tell me tomorrow. You cannot see tonight, but you will see, and you will tell me.” He stood up and, holding both her hands, looked long ifito her eyes, then turned abruptly away and went out. She stood where he left her for some moments; her face radiant and h'er hands pressed upon her heart Then she came toward my room. She found me busy with my painting, but as I looked up and met her eyes she flush ed slightly and said: “I quite forgot you.” ‘.‘So it appeared to me.” “You heard?” “And saw,” I replied boldly. "It would have been rude to interrupt you see.” “Oh, I am so glad and thankful!” • < “Yes; it was rather considerate of me.” “Oh, I don’t mean that!” the flush deepening. “I am glad you know.” “I have known some time.” “How could you? I only knew today myself.” "I have eyes.” She flushed juraln. XO jpi CONTINUED. The girl is the mother of the woman just as “the boy is the father Of the man.” The period when the womanly functions be gin is one to be carefully watched and considered. Irregularity or derangement at this time may be promptly met and cured by the use of Dr, Pierce’s Favorite Pre- feription. But neglect at- this cr'tical period may entail years of future suffering. “Favorite Pre scription” acts directly upon the womanly organs, giving them per fect vigor aud abundant vitality. It removes the obstructions to health and happiness, and deliv ers womanhood from the cruel bondage of “female weakness.” You pay the postage. Dr. Pierce gives yon the book. The People’s Common Sense. Medical Adviser, 1008 ipages, 700 illustrations, is sent free on receipt of stamps to defray cost of mailing only. 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