“Tell me about Stephie,” I said.
“Stephie,” continued Miles—“he was our brother. Mother set great store by Stephie; he was so strong, and big, and brave. Nothing ’ud daunt ’im. Many of the lads about ’ere ’ud try; and they’d say, ‘Wait till the day you goes down inter the mine, and you’ll show the white feather’; but he—he larfed at ’em. He ’ad no fear in ’im, and h’all the stories ’bout fire-damp, and h’all the other dangers—and worse’rn all, the ghosts of the colliers as died in the mine, they couldn’t daunt him. Other lads ’ud run away, wen they come near the h’age; but he—he on’y counted the days; and ‘Mother,’ ’e’d say—for mother war werry weakly—‘Mother, wen you ’as my wage, you can buy this thing and t’other thing, and you’ll be strong in no time.’ Well, mother she thought a sight on Stephie, and she never wanted ’im to go down inter the mine; and she used to ask father to try and ’prentice ’im to another trade, for he war so big, and bright, and clever; but the times was bad, and father couldn’t, so Stephie had to go. He was clever, and fond o’ readin’, and a man wot lived near, lent ’im books, real minin’ books, and he knew ’bout the dangers well as anybody; but nothing could daunt Stephie, and he often said that he’d work and work, and rise hisself; and he’d try then ef he couldn’t find h’out something as ’ud help to lessen the danger for the colliers. At last the day came wen he was to go down.”
Here Miles paused, drew a long breath, and little Nan buried her head yet farther into his rough jacket. He stooped to kiss her, then raising his head, and fixing his eyes on my face, he continued. “The day ’ad come, and Stephie got h’up very early in the mornin’, and he put on ’is collier’s dress, and we h’all got up—Nan and h’all; and mother she give ’im ’is breakfast. Well, he was standin’ by the fire, and mother’s ’and on ’is shoulder, and ’er eyes on ’is face, when father, he came.
“Father had h’always promised to go down the first time wid Stephie, and show ’im the mine, and put ’im wid someone as ’nd learn ’im ’is work; but now he said, ‘Stephie, lad, I can’t go down till night. I ’as ’ad a sudden call elsewhere, so thee ’ad better wait, lad;’ but Stephie answered, ‘No, father; there’s poor little James, Black William’s son, and he’s going down too, to-day; and he’s rare and daunted, and I ain’t a bit; and Black William said as he might stay along wid me the first day, so I must go, father, and Black William ull take care on us both;’ then father, he said no more—on’y mother, she cried and begged Stephie to wait. And he looked at ’er amost scornful, for h’all he loved her so; and he said, ‘Does thee tell me to forsake the little sickly lad?’ Then he kissed mother, and he kissed little Nan, and waved his hand back at ’em, and set off running to the bank, and I ran wid ’im, and he said to me, ‘Miles, lad, don’t you h’ever be daunted when your turn comes to go down, for God takes care of h’everybody, in the earth and on the earth—’tis all the same to God.’ Then he stepped on to the cage, and gripped the hand of little James, who was shakin’ fit to drop, and he called h’out to me—‘Tell mother as I’ll be coming up wid the day crew, and to ’ave supper ready, for I’ll be very ’ungry,’ and the other colliers larfed to ’ear ’im so ’arty.
“Well, Miss Morgan, that day mother war stronger nor ordinary, and she cleaned and scrubbed the floor, and when evening came, she got a rare and good bit of supper ready, and just wen we was looking h’out for Stephie, and mother had put a rough towel, and water in the tub, ready for him to wash hisself, who should come runnin’ in but the wife of Black Bill, h’all crazy like, and ’ringin’ ’er ’hands; and she said there had been a gas explosion, and h’every livin’ soul in the mine was dead.”
Here Miles paused; speaking again in a moment, more slowly.
“That wasn’t true. A few did escape, and was brought up next day. But Black Bill was dead, and Stephie, and little James. Black Bill was found all burnt dreadful; but Stephie and little James—it was the after-damp had done for them. They was found in one of the stalls; Stephie’s arms round the little lad.” Another long pause. “Mother, she never held up her head—she died three months later, and now there’s on’y Nan, and father, and me. Nan is such a careful little body, and keeps the house so trim.”
“You are not afraid to go down into the mine?” I said.
“Well, miss, it is a bit of a cross; partic’lar as it cuts up the little ’un so; but, good gracious! it ain’t nothin’; there ain’t bin a h’accident for h’ages—and I ain’t daunted.”
“When are you going down?”