Angel Train Page 2

“That’s not going to happen again. The mine’s in good shape,” Gwilym said. “Mr. Campbell told me himself that the prices are good and likely to get better.”

  “That’s not what the newspaper said,” Evan responded. He was a fine-looking young man with red hair and blue eyes. He was lean and strong, but his expression was unhappy. He turned to his father and said almost in desperation, “I wish I could do anything rather than dig coal under the ground. It scares me sometimes, Pa.”

  The statement troubled Gwilym, for he himself never felt fear. He had dug coal out of the ground in Wales and then in Pennsylvania until it had become second nature to him. “Why should you be afraid? The good Lord takes care of us.”

  “He didn’t take care of those six men who got killed in that cave-in last year,” Evan said bitterly. Before his father could answer, he continued. “We stay down there, sweating hour after hour, bent double. The only time we’re straight is when we’re flat on our backs, and the dust of coal—it comes down on you with a touch you can feel. You know, it’s like the coal was feeling you now gently, but one day he’d have you. That black coal is like the morning band of earth, and we’re taking it out to burn it. I think the earth is angry at us.”

  “That’s foolish talk, boy!” Gwilym said, and he was troubled. He did not like things to change, and it disturbed him that Evan could not accept his lot as a miner as had all of his people for many, many years.

  Charity spoke a thought that had been with her for some time. “I know it’s hard for you both, but there’s something wrong with having only one source of income for a whole community.”

  “And what could that mean, Daughter?”

  “Why, we’re all dependent on the mine. If it closed, think of what would happen. It would be terrible.”

  “The mine’s not going to close,” Gwilym said stubbornly. He was a man of great kindness and high intelligence, but his vision was limited. The coal mine was all he had known in Wales and all he knew here in this new country. He could not foresee a time when the mines would close, and he shook his head with a hint of stubbornness. “We’re going to be all right.”

  “I wish I could be a minister,” Evan said. “But I’ll never have the education for that. If I can’t be a minister, I’d like to be a farmer.”

  “You’d still be grubbing in the dirt,” Gwilym warmed.

  “It’s different walking over the top of the earth, feeling it beneath your feet, and watching things grow.” There was a longing in Evan Morgan’s voice, and he had spoken of this often before. He shook his head. “I guess I’ll live and die down there, grubbing around like a mole.”

  Charity was refilling the coffee cups of the men, but she paused and laid her hand on Evan’s shoulder. She could think of nothing to say, and he covered her hand with his, whispering, “There’s a good girl. Don’t mind me.”

  “God will do something for you, Evan. I know He will!”

  * * *

  SUNDAY CAME, AND THE bright sun was thawing out the frozen earth. The Pilgrim Way had its services in a small building the members had built themselves. Gwilym was the preacher, an unpaid position in their tradition, and he loved it. He was more of a teacher than a preacher, but his sermons were always interesting.

  The congregation filed out, and Gwilym was surprised to see two men waiting for him. “Why, good day to you, Mr. Campbell.”

  Angus Campbell, the owner of the mine and other properties besides, was a rather short man but so full of dynamic energy that one tended to forget his size. He had iron-gray hair, penetrating blue eyes, and a domineering attitude in the way he held himself and in the way he spoke. “A word with you in private, Gwilym Morgan.”

  “Why, certainly, Mr. Campbell. Come inside.”

  “You wait here, Charles.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Charity watched as the two men went inside and wondered, along with the others, why the owner of the mine would single out their father. She turned to Charles. “I’m surprised to see you here, Mr. Campbell.” The two had met before on several occasions but had not often spoken.

  “Yes, we’ve just been to church ourselves.”

  Meredith had been watching this, and she piped up. “Are you rich, Mr. Campbell?”

  A flush diffused itself along Campbell’s pale features. “Why—I don’t know how to answer that.”

  “I mean do you have a lot of money?”

  Charles smiled slightly. “I know what you mean, lass, but I still don’t know how to answer it.”

  “Don’t be embarrassed. It’s not a sin to be rich,” Charity said. Her eyes were sparkling. She was curious about the young man. He was in his midthirties and unmarried although it was not from lack of opportunity. He was not a handsome man, and his diffidence was so different from his father’s demeanor that Charity wondered how they could be of one blood.

  “You mustn’t mind Meredith, Mr. Campbell. She says what she thinks, and, of course, I suppose no rich man likes to admit it. Don’t mind her. She’s curious as a pet coon.”

  Meredith moved so she was facing the man and looked up into his face. “If you’re rich,” she said in an insistent voice, “you ought to help Mrs. Patterson.”

  “Mrs. Patterson?”

  “Oh, that’s a widow who lost her husband in the cave-in last year, Mr. Campbell,” Charity said. “She has four children, and things are . . . well, not too good with her.”

  Charles Campbell cleared his throat and said at once, “I would be most happy to help the lady.” He fumbled into the inner pocket of his coat, came out with a billfold, and took out some bills. Extending them toward Charity, he said, “Perhaps you’d be kind enough, Miss Charity, to give this to the lady.”

  “Oh, I think you should give it to her in person, Mr. Campbell. It would mean so much that way.”

  Campbell seemed uneasy. “Well, I hardly think that’s necessary.”

  “Oh, I believe it is. I’ll be glad to take you to her house if it’s all right with your father.” She added this and saw that indeed there was a problem with the man. I’ll wager he doesn’t sneeze without his father’s permission!

  “Well, that would be most kind of you.”

  “Wait until your father has his meeting with mine, and then we’ll go.”

  “That would be very fine.”

  Charity did not know exactly what to make of Charles Campbell. With such a father as he has, she thought, he ought to be more dominant, but he seems as uncertain as a young, callow youth.

  Finally, when Campbell and her father came out, Mr. Campbell said, “Come along, Charles.”

  “Father, Miss Charity has told me of a lady who is in difficulty. I promised to help. She’s going to take me to her house.”

  For a moment Charity thought Mr. Campbell meant to forbid the young man, but then something passed across his features, and he smiled; at least the corners of his lips turned up, although the smile never seemed, really, to reach his eyes. “Very well, but you need to be back at the house by three o’clock.”

  “Of course, Father.”

  “Well then, that’s settled,” Charity said. “You run along home, Evan. Watch the girls. Mind.”

  “I certainly will, but who’s going to watch me?”

  “I’ll watch him, Sister,” Meredith said quickly. “If he does anything wrong, I’ll tell you.”

  Charity laughed and took the arm of Charles who seemed surprised she had done so. “Now, let’s go do your good deed for the day.”

  * * *

  THERE WAS NO COOKING on the Sabbath day, and that night the family sat down to warmed soup. Gwilym was unusually quiet. He often started a conversation about an element in Scripture, but tonight he said absolutely nothing until the meal was nearly finished. Finally, he looked up and cleared his throat. “You’ve probably been wondering why Mr. Campbell wanted to speak with me.”

  “Yes, what did he want, Pa?” Evan said. “I don’t know as he’s ever gone to visit any of his workmen.”

 
; Gwilym Morgan seemed troubled. “Well, it came as a surprise for me.” He turned to face Charity and said, “He asked my permission for Charles to come calling on you, Charity.”

  Charity’s eyes opened wide with surprise. “Calling on me?”

  “Yes, I thought it was a polite thing to do since it’s the custom around here to get the permission from the father.”

  “Why didn’t Charles ask you himself?”

  “I don’t think Charles ever does anything himself,” Evan grinned. “He’s still under his father’s thumb just like all the rest of us.”

  “I think he’s shy,” Bronwen said. “He could hardly talk to you, Charity.”

  “Well, what am I to make of that? What did you tell him, Pa?”

  “I gave him my permission.”

  Bronwen cried out, “Won’t that be wonderful! If you marry him, we’ll be rich! We can live in a big house and have servants.”

  “No.” Evan was not quite so enthusiastic. “I imagine a wife of Charles Campbell will have a lot to put up with.”

  “You don’t like him?” Bronwen asked in disbelief.

  “I don’t have any feelings about him, but I know one thing. A daughter-in-law would have to toe the line with Mr. Angus Campbell.”

  “I think you’re right,” Charity said. “It would be like living with a tyrant.”

  “That young man? Never,” Gwilym said.

  “No, his father. You think Charles Campbell would ever stand up to Angus Campbell? Never in a hundred years!”

  Gwilym was toying with his fork. He didn’t answer for a time, and then he said, “Maybe a strong woman could give him some courage.”

  “I’ll have no husband who’s afraid of his own father,” Charity said. Then she laughed. “I’ll go walking with him though. There are some other poor women who need help. I’ll see to it that he does what’s right.”

  “You won’t marry him?” Bronwen cried out in disappointment.

  “No, but I won’t tell him that right off. Just think of all the envious looks I’ll get from the women who would like to have him. Well, they can have him when I’m finished with him.”

  Gwilym put his fork down, and there was an expression on his face his children had never seen before. “Well, I will go to my death!” he said loudly. “You’re turning down a man who has everything?”

  Charity Morgan looked at her father and said with great emphasis and determination, “He has everything except courage, and without that what good is a man?”

  Chapter Two

  BY MID-MARCH, THE IRON-COLD weather had passed and brought one of the mildest springs in anyone’s memory. The trees had already begun to put on their tiny golden tongues, the forerunner of the leaves that would soon turn dark green and fill in the forest with an emerald spring dress. It was the time of year Charity Morgan loved best, and she had left the house seeking some of the early plants that were her delight.

  The first she found was a patch of pokeweed, and the berries were already beginning. Some people, Charity knew, believed that it was a remedy for rheumatism, but it was dangerous. Some Pennsylvanians pressed the berries and used the juice for a strong whiskey they called “port wine.” The large roots were poisonous, but the acrid young shoots are rendered harmless by boiling, and they could be eaten like asparagus. It was too early for that, and there was not enough so she moved on, delighted by the freshness of the spring air and the loamy smell of the rich ground breaking out of the claws of winter. She passed a patch of what she called “rattlesnake plantain,” small six-inch growths with tiny greenish white flowers. She had heard that it was a sure cure for hydrophobia and snakebite but put no stock in it.

  Moving on, her eyes caught a small bunch of daisy fleabane—not a particularly beautiful plant. It was called a fleabane from the belief that when the plants were burned, they were objectionable to insects, and they were often hung in cottages for the purpose of excluding unpleasant marauders. Charity passed small samples of Queen Anne’s lace and a larger mass of purple-stemmed angelica. She picked none of these, but she found a group of small wood violets. She loved the delicate purple color and the fragrance and managed to find enough for a small sampling.

  Finally, she made her way back to the house, and as she did, she thought of Charles’s courtship. For a month he had appeared at the Morgan home dutifully, it seemed to Charity, to take her to visit his church and once to his home where she had been impressed by the ornate settings and the expensive furniture but less so by the behavior of Angus Campbell. He seemed to have been a man in power and authority for so long that he could not behave in any other way except to speak down to people. At first Charity was angry at this, but later it amused her, and she thought once of calling him “Your Majesty” or “King Campbell,” but she managed to hold back this particular humor that lay beneath the surface of her personality.

  One effect of Charles’s courtship was that quite a few young women of marriageable age were jealous and could not seem to cover it up. This amused Charity, for she had no plans for living at the castle of King Campbell! The mothers of these girls were practically green with envy, but whenever one of them tried to find out more about the seriousness of Charles’s intention, Charity merely laughed and put them off.

  By the time Charity got back to the house, she found Evan in the garden. He had been breaking the soil with a sturdy horse the Morgans kept mostly for this purpose—a big gray with the name of Phineas. She stood for a while and watched the rich earth turned over by the plow, and finally she went into the house and poured two mugs of hot coffee from the pot on the stove. She brought it out and called, “Evan, come and warm yourself with this coffee.”

  Evan had been concentrating on the plowing, but he said, “Whoa there, Phineas,” and came to stand beside her. He took the cup, sipped it, and blinked. “This is too hot to drink.”

  “Don’t be so picky,” Charity said. She reached up and pulled at his forelock. “You’re going to be an impossible husband.”

  “I’d be the best husband in the world!”

  “No, you won’t. You’re spoiled rotten, but I suppose since I did most of the spoiling, I’ll just have to take the blame for it.”

  The two stood there talking. They had always been close since they were more the same age than the other children, and Charity loved her brother deeply. She found only one fault with him, and that was he lacked a sense of humor—not so much as lacked, as he seemed to keep a tight rein on it. He was a handsome young man with clean-cut features, a determined jaw, and the same red hair Charity had inherited from their mother. It was Evan who finally brought up the subject everyone did sooner or later.

  “Have you decided what to do with Charles?” he asked. He held the coffee in both hands, the steam rising. There was a curious light in his eyes.

  “Why, it’s no decision I have to make. He comes calling, is it? What am I to do about him?”

  “He must be serious. He never chased any other young woman around.”

  “Chased! Well, devil fly off! If you call that chasing, I’d like to know why!” she exclaimed. “He comes and sits in a chair and stares at me, and Pa has to make conversation. I wish he would chase a little bit. I might even let him catch me. Hasn’t even tried to kiss me. Now, why is that? Maybe I’m getting old and ugly.”

  Evan grinned; his sister was anything but ugly. He studied her a moment, admiring the clearness of her skin, the determined line of her jaw, the beautifully shaped eyes, and the red hair much like his own. “You need to marry him.”

  “Marry him? What am I to do, Evan, grab him by the lapels and demand that he propose?”

  “Maybe you should. He’s a little bit shy.”

  “Boring! That’s what he is.”

  “What do you want, an entertainer or a husband? Go to the music hall and get you a juggler or a jig dancer.”

  “It would be better than Charles’s courtship.”

  Evan chewed his lower lip thoughtfully, a habit he had. He grew
serious and said, “Charity, if you have any feeling for the man at all, you ought to get him to propose, then you ought to marry him.”

  “Why are you so interested in my finding a husband, Evan?”

  “Because things are looking bad. Sooner or later the economy will fail just like it did seven years ago. I was only eleven, but I remember the hard times, and you remember them even more vividly, I think.”

  Indeed, Charity did remember when the banks had failed. It had been a long struggle back, and although things had improved, rumors of economic failure still seized the country.

  Evan continued, “You ought to do it for the sake of the family. If you were married to the son of the richest man in town, we wouldn’t have to worry about Bronwen or Meredith. It’s them I worry about. You owe it to them.”

  Charity Morgan was a good-tempered girl, but suddenly her anger flared. “Evan Morgan, I gave my life to raising the three of you. I haven’t married so I could see you through your childhood. Perhaps you’ve forgotten about that! I don’t need any sermons from you, Evan. Besides, he hasn’t asked me, and I don’t think he will.”

  Evan ran his hand through his hair and said finally, “Well, women can make men do things.”

  “Oh, so now it’s women who are dominating, is it? That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard of! You’re just like an old mule, you are, Evan!”

  She continued to rail at him, for his statement seemed to imply that women were manipulative and domineering. “No woman’s ever made you do anything that I can remember. Agnes Fletcher tried hard to make you court her. She didn’t do it, did she?”

  “No, but—”

  “No buts! If Charles Campbell comes and grabs me in his arms and kisses me and pays no attention to my protests, then maybe I’ll think about it. But he’s no more likely to do that than he is to jump over the house. Git you back to your plowing now. You’re better at it than managing my affairs.”

  * * *

  ANGUS CAMPBELL ATE HIS soup noisily and appeared to be deep in thought. Charles, who sat across the table from him, was accustomed to this. His father had two moods. Either he was talking loudly and proclaiming the truth as he saw it, or he was silent, thinking thoughts that no one dared break into. Charles ate his soup, and when the maid brought the lamb on a fine china plate and set it before him, he began to cut it. He jumped slightly when his father said, “Well, we’ve got to talk about this girl you’re courting.”