Chapter Twenty.The Jordan River.Can I ever forget that day? It seemed the worst of all the ten. Yes, I think it was quite the worst. Before the last of those ten days came, I had grown accustomed to suffering; the burden given me to carry began to fit on my young shoulders. I lay down with it, and arose with it; under its weight I grew old in heart and spirit, as old as Nan. Laughter was far from my lips, or smiles from my eyes.But why do I speak of myself? Why do I say, I, I? I was one of many suffering women at Ffynon?Let me talk of it asoursorrow!What a leveller trouble is! There was mother, laying her proud head on little Nan’s neck; there was the under-viewer’s wife taking me in her arms, and bidding me sob a few tears, what tears I could shed, on her bosom.Yes, in the next ten days the women of Ffynon had a common sorrow. I do not speak here of the men, the men acted nobly, but I think the women who stood still and endured, had the hardest part to play.“Heroic males the country bears,But daughters give up more than sons;Flags wave, drums beat, and unawaresYou flash your souls out with the guns,And take your heaven at once.“But we; we empty heart and home.Of life’s life, love! we bear to thinkYou’re gone, to feel you may not come.To hear the door-latch stir and clink,Yet no more you—nor sink.”But I must tell my story. I left little Nan, I went home to mother. I told her, for I had to tell her now, something about David. She was not much alarmed, I don’t think I was either. We thought it probable that David would come up out of the mine at any moment. I think our worst fears and our strongest suffering was for Owen. We sat together, dear mother and I, very anxious, very expectant, very patient. Hour after hour we sat together, waiting for David and Owen. Overhead, poor Gwen suffered and moaned; we did not tell her of our anxiety, she was too ill to hear it. In the room next to Gwen’s, the little baby slept. When my fear and anxiety grew quite unbearable, I used to steal upstairs and look at David’s little lad. Once I took the little icy hand and held it in my own for a long time, and tried to chafe it into life and warmth. I could not do it. No more than I could chase away the fear which was growing, growing in my own hearty From my window I could see the pit bank. It was an ugly sight, and one I seldom gazed at. I hated the appearance of the ugly steam-engines, and the dusty coal-covered figures. I hated the harsh noise, the unpleasing commotion; but to-day nothing comforted me so much as to draw the blinds, which were down, and look towards this same pit bank; the roaring steam, the appearance of quiet, rapid, regular work soothed my fears, and became a blessed and soul-sustaining sight. I felt sure as long as these signs of regular work were going on on the bank, that all must be right in the mine. Still, why did not David return? So much depended on his return, he had promised so faithfully not to remain below a moment longer than was necessary.As the day wore on, my heart sank and sank, and my fears rose and rose, and at five o’clock on that April afternoon, the blow came. I was standing by my room window, looking toward the pit bank. Suddenly I saw in that familiar scene a change. The greater number of the day crew had come up. I waited to see David’s figure, taller than the rest. The men stood in groups talking eagerly, a number crowded round the mouth of the shaft; out of the houses around, women came rushing, then on the air there rose a bitter sharp cry, and one woman leaving the group, which increased each moment round the shaft, ran, clasping her hands and weeping, towards our house. I recognised her, even as she ran, as the bearer of former ill tidings, Mrs Jones. I went downstairs to meet her. I opened the dining-room door. I called to mother, who was sitting close to the window watching, watching for Owen, thinking little of David. She must know all now, better learn the worst at once.“Mother,” I said, “Mrs Jones has come, and something dreadful has happened in the mine.”Then I took the weeping, agitated woman’s hand, and mother clasped her other hand, and we both looked hard in her face, and she looked into ours, and in broken words she told her tale.How few were her words, but how crushing her intelligence! Just as the men were leaving work, the water had burst in like the sea into the workings; most of the day crew had escaped in time, but fourteen were still below.“Which?” we asked breathlessly, “who were the doomed ones?”“Not my son?” said mother.“Not my brother?” said I.“Yes,” said the woman, “Squire Morgan is still below—and—and—” bringing out the words with a great gasp, her face, her lips, growing white, “My husband—my George.”She was silent then, and we three looked at each other in blank wonder and surprise; each was saying in her heart of hearts, “My sorrow is the greatest.”At last I started to my feet.“I will go down to the bank and learn more,” I said.Bonnetless and shawlless the next moment I was mingling with the black men, and wild-looking women;Iwas clasping their hands, looking into their faces, and entreating them to tell me all they knew. One or two turned away from me, one or two muttered that it was the new manager’s fault. Words that made my heart freeze within me, about the blood of husbands and sons being on our heads, reached my ears, then a strong hand was laid on my shoulder, and turning, I recognised through all his coal dust, and blackened face, little Nan’s father, Moses Thomas.“Come round to my house, dear young lady,” he said, in a gentle tone; then turning to the angry men and women, “Shame on you! cowards! has not Squire Morgan sacrificed his life for you to-day?”The people shrank back; one woman said, “God bless him!” and Moses Thomas took my hand in his.Little Nan was waiting for us. In the midst of all my own agony, I almost dreaded seeing Nan’s face, but to my surprise it was quiet. When I entered the house she came up and kissed me. She had never ventured to kiss me of her own accord before, but on this occasion we were equals—nay, on this occasion Nan was greater than I.“Yes, Miss Morgan,” said Thomas, seating himself and beginning his tale at once. “’Tis very like they is drowned, the Squire, and my lad, and Jones, and eleven more of ’em; and oh! Lord! some was ready, and some isn’t; some was turning to the Lord, and some was just goin’ on in evil; and oh! dear Lord! forgive me, and have mercy upon me!” The man covered his face with his hands, and Nan went down on her knees.“Lord, forgive father, and lay not this sin to his charge,” she said.Thomas looked at her from under his shaggy brows, stretched out his hand and stroked her cheek, then making an effort to master some strong emotion, continued his tale.“Yes, my dear young lady, as I say, ’twas mostly my fault; I felt rare and h’angered this morning, when I went down into the mine, to find that the little chap, unknownst to me, had brought down the Squire. I spoke sharp to the lad, the Lord have mercy on me! The Squire, he had a long talk with me and the deputy, and he wanted the overman to be sent for, but the overman was ill, and I ranks next, and I was rare and vexed, and I laughed at the thought of danger, and I knew the Squire had no knowledge of mines, and ’twas all the little chap’s conceit. So the upshot of it was we went on with the workin’ of the new seam, and I had my h’eye out sharp, and to prevent all chance of danger, I made the men work, as I thought, in a new direction, away from Pride’s Pit. Well, the Squire stayed down all day, and two or three times he axed me to stop working until Mr Morgan come back; but I never, no, God knows, I neverthoughtof danger. At last it was evening, and I came to the surface, but Miles, being trapper, had to stay down to the last; and the Squire, who seemed mighty taken with the lad, said they would come up together. Well, I had not been to the surface more’n ten minutes, when the news came that the water had burst out of Pride’s Pit; most of the men got to the surface in time, but fourteen are below. Oh! God forgive me, God forgive me. My boy, my brave boy was right; if I had hearkened to him, all would have been saved.”At these words Nan went down on her knees again, and looked into her father’s face with flushed cheeks and glistening eyes.“Father, father,doyou call Miles brave and noble now?”“Ay, ay, little lass, brave as a lion, my noble lad; how patient he was when I nearly struck him across the face this morning, and how he spoke up so manful, ‘Father, I’m not afeerd, but Iknowthere’s danger.’”“I’m so glad,” said little Nan. “I’m so glad he was brave and noble, and not afeerd; he was follerin’ of Jesus. Why, father, if Miles is drowned, he’s only gone to Jesus.”“True enough, Nan, he’s crossed the Jordan river, and is safe on the holy hill of the better land. No fear for Miles, little lass.”“But, perhaps—perhaps,” I murmured, “they are not all drowned; is there no place of escape in the mine?”“Oh! God grant it, lady; yes, there are rises and levels, they may have got into them, but how are they to be got out? however are they to be got at? Well, if there’s a shadow of a chance of this, we miners won’t leave a stone unturned to save ’em, no,not one, trust us! I must see what can be done!”
Can I ever forget that day? It seemed the worst of all the ten. Yes, I think it was quite the worst. Before the last of those ten days came, I had grown accustomed to suffering; the burden given me to carry began to fit on my young shoulders. I lay down with it, and arose with it; under its weight I grew old in heart and spirit, as old as Nan. Laughter was far from my lips, or smiles from my eyes.
But why do I speak of myself? Why do I say, I, I? I was one of many suffering women at Ffynon?
Let me talk of it asoursorrow!
What a leveller trouble is! There was mother, laying her proud head on little Nan’s neck; there was the under-viewer’s wife taking me in her arms, and bidding me sob a few tears, what tears I could shed, on her bosom.
Yes, in the next ten days the women of Ffynon had a common sorrow. I do not speak here of the men, the men acted nobly, but I think the women who stood still and endured, had the hardest part to play.
“Heroic males the country bears,But daughters give up more than sons;Flags wave, drums beat, and unawaresYou flash your souls out with the guns,And take your heaven at once.“But we; we empty heart and home.Of life’s life, love! we bear to thinkYou’re gone, to feel you may not come.To hear the door-latch stir and clink,Yet no more you—nor sink.”
“Heroic males the country bears,But daughters give up more than sons;Flags wave, drums beat, and unawaresYou flash your souls out with the guns,And take your heaven at once.“But we; we empty heart and home.Of life’s life, love! we bear to thinkYou’re gone, to feel you may not come.To hear the door-latch stir and clink,Yet no more you—nor sink.”
But I must tell my story. I left little Nan, I went home to mother. I told her, for I had to tell her now, something about David. She was not much alarmed, I don’t think I was either. We thought it probable that David would come up out of the mine at any moment. I think our worst fears and our strongest suffering was for Owen. We sat together, dear mother and I, very anxious, very expectant, very patient. Hour after hour we sat together, waiting for David and Owen. Overhead, poor Gwen suffered and moaned; we did not tell her of our anxiety, she was too ill to hear it. In the room next to Gwen’s, the little baby slept. When my fear and anxiety grew quite unbearable, I used to steal upstairs and look at David’s little lad. Once I took the little icy hand and held it in my own for a long time, and tried to chafe it into life and warmth. I could not do it. No more than I could chase away the fear which was growing, growing in my own hearty From my window I could see the pit bank. It was an ugly sight, and one I seldom gazed at. I hated the appearance of the ugly steam-engines, and the dusty coal-covered figures. I hated the harsh noise, the unpleasing commotion; but to-day nothing comforted me so much as to draw the blinds, which were down, and look towards this same pit bank; the roaring steam, the appearance of quiet, rapid, regular work soothed my fears, and became a blessed and soul-sustaining sight. I felt sure as long as these signs of regular work were going on on the bank, that all must be right in the mine. Still, why did not David return? So much depended on his return, he had promised so faithfully not to remain below a moment longer than was necessary.
As the day wore on, my heart sank and sank, and my fears rose and rose, and at five o’clock on that April afternoon, the blow came. I was standing by my room window, looking toward the pit bank. Suddenly I saw in that familiar scene a change. The greater number of the day crew had come up. I waited to see David’s figure, taller than the rest. The men stood in groups talking eagerly, a number crowded round the mouth of the shaft; out of the houses around, women came rushing, then on the air there rose a bitter sharp cry, and one woman leaving the group, which increased each moment round the shaft, ran, clasping her hands and weeping, towards our house. I recognised her, even as she ran, as the bearer of former ill tidings, Mrs Jones. I went downstairs to meet her. I opened the dining-room door. I called to mother, who was sitting close to the window watching, watching for Owen, thinking little of David. She must know all now, better learn the worst at once.
“Mother,” I said, “Mrs Jones has come, and something dreadful has happened in the mine.”
Then I took the weeping, agitated woman’s hand, and mother clasped her other hand, and we both looked hard in her face, and she looked into ours, and in broken words she told her tale.
How few were her words, but how crushing her intelligence! Just as the men were leaving work, the water had burst in like the sea into the workings; most of the day crew had escaped in time, but fourteen were still below.
“Which?” we asked breathlessly, “who were the doomed ones?”
“Not my son?” said mother.
“Not my brother?” said I.
“Yes,” said the woman, “Squire Morgan is still below—and—and—” bringing out the words with a great gasp, her face, her lips, growing white, “My husband—my George.”
She was silent then, and we three looked at each other in blank wonder and surprise; each was saying in her heart of hearts, “My sorrow is the greatest.”
At last I started to my feet.
“I will go down to the bank and learn more,” I said.
Bonnetless and shawlless the next moment I was mingling with the black men, and wild-looking women;Iwas clasping their hands, looking into their faces, and entreating them to tell me all they knew. One or two turned away from me, one or two muttered that it was the new manager’s fault. Words that made my heart freeze within me, about the blood of husbands and sons being on our heads, reached my ears, then a strong hand was laid on my shoulder, and turning, I recognised through all his coal dust, and blackened face, little Nan’s father, Moses Thomas.
“Come round to my house, dear young lady,” he said, in a gentle tone; then turning to the angry men and women, “Shame on you! cowards! has not Squire Morgan sacrificed his life for you to-day?”
The people shrank back; one woman said, “God bless him!” and Moses Thomas took my hand in his.
Little Nan was waiting for us. In the midst of all my own agony, I almost dreaded seeing Nan’s face, but to my surprise it was quiet. When I entered the house she came up and kissed me. She had never ventured to kiss me of her own accord before, but on this occasion we were equals—nay, on this occasion Nan was greater than I.
“Yes, Miss Morgan,” said Thomas, seating himself and beginning his tale at once. “’Tis very like they is drowned, the Squire, and my lad, and Jones, and eleven more of ’em; and oh! Lord! some was ready, and some isn’t; some was turning to the Lord, and some was just goin’ on in evil; and oh! dear Lord! forgive me, and have mercy upon me!” The man covered his face with his hands, and Nan went down on her knees.
“Lord, forgive father, and lay not this sin to his charge,” she said.
Thomas looked at her from under his shaggy brows, stretched out his hand and stroked her cheek, then making an effort to master some strong emotion, continued his tale.
“Yes, my dear young lady, as I say, ’twas mostly my fault; I felt rare and h’angered this morning, when I went down into the mine, to find that the little chap, unknownst to me, had brought down the Squire. I spoke sharp to the lad, the Lord have mercy on me! The Squire, he had a long talk with me and the deputy, and he wanted the overman to be sent for, but the overman was ill, and I ranks next, and I was rare and vexed, and I laughed at the thought of danger, and I knew the Squire had no knowledge of mines, and ’twas all the little chap’s conceit. So the upshot of it was we went on with the workin’ of the new seam, and I had my h’eye out sharp, and to prevent all chance of danger, I made the men work, as I thought, in a new direction, away from Pride’s Pit. Well, the Squire stayed down all day, and two or three times he axed me to stop working until Mr Morgan come back; but I never, no, God knows, I neverthoughtof danger. At last it was evening, and I came to the surface, but Miles, being trapper, had to stay down to the last; and the Squire, who seemed mighty taken with the lad, said they would come up together. Well, I had not been to the surface more’n ten minutes, when the news came that the water had burst out of Pride’s Pit; most of the men got to the surface in time, but fourteen are below. Oh! God forgive me, God forgive me. My boy, my brave boy was right; if I had hearkened to him, all would have been saved.”
At these words Nan went down on her knees again, and looked into her father’s face with flushed cheeks and glistening eyes.
“Father, father,doyou call Miles brave and noble now?”
“Ay, ay, little lass, brave as a lion, my noble lad; how patient he was when I nearly struck him across the face this morning, and how he spoke up so manful, ‘Father, I’m not afeerd, but Iknowthere’s danger.’”
“I’m so glad,” said little Nan. “I’m so glad he was brave and noble, and not afeerd; he was follerin’ of Jesus. Why, father, if Miles is drowned, he’s only gone to Jesus.”
“True enough, Nan, he’s crossed the Jordan river, and is safe on the holy hill of the better land. No fear for Miles, little lass.”
“But, perhaps—perhaps,” I murmured, “they are not all drowned; is there no place of escape in the mine?”
“Oh! God grant it, lady; yes, there are rises and levels, they may have got into them, but how are they to be got out? however are they to be got at? Well, if there’s a shadow of a chance of this, we miners won’t leave a stone unturned to save ’em, no,not one, trust us! I must see what can be done!”
Chapter Twenty One.The Lord was not in the Wind.I have said that all England knows the story. Still I will tell it, dwelling most on the part that most touched my own heart and my own life.In doing this I may be selfish, but I can tell this part best.That night Moses Thomas, with several other brave volunteers, went down the shaft of the Ffynon mine.The shaft was ninety-two yards deep.They went down determined to risk life, to save life; but even with this determination, they had little hope of success.When they reached the mine, the scene that met their eyes was likely to kill that slight hope.All the workings within a few hundred yards of the bottom of the shaft, were filled with water to the roof. It seemed utterly impossible that a soul now left in the mine could be alive. The water from the old pit had truly come in like a flood, carrying all before it. This being the case, the men were about to ascend to the surface, hopeless and despairing, when suddenly faint knockings were heard on the other side of the coal, at a distance, it was thought, of about a dozen yards.These knockings sent a thrill of joy through the breasts of the brave men. Every thought of persona! danger was put out of sight, and all night they laboured to cut away the wall of coal, fondly hoping that all the men were safe, imprisoned, but not drowned, and in a few hours they would rescue them. Well, as I said before, the story is known: in the morning five men were reached; four of these five were brought in safety to the surface; but the fifth, a noble young fellow, who had worked splendidly all night for his own rescue, and that of his companions, was killed by a terrific gas explosion, which took place when the coal was worked through.I was standing by the pit bank when these four men were brought to the surface. I saw women rush forward, and welcome with tears, fervent thanks, and joy, a father, a brother, a husband. I looked in the faces of the four, and turned away with a sick heart, for David was not amongst them. Yes, I was selfish. I could not rejoice in the joy of the few, but most bitterly could I sorrow in the grief of the many.Mother, who had come down with me in the morning to the mouth of the shaft, quite sure of seeing David, was now weeping hysterically; crying feebly for Owen, who, she said, if present, would surely save David; and mother and I at that time had both that dim idea of the mine, that it seemed to us quite possible that if only men brave enough could be found, they might go even through the water to the rescue.But what if the nine remaining men were dead! drowned. I knew the colliers were working with might and main, through that slow, torturing passage, the solid coal, to reach them. But what if, after all their efforts, they were only met by death!Down on my knees in my room, beside the coffin that contained what was mortal of David’s little lad, I thought these thoughts of David. Down on my knees, I say, but not to pray. I was in a wild state of rebellion; it seemed to me that the events of the last few days had put the whole world into a state of chaos—a state of confusion so great, that even God Himself could never put it straight again. As this was so, why should I pray to Him? I had never in days of happiness made myself acquainted with God. How could I go to Him in my misery?I was angry with God. He had been too hard on us. What had we done that He should crush us to the earth?In a few days what had not befallen us? The sudden and terrible death of David’s only little child! Gwen’s accident! Owen’s disappearance! Now David himself probably dead.Yes, truly, a whirlwind of destruction had encompassed us; but the Lord was not in the wind.Raising my head with my mind full of these thoughts, my eyes again fell upon the happy, smiling face of the dead child. The little face seemed to say more eloquently than words, “Yes, God has done all this to you; but He is good—He is very good!”The face of the baby made me cry; and my tears, without then in any way turning me consciously towards my Father, eased my heart. I was wiping them away, when the handle of the door was turned, and Nan came in. This was no time for ceremony, and Nan made none.“The men are not all drowned, Miss Morgan; my father and the other workers have heard knockings, very faint like, and a long way off; but still, that is what they want.”“Oh! Nan, is it possible? Is it possible that they’ll all be saved? Oh! I cannot believe it!” and I burst into tears.“Now isn’t that wrong and faithless?” said the little girl, taking my hand. “Ain’t this a time to exercise faith? Why, there ain’t a man there—no, not aman, as won’t work with a will. Why, when father come up, he had the blood streaming from his hands. I tell you, Miss Morgan, there’s no halting when we looks to bring h’out our brothers and sons!”“Then, Nan, they may be out to-night?”“No, Miss; that ain’t likely—we mustn’t look for impossibles. They are in a stall a long way off, called Thomas Powell’s stall; and to get to that, they must work through thirty-eight yards of coal. That ain’t light labour; but h’everything that men can do will be done. Why, engineers and miners from all the collieries round are on the spot.”“Nan,” I said, “I think I will ask God for one thing. I don’t mind telling you, but I have been feeling very bitter against God; but now if He brings me back David and Owen—both of them safe and well—why, then, I will love Him and serve Him always.”Nan was silent for a long time—some thought knitting anxiously her dark brows.“I don’t think I’d make a bargain with the Lord,” she said.“Oh! but, Nan, you cannot quite understand; I have never told you the story of my life. I see now that I never cared for either Owen or David quite in the right way. I want to change all that. Yes,” I added, humbly, “I have a great deal to change. I had a beautiful home before I came here; and I grew so tired of it, I wanted to leave it. I know I vexed David—dear, dear David, by wishing to leave Tynycymmer; and then we came here; and he asked me to try, in the little ways a sister can, to help Owen; but I didn’t. Oh! Nan, I have not been at all good, and I want to change all that.”“Well, Miss Morgan, from your own words, it seems to me you have a deal to ask the Lord to forgive you.”“Yes, I know I have,” I added, humbly.“Then why don’t you ask to be forgiven now—right away?”“No, I cannot ask now. God is punishing me too hard. I don’t love Him now at all.”“You want the lads home first?”“Oh! yes, indeed. Oh! if I might hope for that, I could love Him—I could serve Him well.”“Eh! dear,” said little Nan, “I think I could love Him, even if Miles was gone to Him. Seems to me, for all I’m so timmersome, and I does cling so to Miles, that even if Miles was dead, I could love the Lord. I think father and me, for all we’d grieve bitter, we’d never turn agen the Lord. Why, the Lord’s our guide, Miss Morgan; and however rough the way, we’d rayther go that road with Him, than any other in the world without Him. And father and me, we’d soon see that having Miles up in the better land, only ’ud make it more home like. Oh! Miss Morgan, it don’t seem to me that yours is a bit the right way.”That night the doctor gave mother a composing draught. She had not slept for two nights; and the sleeplessness, added to her anxiety, had brought on feverish symptoms. Happen what might, sleep was necessary for her, and she was now in bed, wrapped in heavy slumber. After doing what he could for mother, the doctor looked hard into my eyes, but I assured him I was well, which was true—for in body I never felt better. He made me promise, however, to go to bed. I agreed to do so, though sleep seemed very far away. The night was still early, and for an hour or two longer I would sit by the dining-room fire. As mother had done two nights before, I made down a good fire, then sat opposite to it. I sat with my head pressed on my hands, my eyes gazing into the ruddy flames, my thoughts very busy. My thoughts were troublesome—almost agonising. For the first time in my life, my will and God’s were standing opposite to one another, opposing one another in grim conflict. My young desire dared to stand up and defy its Creator. The Creator said to the thing that He had made, “Mywill be done.”The tiny atom replied, “No; not Thy will, but mine.”Thus we were at variance—God and I. I knew I must submit—that God could sweep me aside to perform, independent of me, what seemed good to Him. He could do this, but still my will might rise in rebellion, might dash itself out and die against this rock; but never, no, never submit. I was quite ready, as little Nan had expressed it, to make a bargain with God. I was ready to sell my submission at a fair price. If He left to me that for which my soul longed, then my soul, with its treasures, should be His. But without them—empty, torn, and bare; could that soul go to Him?—go to Him in its desolation, and say, “You, who have taken what I love, who have emptied me in my youth of all light and joy, take me too, and do with me what you will.” This I could not do—this deed of submission I could not perform. No, if God would be good to me, I would be good to Him—that was my rebellious thought. No wonder it brought me no rest. No wonder I was tossed about by this wind of desolation; and the Lord—the Lord whom I needed, the Lord who, though I knew it not, was wounding but to heal; slaying, to make me truly live—the Lord was not in the wind. I was sitting so, thinking these thoughts, wondering why trouble had awakened all these depths in me—why I, who only six months ago had been, in every sense, a child, should now feel so old and heavy at heart—when at the window of the room where I was sitting there came a very low tap. At another time such a sound, in the stillness of the night, would have frightened me; but not so now. I went directly to the window, and looked out; then, indeed, my heavy heart gave a bound, for Owen stood without. I could not raise the sash of the window without the possibility of awaking mother; but I went to the front door, and managed softly to open it.“Is my mother up? Gwladys.”“No, no, Owen,” clasping his hands, and trying to drag him over the threshold. “She is worn out—she is in bed, and asleep. Come in, dear Owen.”“No one is up but you?”“Not a soul.”“Then I will come to the fire for a moment. I am bitterly cold; and could you get me something to eat?”He crossed the threshold, entered the dining-room—shading his eyes from the light—and threw himself, with the air of one utterly spent, into the arm-chair. So worn and miserable was he, physically, that my first thought—my first thought before I could ask him a single question—was to see to his bodily comforts. I got him food and wine, then going on my knees, I unlaced and removed, as well as I could, his wet and mud-covered boots, went softly upstairs for clean, dry socks, and his favourite slippers. He did not oppose me by a single remark, he submitted to my attentions, ate eagerly and hungrily of the food I gave him. When I had done all I could, I sat down on the floor by his side, and took his hand. I must now begin to question him, for the silence between us, with my ignorance of what he did or did not know, was becoming unbearable.“Where have you been? Owen. We have wanted you here so dreadfully.”“Have you? I should have been no use to you. For the last two days I have been mad—that was all.” He looked like it now. His eyes bloodshot, his face deadly pale.“But, brother,” I said, impelled to say the words, “our David has quite forgiven you.”“Good God! Gwladys,” starting upright, “do you want to put me on the rack? How dare you mention his name.Hisname, and the name of his murdered child! Oh! my God! how that little face haunts me!”He began to pace up and down the room. I feared he would wake mother; but in his passion and agony I could do nothing to restrain him. After a time, however, he sat down more quietly.“Yes; I have been mad, or perhaps, I am sane now, and was mad all the rest of my life. In my sanity, or madness—call it what you will—I at last see myself. Howdaredyou and mother pamper and spoil me when I was a boy! How dared you foster my be setting sin, my weak ambition, my overweening vanity. I never loved you forthat—never. I cared most for David. How could I help it—righteous, humble, noble; judging calmly and correctly; telling me my faults. But, there! how I must blame others, and lay the sin on others. I did love you, my dear,”—laying his hand for an instant on my head—“I used to dream of you when, like the prodigal, I lived in the far country; but, as I say again, what of that! I went to Oxford—oh! it is a long story, a story of sin upon sin. My vanity, fed by petty adulation. I spent money. I got into debt, frightfully—frightfully. I did worse. I got amongst a fast set, and became the fastest of them all. At last came the crisis. I won’t tell you of it. Why should you know? But for David, I should have been publicly disgraced—think of that! Your ‘hero’ brother—you used to say that of me—the conceited lad who thought the world hardly vast enough or grand enough to hold him. David, as I say, saved me. He paid all my debts—he set me free. My debts were enormous; to pay them the estate was seriously crippled. I went abroad. I thought myself humbled then. I did not care what I put my hand to. I had one dream, to fulfil that I lived. I meant to pay back to David the money he had spent on me. I knew of this mine on his property. I knew it was badly worked; that the profits, which might be enormous, were very small. I thought this mine might prove my El Dorado; might give to me the golden treasure I needed. I always meant to be a civil engineer; to this purpose I had turned my attention during my short periods of real work at Christ Church. Now I determined to take up engineering with a will. I did this because I knew that it would qualify me to have the direction of David’s mine—to get out of David’s mine the gold I needed. For four years I worked for this. I gained practical knowledge; then I came here—you know that part of the story. I told David of my hopes; they excited no pleasure in him. He begged of me to make the mine safe; to use my skill in saving life. I promised him. I meant to perform my word. I did not think I should fail bitterly and utterly a second time. I did not suppose, when long ago I dreamed dreams, and saw visions, that I should rob David, first of his gold, and then of his child; and this last is murder.”Owen paused here, and wiped some great drops from his brow. “Gwladys,” he continued, “I see myself now. I am sane, not mad. I see myself at last. I am the greatest sinner in the world.”He paused again; these words have been used hypocritically; but there was no hypocrisy in that voice—in those eyes then; the solemn, slow denunciation came with the full approval of the heart and reason. I could not contradict. I was silent. “Yes,” he repeated, “I have come to that—come down to that—to be a murderer—the lowest of all. I am the greatest sinner in the world; and for two days I have been looking at God, and God has been looking at me. Face to face—with that murdered child, and all my other crimes between us—we have been viewing each other. Is it any wonder I should tell you I have been mad?”“You may be facing God,” I said, slowly then. “You may be facing God with all your sins; but you must remember one thing: you, a sinner, are facing a God who died for such as you.”I don’t know why I said these words; they seemed to be sent to me. I appeared to be speaking outside myself.“Thank you,” said Owen. Then he covered his face, and was silent for a quarter of an hour; and in that interval of quiet, the knowledge came to me that this penitent, broken man—this agonised, stricken soul, was nearer, far nearer to God than I was. At the end of a quarter of an hour, Owen rose to his feet.“I heard of the mine accident at a roadside inn, this afternoon; that brought me home. I cannot understand how the water burst in. I had no idea there was an accumulation of water in Pride’s Pit. I thought it was properly pumped away—but, there! I should haveknown. I am going down into the mine at once. I know David is in the mine.”“Owen,” I said, suddenly remembering, “David sent you that.” I put the little note, which David had written, into his hands.He read it, then threw it, open, on the table.The hard look was gone from his eyes—they were glistening.“Farewell, dear, I am going to my duty. God helping me, I will save David or die.”Before I could say a word, he was out of the house; before I could call to him, his footsteps had died away on the night air.I threw myself on my knees. I did not pray in words, but I prayed in floods of healing tears. Then I read David’s letter.“Owen, there are two sides to everything. What has happened is not bad for my little lad. God has taken him—it must be good for my child to be with God. I try to fix my mind on this thought. I ask you to try to do the same. I know this is hard.“Owen, you have been careless, and have sinned, and your sin has been punished. The punishment is all the worse for you, because it crushes me. It shall not quite crush me, Owen; I will rise above it. My dear brother, don’t despair. If I can and do forgive you, with all my heart, so assuredly will God.“But, Owen, you are cowardly to shirk your duty. There is danger in the mine. As soon as ever you get this come to me there. Be brave! Whatever you feel, do your duty like a man, for my sake, and for God’s sake.“David.”
I have said that all England knows the story. Still I will tell it, dwelling most on the part that most touched my own heart and my own life.
In doing this I may be selfish, but I can tell this part best.
That night Moses Thomas, with several other brave volunteers, went down the shaft of the Ffynon mine.
The shaft was ninety-two yards deep.
They went down determined to risk life, to save life; but even with this determination, they had little hope of success.
When they reached the mine, the scene that met their eyes was likely to kill that slight hope.
All the workings within a few hundred yards of the bottom of the shaft, were filled with water to the roof. It seemed utterly impossible that a soul now left in the mine could be alive. The water from the old pit had truly come in like a flood, carrying all before it. This being the case, the men were about to ascend to the surface, hopeless and despairing, when suddenly faint knockings were heard on the other side of the coal, at a distance, it was thought, of about a dozen yards.
These knockings sent a thrill of joy through the breasts of the brave men. Every thought of persona! danger was put out of sight, and all night they laboured to cut away the wall of coal, fondly hoping that all the men were safe, imprisoned, but not drowned, and in a few hours they would rescue them. Well, as I said before, the story is known: in the morning five men were reached; four of these five were brought in safety to the surface; but the fifth, a noble young fellow, who had worked splendidly all night for his own rescue, and that of his companions, was killed by a terrific gas explosion, which took place when the coal was worked through.
I was standing by the pit bank when these four men were brought to the surface. I saw women rush forward, and welcome with tears, fervent thanks, and joy, a father, a brother, a husband. I looked in the faces of the four, and turned away with a sick heart, for David was not amongst them. Yes, I was selfish. I could not rejoice in the joy of the few, but most bitterly could I sorrow in the grief of the many.
Mother, who had come down with me in the morning to the mouth of the shaft, quite sure of seeing David, was now weeping hysterically; crying feebly for Owen, who, she said, if present, would surely save David; and mother and I at that time had both that dim idea of the mine, that it seemed to us quite possible that if only men brave enough could be found, they might go even through the water to the rescue.
But what if the nine remaining men were dead! drowned. I knew the colliers were working with might and main, through that slow, torturing passage, the solid coal, to reach them. But what if, after all their efforts, they were only met by death!
Down on my knees in my room, beside the coffin that contained what was mortal of David’s little lad, I thought these thoughts of David. Down on my knees, I say, but not to pray. I was in a wild state of rebellion; it seemed to me that the events of the last few days had put the whole world into a state of chaos—a state of confusion so great, that even God Himself could never put it straight again. As this was so, why should I pray to Him? I had never in days of happiness made myself acquainted with God. How could I go to Him in my misery?
I was angry with God. He had been too hard on us. What had we done that He should crush us to the earth?
In a few days what had not befallen us? The sudden and terrible death of David’s only little child! Gwen’s accident! Owen’s disappearance! Now David himself probably dead.
Yes, truly, a whirlwind of destruction had encompassed us; but the Lord was not in the wind.
Raising my head with my mind full of these thoughts, my eyes again fell upon the happy, smiling face of the dead child. The little face seemed to say more eloquently than words, “Yes, God has done all this to you; but He is good—He is very good!”
The face of the baby made me cry; and my tears, without then in any way turning me consciously towards my Father, eased my heart. I was wiping them away, when the handle of the door was turned, and Nan came in. This was no time for ceremony, and Nan made none.
“The men are not all drowned, Miss Morgan; my father and the other workers have heard knockings, very faint like, and a long way off; but still, that is what they want.”
“Oh! Nan, is it possible? Is it possible that they’ll all be saved? Oh! I cannot believe it!” and I burst into tears.
“Now isn’t that wrong and faithless?” said the little girl, taking my hand. “Ain’t this a time to exercise faith? Why, there ain’t a man there—no, not aman, as won’t work with a will. Why, when father come up, he had the blood streaming from his hands. I tell you, Miss Morgan, there’s no halting when we looks to bring h’out our brothers and sons!”
“Then, Nan, they may be out to-night?”
“No, Miss; that ain’t likely—we mustn’t look for impossibles. They are in a stall a long way off, called Thomas Powell’s stall; and to get to that, they must work through thirty-eight yards of coal. That ain’t light labour; but h’everything that men can do will be done. Why, engineers and miners from all the collieries round are on the spot.”
“Nan,” I said, “I think I will ask God for one thing. I don’t mind telling you, but I have been feeling very bitter against God; but now if He brings me back David and Owen—both of them safe and well—why, then, I will love Him and serve Him always.”
Nan was silent for a long time—some thought knitting anxiously her dark brows.
“I don’t think I’d make a bargain with the Lord,” she said.
“Oh! but, Nan, you cannot quite understand; I have never told you the story of my life. I see now that I never cared for either Owen or David quite in the right way. I want to change all that. Yes,” I added, humbly, “I have a great deal to change. I had a beautiful home before I came here; and I grew so tired of it, I wanted to leave it. I know I vexed David—dear, dear David, by wishing to leave Tynycymmer; and then we came here; and he asked me to try, in the little ways a sister can, to help Owen; but I didn’t. Oh! Nan, I have not been at all good, and I want to change all that.”
“Well, Miss Morgan, from your own words, it seems to me you have a deal to ask the Lord to forgive you.”
“Yes, I know I have,” I added, humbly.
“Then why don’t you ask to be forgiven now—right away?”
“No, I cannot ask now. God is punishing me too hard. I don’t love Him now at all.”
“You want the lads home first?”
“Oh! yes, indeed. Oh! if I might hope for that, I could love Him—I could serve Him well.”
“Eh! dear,” said little Nan, “I think I could love Him, even if Miles was gone to Him. Seems to me, for all I’m so timmersome, and I does cling so to Miles, that even if Miles was dead, I could love the Lord. I think father and me, for all we’d grieve bitter, we’d never turn agen the Lord. Why, the Lord’s our guide, Miss Morgan; and however rough the way, we’d rayther go that road with Him, than any other in the world without Him. And father and me, we’d soon see that having Miles up in the better land, only ’ud make it more home like. Oh! Miss Morgan, it don’t seem to me that yours is a bit the right way.”
That night the doctor gave mother a composing draught. She had not slept for two nights; and the sleeplessness, added to her anxiety, had brought on feverish symptoms. Happen what might, sleep was necessary for her, and she was now in bed, wrapped in heavy slumber. After doing what he could for mother, the doctor looked hard into my eyes, but I assured him I was well, which was true—for in body I never felt better. He made me promise, however, to go to bed. I agreed to do so, though sleep seemed very far away. The night was still early, and for an hour or two longer I would sit by the dining-room fire. As mother had done two nights before, I made down a good fire, then sat opposite to it. I sat with my head pressed on my hands, my eyes gazing into the ruddy flames, my thoughts very busy. My thoughts were troublesome—almost agonising. For the first time in my life, my will and God’s were standing opposite to one another, opposing one another in grim conflict. My young desire dared to stand up and defy its Creator. The Creator said to the thing that He had made, “Mywill be done.”
The tiny atom replied, “No; not Thy will, but mine.”
Thus we were at variance—God and I. I knew I must submit—that God could sweep me aside to perform, independent of me, what seemed good to Him. He could do this, but still my will might rise in rebellion, might dash itself out and die against this rock; but never, no, never submit. I was quite ready, as little Nan had expressed it, to make a bargain with God. I was ready to sell my submission at a fair price. If He left to me that for which my soul longed, then my soul, with its treasures, should be His. But without them—empty, torn, and bare; could that soul go to Him?—go to Him in its desolation, and say, “You, who have taken what I love, who have emptied me in my youth of all light and joy, take me too, and do with me what you will.” This I could not do—this deed of submission I could not perform. No, if God would be good to me, I would be good to Him—that was my rebellious thought. No wonder it brought me no rest. No wonder I was tossed about by this wind of desolation; and the Lord—the Lord whom I needed, the Lord who, though I knew it not, was wounding but to heal; slaying, to make me truly live—the Lord was not in the wind. I was sitting so, thinking these thoughts, wondering why trouble had awakened all these depths in me—why I, who only six months ago had been, in every sense, a child, should now feel so old and heavy at heart—when at the window of the room where I was sitting there came a very low tap. At another time such a sound, in the stillness of the night, would have frightened me; but not so now. I went directly to the window, and looked out; then, indeed, my heavy heart gave a bound, for Owen stood without. I could not raise the sash of the window without the possibility of awaking mother; but I went to the front door, and managed softly to open it.
“Is my mother up? Gwladys.”
“No, no, Owen,” clasping his hands, and trying to drag him over the threshold. “She is worn out—she is in bed, and asleep. Come in, dear Owen.”
“No one is up but you?”
“Not a soul.”
“Then I will come to the fire for a moment. I am bitterly cold; and could you get me something to eat?”
He crossed the threshold, entered the dining-room—shading his eyes from the light—and threw himself, with the air of one utterly spent, into the arm-chair. So worn and miserable was he, physically, that my first thought—my first thought before I could ask him a single question—was to see to his bodily comforts. I got him food and wine, then going on my knees, I unlaced and removed, as well as I could, his wet and mud-covered boots, went softly upstairs for clean, dry socks, and his favourite slippers. He did not oppose me by a single remark, he submitted to my attentions, ate eagerly and hungrily of the food I gave him. When I had done all I could, I sat down on the floor by his side, and took his hand. I must now begin to question him, for the silence between us, with my ignorance of what he did or did not know, was becoming unbearable.
“Where have you been? Owen. We have wanted you here so dreadfully.”
“Have you? I should have been no use to you. For the last two days I have been mad—that was all.” He looked like it now. His eyes bloodshot, his face deadly pale.
“But, brother,” I said, impelled to say the words, “our David has quite forgiven you.”
“Good God! Gwladys,” starting upright, “do you want to put me on the rack? How dare you mention his name.Hisname, and the name of his murdered child! Oh! my God! how that little face haunts me!”
He began to pace up and down the room. I feared he would wake mother; but in his passion and agony I could do nothing to restrain him. After a time, however, he sat down more quietly.
“Yes; I have been mad, or perhaps, I am sane now, and was mad all the rest of my life. In my sanity, or madness—call it what you will—I at last see myself. Howdaredyou and mother pamper and spoil me when I was a boy! How dared you foster my be setting sin, my weak ambition, my overweening vanity. I never loved you forthat—never. I cared most for David. How could I help it—righteous, humble, noble; judging calmly and correctly; telling me my faults. But, there! how I must blame others, and lay the sin on others. I did love you, my dear,”—laying his hand for an instant on my head—“I used to dream of you when, like the prodigal, I lived in the far country; but, as I say again, what of that! I went to Oxford—oh! it is a long story, a story of sin upon sin. My vanity, fed by petty adulation. I spent money. I got into debt, frightfully—frightfully. I did worse. I got amongst a fast set, and became the fastest of them all. At last came the crisis. I won’t tell you of it. Why should you know? But for David, I should have been publicly disgraced—think of that! Your ‘hero’ brother—you used to say that of me—the conceited lad who thought the world hardly vast enough or grand enough to hold him. David, as I say, saved me. He paid all my debts—he set me free. My debts were enormous; to pay them the estate was seriously crippled. I went abroad. I thought myself humbled then. I did not care what I put my hand to. I had one dream, to fulfil that I lived. I meant to pay back to David the money he had spent on me. I knew of this mine on his property. I knew it was badly worked; that the profits, which might be enormous, were very small. I thought this mine might prove my El Dorado; might give to me the golden treasure I needed. I always meant to be a civil engineer; to this purpose I had turned my attention during my short periods of real work at Christ Church. Now I determined to take up engineering with a will. I did this because I knew that it would qualify me to have the direction of David’s mine—to get out of David’s mine the gold I needed. For four years I worked for this. I gained practical knowledge; then I came here—you know that part of the story. I told David of my hopes; they excited no pleasure in him. He begged of me to make the mine safe; to use my skill in saving life. I promised him. I meant to perform my word. I did not think I should fail bitterly and utterly a second time. I did not suppose, when long ago I dreamed dreams, and saw visions, that I should rob David, first of his gold, and then of his child; and this last is murder.”
Owen paused here, and wiped some great drops from his brow. “Gwladys,” he continued, “I see myself now. I am sane, not mad. I see myself at last. I am the greatest sinner in the world.”
He paused again; these words have been used hypocritically; but there was no hypocrisy in that voice—in those eyes then; the solemn, slow denunciation came with the full approval of the heart and reason. I could not contradict. I was silent. “Yes,” he repeated, “I have come to that—come down to that—to be a murderer—the lowest of all. I am the greatest sinner in the world; and for two days I have been looking at God, and God has been looking at me. Face to face—with that murdered child, and all my other crimes between us—we have been viewing each other. Is it any wonder I should tell you I have been mad?”
“You may be facing God,” I said, slowly then. “You may be facing God with all your sins; but you must remember one thing: you, a sinner, are facing a God who died for such as you.”
I don’t know why I said these words; they seemed to be sent to me. I appeared to be speaking outside myself.
“Thank you,” said Owen. Then he covered his face, and was silent for a quarter of an hour; and in that interval of quiet, the knowledge came to me that this penitent, broken man—this agonised, stricken soul, was nearer, far nearer to God than I was. At the end of a quarter of an hour, Owen rose to his feet.
“I heard of the mine accident at a roadside inn, this afternoon; that brought me home. I cannot understand how the water burst in. I had no idea there was an accumulation of water in Pride’s Pit. I thought it was properly pumped away—but, there! I should haveknown. I am going down into the mine at once. I know David is in the mine.”
“Owen,” I said, suddenly remembering, “David sent you that.” I put the little note, which David had written, into his hands.
He read it, then threw it, open, on the table.
The hard look was gone from his eyes—they were glistening.
“Farewell, dear, I am going to my duty. God helping me, I will save David or die.”
Before I could say a word, he was out of the house; before I could call to him, his footsteps had died away on the night air.
I threw myself on my knees. I did not pray in words, but I prayed in floods of healing tears. Then I read David’s letter.
“Owen, there are two sides to everything. What has happened is not bad for my little lad. God has taken him—it must be good for my child to be with God. I try to fix my mind on this thought. I ask you to try to do the same. I know this is hard.“Owen, you have been careless, and have sinned, and your sin has been punished. The punishment is all the worse for you, because it crushes me. It shall not quite crush me, Owen; I will rise above it. My dear brother, don’t despair. If I can and do forgive you, with all my heart, so assuredly will God.“But, Owen, you are cowardly to shirk your duty. There is danger in the mine. As soon as ever you get this come to me there. Be brave! Whatever you feel, do your duty like a man, for my sake, and for God’s sake.“David.”
“Owen, there are two sides to everything. What has happened is not bad for my little lad. God has taken him—it must be good for my child to be with God. I try to fix my mind on this thought. I ask you to try to do the same. I know this is hard.“Owen, you have been careless, and have sinned, and your sin has been punished. The punishment is all the worse for you, because it crushes me. It shall not quite crush me, Owen; I will rise above it. My dear brother, don’t despair. If I can and do forgive you, with all my heart, so assuredly will God.“But, Owen, you are cowardly to shirk your duty. There is danger in the mine. As soon as ever you get this come to me there. Be brave! Whatever you feel, do your duty like a man, for my sake, and for God’s sake.“David.”
Chapter Twenty Two.The Lord was not in the Fire.And now, day after day, heroic men worked nobly. Without a thought of personal danger, engineers, viewers, managers, miners, private gentlemen,—all laboured for the common cause.Brothers were perishing of slow starvation, that was enough; brothers, come what might, would go to their rescue.Perhaps there was seldom seen a grander fight between love and death.Those who had a thorough knowledge of the mine, soon perceived that thirty-eight yards of solid coal intervened between the imprisoned men and their rescuers. The only other access was completely cut away by so vast a body of water, that it was not unfitly compared to an underground ocean. The obstacles between the rescuers and the imprisoned men seemed at first insurmountable. It appeared to be beyond human strength, either to drain away the water, or to cut through the coal, in time. What was to be done? Moses Thomas, who, whenever he came to the bank, gave me all the information in his power, said that hopeless as the task appeared, the coal was to be cut away from this black tomb without delay. Every strong man in the neighbourhood volunteered for this work, and truly the work was no light one! The place sloped downwards, about four inches to every yard, and each piece of coal struck away, had to be instantly removed. But fresh and fresh shifts of men plied their mandrils unremittingly; there was no halting or turning back; for three hours, without pause, each man worked, to be instantly followed, when this allotted time had expired, by a fresh volunteer.“Sleep, Miss,” said one brawny fellow, when coming to the surface, he stooped to wash his blood-covered hands. “No, I doesn’t want to sleep, while the Squire, and the lad, and the others is starving. I tell you, Miss, I never cried so bitter in all my life, as when I heard them knockings!”Thus by one mode of egress, all that mortal man could do, was being tried. But scientific men who were present, were too wise to neglect any plan for rescue. It was thought possible, that by means of divers, the imprisoned men might be reached through the water; accordingly two very experienced divers were telegraphed for from a well-known London firm, and as quickly as they could, they answered the summons. I did not know at the time, though I have learned something since, of the dangers these men underwent in this attempt to rescue human life. Having learned, I should like to say a little about them here, for I think no men stood higher in that band of heroes. So great was their danger, that not a gentleman in the neighbourhood would undertake the responsibility of sending them down into the mine, and some even counselled them not to undertake so hopeless a task. But both men instantly replied, that they would never return to their firm without making the attempt, and that they would take all responsibility on themselves. They had never been in a mine before, and very different would be the diving through this black and stagnant water, full of turnings of which they knew nothing, and of obstacles too great to be overcome, from any work they had hitherto undertaken. Indeed, so great was their danger, that those who saw them enter that inky sea, never expected to see them return again; but nothing daunted, the brave men closed their helmets, and commenced the impossible task. Mother and I, with many other women, and children, stood on the pit bank, and as the man who held the line, called out at intervals “fifty feet,” “eighty feet,” “a hundred feet,” what echoes of hope and longing were awakened in beating hearts! I had one arm round mother’s waist, Nan held my other hand, and when at last “five hundred feet” was called, and this was known to be within about two hundred and fifty feet of the stall where the prisoners were confined, simultaneously we went on our knees. The hope, the brilliant hope was too dazzling. Dazzling! it seemed to have come. Mother and I had David once more; little Nan, her brother; the under-viewer’s wife, her husband. But; alas! it was only the lightning flash in the dark cloud, for at length, after a long period of silence, came the hopeless words, “They are coming back!” Yes, the brave divers had done their best, but were unsuccessful. To reach the prisoners by this means was a failure. As they said themselves, “We are very sorry, we found it was impossible to get on further, owing to pieces of wood in the water, the broken road, mud, and the strength of the swell.”When they appeared again, and had stumbled exhausted to the ground, their helmets, new when they entered, were battered as though they had seen twenty years’ service—a convincing proof of the dangers they had undergone.Yes, this attempt was a failure; but still hope did not die, still brave men toiled, and day after day the coal was cut away so perseveringly, so unceasingly, that at last on the seventh day after the inundation, shouts were made to the entombed men, and—oh! with what thankfulness was the faint answering response hailed. That weak cry, low and death-like, would have given the necessary spur had such been needed. All this time pumps were used, without ceasing, to reduce the water in the workings.Meanwhile, as day after day went by, each day filled with more of despair, and less of hope, what had become of Owen? He had said on that evening, some days back now, that he would rescue David or die, but still the manager of the mine was not present. At this critical time he had deserted his post, and the control and direction of all that was done, rested with strangers. Suspicion was grave against my brother, he had, to say the least of it, worked the mine recklessly. Though, with the utmost care, water inundations were sometimes impossible to avert, yet in this particular instance, it seemed that with ordinary foresight, by seeing that Pride’s Pit was properly drained, or at least by avoiding the working of this particular coal vein, the present accident might never have taken place. Thus, things looked grave for Owen, and he was not at his post. Yes, I knew all this, I heard ugly words about an inquest, by and by; but strange as it may seem, never since his return, had my heart felt so at rest about Owen. I had a feeling, almost an instinct, that Owen had not really deserted his post, that among the volunteers in the mine he might be found, that amongst the bravest of the rescuers he might be numbered. When, with my sisters in this deep deep trouble, I stood for long hours of every day by the pit bank, I saw once amongst the smoke-begrimed and blackened men, who rose after their herculean toil to the surface, a face and form which in their outline resembled his—any other recognition was impossible; but so sure was I that this man was Owen, that I began gradually to watch for him alone. But watch as I would, I only saw him once. I was told afterwards, on questioning eagerly, that this miner slept below, that he refused to come to the surface at all, until the work for death or life was done, and that he appeared to work with the strength and energy of ten other men.“His name!” I breathlessly demanded.“Nobody knew his name, he was a volunteer, a stranger it seemed, but there were many such present; he was a plucky fellow, worth a great deal,” this was all in this awful and grim conflict his fellow-workers cared for. I told mother of Owen’s visit to me that night. I think my narrative comforted her, she asked very few questions; but I thinkhereye too, though she said nothing, had rested on the face and form of the strange miner, and that she too had an idea, and a hope, that Owen was working in the mine. I believe, I feel sure, nothing kept up mother’s heart and mine, so much as this hope. Was it possible that we were then learning the truth of that great saying from the lips of the Master—“He that loseth his life for My sake, shall find it?” Ay, for My sake, thoughIreveal myself through a brother’s love.About Wednesday night, the eighth of the men’s imprisonment, thirty-two yards out of the thirty-eight of coal had been cut away. There were now only six yards of coal between the prisoners and freedom, and on the men being shouted to, the joyful news was brought to mother and me from the pit bank, that David’s voice was heard above the rest; but, alas! sorrow came to many, while relief and thankfulness to is: there were only five men in the stall, four were now given up for lost. Between these five men and life and liberty, there seemed to me to be but a step, it could not take long, surely, to cut through the remaining six yards of coal, and to release the entombed from a lining grave. I showed my ignorance, my hope was wrong, the trial of my faith was not yet over. Nay, I think the faith that was to be tried by fire was put to the proof during the next two days, in every heart at Ffynon. The experienced colliers said that the real danger had now but begun. The water in the mine was only kept back from the imprisoned men by a very strong pressure of air, beyond this air-tight atmosphere it could not come; five or six feet away from the imprisoned men, it stood like an inky wall, but once break through with the slightest blow of the mandril, the wall of coal at one side, and the confined air would find vent, and the water, no longer impeded, would rush forward, sweeping into certain destruction both captives and rescuers. Unless the water could be pumped away, or the air in some way exhausted, there seemed to be no hope. All the pumps in the neighbourhood were lent, and were plied without intermission, and scientific men put their heads together and agreed to raise air-tight doors, so as to keep back the full rush of the imprisoned atmosphere, when the coal was broken through. But, alas! how faint and sick grew all our hearts, for nothing could now be done rashly, and was it possible that the men could live many hours longer without food?On the eighth night, food was attempted to be passed through a tube, but this proved a failure, the rush of air through the opening was so terrible, that it was found necessary to plug the hole. The roar of air was as loud as that of a blast furnace, and twice the force of the imprisoned air dashed out the plug, which could only be replaced by efforts almost superhuman.On the ninth day, I was passing through Gwen’s room; she had been in a low fever, brought on by pain, and the violent shock her whole system had undergone. I used to avoid Gwen, dreading her questions, fearing to tell her what had happened. She was taken care of by a clever and experienced nurse, and I thought it kinder to leave her to her care; but on this day she heard my step, opened her eyes, and called me to her side.“Gwladys.”“Yes, dear Gwen.”“Have they buried the baby yet?”“Yes, Gwen, he is lying in a little grave in the churchyard close by; he was buried last Saturday.”“Eh! dear, dear, I’d like to have seen his blessed little face first, but never mind! Oh! Gwladys, ain’t the Lord good to the little ’uns?”“I don’t know,” I said.“Dear, my maid, and h’all this fiery trial upon you, and not to know. Dear, dear, haven’t I bin lying here for days and learnin’ h’all about it. Seems to me I never knewwhatthe Lord Jesus Christ was like before. Haven’t He that baby in His arms now; haven’t He put sight into his blind eyes, and shown to him the joys of Paradise; and haven’t He bin helping me to bear the pain quite wonderful? I’lltellyou, Gwladys,” raising herself in bed, “I’ll tell you what the Lord is—tender to the babies, pitiful to the sick and weak, abundant in mercy to the sinners, and the Saviour of them that’s appointed to die; and if that’s not a God for a time of trouble, I don’t know where you’ll find a God.”Gwen brought out these words in detached sentences, for she was very weak; but her feverish eyes looked into mine, and her hot hand held my hand with energy.“And, my maid,” she continued, in an exhausted whisper, “I’ve dreamed that dream again.”“Oh! Gwen—what?”“All that dream about the mine, my maid; and I know ’tis coming true. Owen will save David.”I left Gwen, and went into my own room. On my knees, for a brief instant, I spoke to God. “Oh! God,” I said, “if you are the only help for a dark day, deliver us. Lord, have mercy upon us. Christ, have mercy upon us. Lord, out of the depths, here, we cry to Thee. Lord, deliver those who are appointed to die;” and then, before I rose from my knees, four low words rose from my heart—“Thy will be done;” very low, in the faintest whisper—with the cold dew of agony breaking all over me, these words were wrung from my soul; still I said them. Then I went back to the bank. There was a change there, and some commotion—something had happened. Alas! what? My heart beat audibly. I made my way through the crowd, and found myself close to a group of colliers, who had just come up from the mine. Terrible and ominous words smote on my ear. A new danger had arisen. There were signs of the colliers’ worst enemy—gas. The Davy lamps could not be lit. Again the plug was blown out of the hole, and the roar of air which came through the opening, prevented the loudest voice being heard.“There is a power in there which would blow us up the heading like dust,” said one.The peril was too tremendous. Even the bravest of the brave had given way. Dear life was too precious. The men who had toiled, as only heroes could toil, for so many long days and nights, faltered at length. To go forward now, seemed certain and absolute death to both rescuers and rescued.“The boy is gone,” said Moses Thomas, looking Nan in the face. “He has been nine days now without food.”“God help them all; they’ll soon be in eternity,” said another miner, wiping the tears from his weatherbeaten face.“This last has daunted us,” said a third.“We have done all that men could do,” sighed a fourth, who, worn out from toil, fell half-fainting on the ground.“To go on now, would be certain death,” said a fifth.Then there was silence—intense silence; not even the sound of a woman’s sob.The despairing men looked at one another. All seemed over. The starving prisoners in the mine were to starve to death. They were to listen in vain for the cheering sound of the mandril—in vain for their comrades’ brave voices—in vain for light, food, liberty. The rescuers could venture into no deeper peril for their sakes.Suddenly the strange miner sprang to the front; fazed his companions with flashing eyes, and called out, in a deep voice rendered almost harsh by some pent-up emotion—“I’m going on, though ’tis death. Shut the doors upon me,” he added, “and I’ll cut the passage through!”Quick as lightning these words chased fear from every heart.“I’ll go, for another—and I—and I,” said many. And back went the brave men into the dark mine, to cut away, on their hands and knees, at a passage, in many places not three feet high.I don’t know how it was, but from the moment I heard that brave collier’s voice, I had hope—from that moment the worst of my heart agony was over. I felt that God would save the men. That His will was to deliver them from this pit of destruction. I was able to hear of the fresh dangers that still awaited the brave workers—of that frightful gas explosion, which on Friday obliged every working collier to fly for his life, and at last to return to his noble toil in the dark. Still I was not afraid. I felt sure of seeing David again. And now the tenth day had dawned, and excitement and hope had reached their highest pitch—their last tension. The air-tight doors were fixed in the workings. The men, both prisoners and rescuers, were now working in compressed air. The pumps had much reduced the water; and at last—at last, a breach was made. The pick of a miner had broken through the wall of coal. What a moment of excitement—longing—fear! What a joy, which seemed almost too grand, and great, for earth, when, to the thousands who waited above, the news was brought that science and love were successful—that back again from the arms of a terrible death, would come to us, our brothers and friends. I hardly remember what followed next. I never left the pit bank. I stood there, between mother and Nan, and watched, with straining eyes, that could hardly see—could hardly realise, as men, borne on litters, were carried past; men with coal-black faces—rigid, immovable, as though carved in granite.Little Miles was brought first. He looked tiny and shrunken; yet I saw that he breathed. Then three men, whom I did not know; but one of whom was recognised by the under-viewer’s wife.Last of all our David. His eyes were open, and fixed on the blue sky.When mother saw David, she fainted.I bent over her, and tried to raise her. No one had seen her fall. The heroes in this tragedy had kept all eyes another way. My own head, as I bent over her, was reeling, my own brain was swimming. Suddenly two strong hands were placed under her head, and the strange miner raised her tenderly in his blackened and coal-covered arms.“Gwladys, we have saved them. Thank God!” he said.
And now, day after day, heroic men worked nobly. Without a thought of personal danger, engineers, viewers, managers, miners, private gentlemen,—all laboured for the common cause.
Brothers were perishing of slow starvation, that was enough; brothers, come what might, would go to their rescue.
Perhaps there was seldom seen a grander fight between love and death.
Those who had a thorough knowledge of the mine, soon perceived that thirty-eight yards of solid coal intervened between the imprisoned men and their rescuers. The only other access was completely cut away by so vast a body of water, that it was not unfitly compared to an underground ocean. The obstacles between the rescuers and the imprisoned men seemed at first insurmountable. It appeared to be beyond human strength, either to drain away the water, or to cut through the coal, in time. What was to be done? Moses Thomas, who, whenever he came to the bank, gave me all the information in his power, said that hopeless as the task appeared, the coal was to be cut away from this black tomb without delay. Every strong man in the neighbourhood volunteered for this work, and truly the work was no light one! The place sloped downwards, about four inches to every yard, and each piece of coal struck away, had to be instantly removed. But fresh and fresh shifts of men plied their mandrils unremittingly; there was no halting or turning back; for three hours, without pause, each man worked, to be instantly followed, when this allotted time had expired, by a fresh volunteer.
“Sleep, Miss,” said one brawny fellow, when coming to the surface, he stooped to wash his blood-covered hands. “No, I doesn’t want to sleep, while the Squire, and the lad, and the others is starving. I tell you, Miss, I never cried so bitter in all my life, as when I heard them knockings!”
Thus by one mode of egress, all that mortal man could do, was being tried. But scientific men who were present, were too wise to neglect any plan for rescue. It was thought possible, that by means of divers, the imprisoned men might be reached through the water; accordingly two very experienced divers were telegraphed for from a well-known London firm, and as quickly as they could, they answered the summons. I did not know at the time, though I have learned something since, of the dangers these men underwent in this attempt to rescue human life. Having learned, I should like to say a little about them here, for I think no men stood higher in that band of heroes. So great was their danger, that not a gentleman in the neighbourhood would undertake the responsibility of sending them down into the mine, and some even counselled them not to undertake so hopeless a task. But both men instantly replied, that they would never return to their firm without making the attempt, and that they would take all responsibility on themselves. They had never been in a mine before, and very different would be the diving through this black and stagnant water, full of turnings of which they knew nothing, and of obstacles too great to be overcome, from any work they had hitherto undertaken. Indeed, so great was their danger, that those who saw them enter that inky sea, never expected to see them return again; but nothing daunted, the brave men closed their helmets, and commenced the impossible task. Mother and I, with many other women, and children, stood on the pit bank, and as the man who held the line, called out at intervals “fifty feet,” “eighty feet,” “a hundred feet,” what echoes of hope and longing were awakened in beating hearts! I had one arm round mother’s waist, Nan held my other hand, and when at last “five hundred feet” was called, and this was known to be within about two hundred and fifty feet of the stall where the prisoners were confined, simultaneously we went on our knees. The hope, the brilliant hope was too dazzling. Dazzling! it seemed to have come. Mother and I had David once more; little Nan, her brother; the under-viewer’s wife, her husband. But; alas! it was only the lightning flash in the dark cloud, for at length, after a long period of silence, came the hopeless words, “They are coming back!” Yes, the brave divers had done their best, but were unsuccessful. To reach the prisoners by this means was a failure. As they said themselves, “We are very sorry, we found it was impossible to get on further, owing to pieces of wood in the water, the broken road, mud, and the strength of the swell.”
When they appeared again, and had stumbled exhausted to the ground, their helmets, new when they entered, were battered as though they had seen twenty years’ service—a convincing proof of the dangers they had undergone.
Yes, this attempt was a failure; but still hope did not die, still brave men toiled, and day after day the coal was cut away so perseveringly, so unceasingly, that at last on the seventh day after the inundation, shouts were made to the entombed men, and—oh! with what thankfulness was the faint answering response hailed. That weak cry, low and death-like, would have given the necessary spur had such been needed. All this time pumps were used, without ceasing, to reduce the water in the workings.
Meanwhile, as day after day went by, each day filled with more of despair, and less of hope, what had become of Owen? He had said on that evening, some days back now, that he would rescue David or die, but still the manager of the mine was not present. At this critical time he had deserted his post, and the control and direction of all that was done, rested with strangers. Suspicion was grave against my brother, he had, to say the least of it, worked the mine recklessly. Though, with the utmost care, water inundations were sometimes impossible to avert, yet in this particular instance, it seemed that with ordinary foresight, by seeing that Pride’s Pit was properly drained, or at least by avoiding the working of this particular coal vein, the present accident might never have taken place. Thus, things looked grave for Owen, and he was not at his post. Yes, I knew all this, I heard ugly words about an inquest, by and by; but strange as it may seem, never since his return, had my heart felt so at rest about Owen. I had a feeling, almost an instinct, that Owen had not really deserted his post, that among the volunteers in the mine he might be found, that amongst the bravest of the rescuers he might be numbered. When, with my sisters in this deep deep trouble, I stood for long hours of every day by the pit bank, I saw once amongst the smoke-begrimed and blackened men, who rose after their herculean toil to the surface, a face and form which in their outline resembled his—any other recognition was impossible; but so sure was I that this man was Owen, that I began gradually to watch for him alone. But watch as I would, I only saw him once. I was told afterwards, on questioning eagerly, that this miner slept below, that he refused to come to the surface at all, until the work for death or life was done, and that he appeared to work with the strength and energy of ten other men.
“His name!” I breathlessly demanded.
“Nobody knew his name, he was a volunteer, a stranger it seemed, but there were many such present; he was a plucky fellow, worth a great deal,” this was all in this awful and grim conflict his fellow-workers cared for. I told mother of Owen’s visit to me that night. I think my narrative comforted her, she asked very few questions; but I thinkhereye too, though she said nothing, had rested on the face and form of the strange miner, and that she too had an idea, and a hope, that Owen was working in the mine. I believe, I feel sure, nothing kept up mother’s heart and mine, so much as this hope. Was it possible that we were then learning the truth of that great saying from the lips of the Master—“He that loseth his life for My sake, shall find it?” Ay, for My sake, thoughIreveal myself through a brother’s love.
About Wednesday night, the eighth of the men’s imprisonment, thirty-two yards out of the thirty-eight of coal had been cut away. There were now only six yards of coal between the prisoners and freedom, and on the men being shouted to, the joyful news was brought to mother and me from the pit bank, that David’s voice was heard above the rest; but, alas! sorrow came to many, while relief and thankfulness to is: there were only five men in the stall, four were now given up for lost. Between these five men and life and liberty, there seemed to me to be but a step, it could not take long, surely, to cut through the remaining six yards of coal, and to release the entombed from a lining grave. I showed my ignorance, my hope was wrong, the trial of my faith was not yet over. Nay, I think the faith that was to be tried by fire was put to the proof during the next two days, in every heart at Ffynon. The experienced colliers said that the real danger had now but begun. The water in the mine was only kept back from the imprisoned men by a very strong pressure of air, beyond this air-tight atmosphere it could not come; five or six feet away from the imprisoned men, it stood like an inky wall, but once break through with the slightest blow of the mandril, the wall of coal at one side, and the confined air would find vent, and the water, no longer impeded, would rush forward, sweeping into certain destruction both captives and rescuers. Unless the water could be pumped away, or the air in some way exhausted, there seemed to be no hope. All the pumps in the neighbourhood were lent, and were plied without intermission, and scientific men put their heads together and agreed to raise air-tight doors, so as to keep back the full rush of the imprisoned atmosphere, when the coal was broken through. But, alas! how faint and sick grew all our hearts, for nothing could now be done rashly, and was it possible that the men could live many hours longer without food?
On the eighth night, food was attempted to be passed through a tube, but this proved a failure, the rush of air through the opening was so terrible, that it was found necessary to plug the hole. The roar of air was as loud as that of a blast furnace, and twice the force of the imprisoned air dashed out the plug, which could only be replaced by efforts almost superhuman.
On the ninth day, I was passing through Gwen’s room; she had been in a low fever, brought on by pain, and the violent shock her whole system had undergone. I used to avoid Gwen, dreading her questions, fearing to tell her what had happened. She was taken care of by a clever and experienced nurse, and I thought it kinder to leave her to her care; but on this day she heard my step, opened her eyes, and called me to her side.
“Gwladys.”
“Yes, dear Gwen.”
“Have they buried the baby yet?”
“Yes, Gwen, he is lying in a little grave in the churchyard close by; he was buried last Saturday.”
“Eh! dear, dear, I’d like to have seen his blessed little face first, but never mind! Oh! Gwladys, ain’t the Lord good to the little ’uns?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Dear, my maid, and h’all this fiery trial upon you, and not to know. Dear, dear, haven’t I bin lying here for days and learnin’ h’all about it. Seems to me I never knewwhatthe Lord Jesus Christ was like before. Haven’t He that baby in His arms now; haven’t He put sight into his blind eyes, and shown to him the joys of Paradise; and haven’t He bin helping me to bear the pain quite wonderful? I’lltellyou, Gwladys,” raising herself in bed, “I’ll tell you what the Lord is—tender to the babies, pitiful to the sick and weak, abundant in mercy to the sinners, and the Saviour of them that’s appointed to die; and if that’s not a God for a time of trouble, I don’t know where you’ll find a God.”
Gwen brought out these words in detached sentences, for she was very weak; but her feverish eyes looked into mine, and her hot hand held my hand with energy.
“And, my maid,” she continued, in an exhausted whisper, “I’ve dreamed that dream again.”
“Oh! Gwen—what?”
“All that dream about the mine, my maid; and I know ’tis coming true. Owen will save David.”
I left Gwen, and went into my own room. On my knees, for a brief instant, I spoke to God. “Oh! God,” I said, “if you are the only help for a dark day, deliver us. Lord, have mercy upon us. Christ, have mercy upon us. Lord, out of the depths, here, we cry to Thee. Lord, deliver those who are appointed to die;” and then, before I rose from my knees, four low words rose from my heart—“Thy will be done;” very low, in the faintest whisper—with the cold dew of agony breaking all over me, these words were wrung from my soul; still I said them. Then I went back to the bank. There was a change there, and some commotion—something had happened. Alas! what? My heart beat audibly. I made my way through the crowd, and found myself close to a group of colliers, who had just come up from the mine. Terrible and ominous words smote on my ear. A new danger had arisen. There were signs of the colliers’ worst enemy—gas. The Davy lamps could not be lit. Again the plug was blown out of the hole, and the roar of air which came through the opening, prevented the loudest voice being heard.
“There is a power in there which would blow us up the heading like dust,” said one.
The peril was too tremendous. Even the bravest of the brave had given way. Dear life was too precious. The men who had toiled, as only heroes could toil, for so many long days and nights, faltered at length. To go forward now, seemed certain and absolute death to both rescuers and rescued.
“The boy is gone,” said Moses Thomas, looking Nan in the face. “He has been nine days now without food.”
“God help them all; they’ll soon be in eternity,” said another miner, wiping the tears from his weatherbeaten face.
“This last has daunted us,” said a third.
“We have done all that men could do,” sighed a fourth, who, worn out from toil, fell half-fainting on the ground.
“To go on now, would be certain death,” said a fifth.
Then there was silence—intense silence; not even the sound of a woman’s sob.
The despairing men looked at one another. All seemed over. The starving prisoners in the mine were to starve to death. They were to listen in vain for the cheering sound of the mandril—in vain for their comrades’ brave voices—in vain for light, food, liberty. The rescuers could venture into no deeper peril for their sakes.
Suddenly the strange miner sprang to the front; fazed his companions with flashing eyes, and called out, in a deep voice rendered almost harsh by some pent-up emotion—“I’m going on, though ’tis death. Shut the doors upon me,” he added, “and I’ll cut the passage through!”
Quick as lightning these words chased fear from every heart.
“I’ll go, for another—and I—and I,” said many. And back went the brave men into the dark mine, to cut away, on their hands and knees, at a passage, in many places not three feet high.
I don’t know how it was, but from the moment I heard that brave collier’s voice, I had hope—from that moment the worst of my heart agony was over. I felt that God would save the men. That His will was to deliver them from this pit of destruction. I was able to hear of the fresh dangers that still awaited the brave workers—of that frightful gas explosion, which on Friday obliged every working collier to fly for his life, and at last to return to his noble toil in the dark. Still I was not afraid. I felt sure of seeing David again. And now the tenth day had dawned, and excitement and hope had reached their highest pitch—their last tension. The air-tight doors were fixed in the workings. The men, both prisoners and rescuers, were now working in compressed air. The pumps had much reduced the water; and at last—at last, a breach was made. The pick of a miner had broken through the wall of coal. What a moment of excitement—longing—fear! What a joy, which seemed almost too grand, and great, for earth, when, to the thousands who waited above, the news was brought that science and love were successful—that back again from the arms of a terrible death, would come to us, our brothers and friends. I hardly remember what followed next. I never left the pit bank. I stood there, between mother and Nan, and watched, with straining eyes, that could hardly see—could hardly realise, as men, borne on litters, were carried past; men with coal-black faces—rigid, immovable, as though carved in granite.
Little Miles was brought first. He looked tiny and shrunken; yet I saw that he breathed. Then three men, whom I did not know; but one of whom was recognised by the under-viewer’s wife.
Last of all our David. His eyes were open, and fixed on the blue sky.
When mother saw David, she fainted.
I bent over her, and tried to raise her. No one had seen her fall. The heroes in this tragedy had kept all eyes another way. My own head, as I bent over her, was reeling, my own brain was swimming. Suddenly two strong hands were placed under her head, and the strange miner raised her tenderly in his blackened and coal-covered arms.
“Gwladys, we have saved them. Thank God!” he said.
Chapter Twenty Three.After the Fire—A Still, Small Voice.This is the story. The rest England knows; she knows how all the rescued men recovered, she also knows how she has honoured rescued and rescuers.The last to get well, the slowest to get back again his health and strength, was David. For a time, indeed, for David there were grave doubts and anxieties, which on the doctors’ parts amounted to fears.The previous shock and sorrow may have made the ten days without food, in that gloomy prison, tell more severely on him, for originally he was the strongest man of the five. However, after a fortnight of intense watching, the dreaded fever began to abate, and the burden of life which he had so nearly laid aside, he took up again, with his old cheerfulness and courage.“I’m glad he’s not going to die,” said Nan, “he’s wanting down on earth still. Oh! ain’t he strong,” she added; “oh! if you only heard Miles talk of him!”One day I did hear a little of what David had done, from the boy himself.“Yes, Miss, he was standin’ by me, when the water came in, we felt it running past our feet, he took my hand and said we’d run for the shaft; we run a few steps when we met Jones and two men, Powell and Williams; they said the waters were up to the roof, then we got into Powell’s stall.”“Had you any light?”“Yes, for a while we had candles, then we was in the dark, the water was a few feet away; when we was thirsty we drank the water, but it was very bad. No, we wasnotvery hungry, but we was most bitter cold.”“You did not think you were so long in the stall?”“No, not more’n a week.”“And you were not frightened?”Here the dark eyes, preternaturally large and eager-looking, gazed hard into mine.“No, I worn’t feared to die. I thought I might die, we h’all thought it. I did want to kiss Nan, and father once, but Mr Morgan—”“Well, what about Mr Morgan?”“He spoke so, he said that the Better Land were worth going through anything to reach; he said that may be there were no other road for any of us to heaven, but right through the mine, and he axed us if we was willin’ to go through that road to reach it. After a bit we all said we was.”“Well?”“Then he’d pray to the Lord so earnest, it seemed as if the Lord was nigh to us, and Mr Morgan said He was with us in the stall; then we’d sing.”“What did you sing, Miles?”“Only one hymn, over and over. We sings it at h’our meetings.”“I know it,” said Nan, “I’ll sing it now.“In the deep and mighty waters.No one there can hold my head;But my only Saviour Jesus,Who was slaughtered in my stead.“Friend, he is in Jordan’s river.Holds above the wave my head;With His smile I’ll go rejoicing,Through the regions of the dead.”“Ah!” said Miles, “you never’d know wot that hymn’s worth unless you was in the mine. Then we heard the men knocking, and that kep up our hearts, and Mr Morgan said we might be rescued; but any way ’twas all right. Towards the end two of the men got queer and off their heads, and Mr Morgan, and Jones, the under-viewer, had a deal of trouble with ’em; then Mr Morgan thought the water might have gone down, and on Friday he went in and tried for a bit to wade through, but it was too deep, and he did not know the mine. Jones would have tried after him, but then we was let h’out. No, I doesn’t remember that part. I knows nothing until I felt Nan kiss me, and I thought ’twas Stephie, and that I was in heaven.”All the time during David’s slow recovery, one person nursed him day and night—one person, with hardly any intermission, remained by his bedside; this was Owen. And no hand so soothed the sick and weary man, no face brought so peaceful a smile into his eyes, as the hand and face of Owen. As David grew better they had long talks together, but I never heard what they said.I have one thing more to write here.Three weeks after the accident, on an afternoon soft with west wind, and glowing with May beauty, I went to visit little David’s grave. They had laid him in a very old churchyard, and the tiny grave faced the Rhoda Vale, and could be seen with its companion graves, from the bank of the Ffynon mine below. I had brought some flowers to plant there. Having completed my task, I sat, for a few moments, by the side of the little mound to rest. As I sat there, I saw a man walking quickly along the high road. He mounted the stile and ascended the steep path which led to the graveyard. As I watched him, my heart beat loud and audibly—for this man was Owen. He was coming to visit little David’s grave. He had probably never seen it yet. Still I would not go away. I had something to say to Owen, I could say it best here. He came up, saw me, started for a moment, then seated himself by my side.“Gwladys, this is a fit place for us to meet. I have something to say to you.”His words, look, manner, put any speech of my own out of my head. I turned to watch him.“There is such a thing, Gwladys, as being guilty even of this—blood-guiltiness—and yet being washed white.”Silence on my part. He laid his hand on the little grave, and continued—“David, who never told a lie in his life, says he is glad; that if only the death of his child could bring me to his God, he is glad—glad even at that price.” A long pause. “I have found his God. Even by so dark a path as my own sin, I have been led to his God and Saviour.”Owen pressed his head on his hands. I saw two heavy tears drop between his fingers.“You will never know, Gwladys, what the finding of God out of so awful a storm of sin and suffering is like. I looked for Him down in the mine. With every stroke of my mandril, my heart cried, ‘Punish me as you will. I do not care what punishment you lay upon me. My life itself is valueless. Only let me find Thee.’ But I could not find Him. As I went further and further into the mine, I seemed getting further and further away from Him; my sins were between Him and me. I could not get a glimpse of Him. I was in despair. I worked with the strength of despair. It was no true courage prompted me to go back, when the other men faltered. My life was valueless to me. Then, as you know, we brought the men out. I went to David. Iwasglad that he was saved; but my heart was as heavy as ever. I used to sit up at night and fancy myself drifting further and further from God. My whole past life was before me, and it seemed hateful. Not only the wild, reckless days at Oxford, but the months that had seemed so righteous and proper here. One evening I said to David—”‘David, can you forgive me?’”‘Ay, lad,’ he answered, instantly, ‘and so can thy God.’”‘No, that He can’t,’ I said. ‘He never can forgive the death of the baby.’”‘You wrong Him, lad,’ continued my brother. ‘He took the baby away in love. He knew your eyes were shut, and a great shock must open them. Surely, Owen, if the only way He could bring you to His arms was to take the baby first,thatwon’t turn Him away now. We must go through death to Him sometimes—the death of another, if not our own.’”‘Andyouare willing to give up your child for that?’”‘Willing and glad, if by so doing you may find Christ.’”‘David, how you have worked and suffered for me.’”“But not in vain,” said David, with a radiant smile.“No, Gwladys, it was not in vain; the brother’s love was not in vain; the death of the Son of Man was not in vain.I have found God. There is to be a coroner’s inquest; things may go hard with me, for I have been much to blame; but I shall tell the whole story. If I am allowed, I shall remain at Ffynon; but wherever I am, I mean to devote my life—my whole life—all my time and all my energy, to the great cause of the miners; to the lessening of their many dangers; to the furthering of their well-being. This is my life-work; I promise to devote my life to the miners of Wales, here, by this little grave.”“Owen, before we leave this spot, I have something to say to you.”“What is that? my dear.”“I want you to forgive me.”“For what?”“Do you not know—can you not guess? I shut my heart against you; I gave you no true sister’s welcome when you came home.”“I thought you changed; I was disappointed. Had you ceased to love me?”“No, no; never that. But I had dreamt so of you—I thought you perfect. I thought you would come back bringing honour and glory; then I was told—I—”“I see; your love could not stand the shock.”“No, Owen; my old, poor, and weak love—my idolatry, could not; under the blow it died.”“Go on, my dear.”“Owen, can you ever forgive me? I have been cold, unloving, unsisterly. I wonder, now, looking back on it, that you did not hate me!”“No; at first I was disappointed. You hardly know how I loved you long ago; how you had managed to twine your little childish self round my heart. When away I thought of you. I longed, almost as much for your sake as for David’s, to win back that wretched gold. You were much changed. At first I was much disappointed; at last, I believe, indifferent.”“It is my just punishment, brother. Still, I must say something now. Owen, I love you now. I love you now as I never did long ago; I understand you now. My heart can read yours at last I love you a thousand times better than of old. I don’t expect you to respond to it,” I concluded, with a sob.Owen rose to his feet. “One moment,” he said; “do you love me well enough not to flatter me; well enough never to flatter me again; well enough to help me?”“Oh, yes! Oh! if we might help each other!”“I do respond to your love. Come to me, Gwladys.”Standing by the little grave, he held out his arms and folded them round me, and kissed my cheek; and as I looked up into the dear, beautiful, noble face—it was all that truly now—I felt that my air castle had arisen out of its ashes; my day dream was fulfilled, and I had got back my hero and my darling.The End.
This is the story. The rest England knows; she knows how all the rescued men recovered, she also knows how she has honoured rescued and rescuers.
The last to get well, the slowest to get back again his health and strength, was David. For a time, indeed, for David there were grave doubts and anxieties, which on the doctors’ parts amounted to fears.
The previous shock and sorrow may have made the ten days without food, in that gloomy prison, tell more severely on him, for originally he was the strongest man of the five. However, after a fortnight of intense watching, the dreaded fever began to abate, and the burden of life which he had so nearly laid aside, he took up again, with his old cheerfulness and courage.
“I’m glad he’s not going to die,” said Nan, “he’s wanting down on earth still. Oh! ain’t he strong,” she added; “oh! if you only heard Miles talk of him!”
One day I did hear a little of what David had done, from the boy himself.
“Yes, Miss, he was standin’ by me, when the water came in, we felt it running past our feet, he took my hand and said we’d run for the shaft; we run a few steps when we met Jones and two men, Powell and Williams; they said the waters were up to the roof, then we got into Powell’s stall.”
“Had you any light?”
“Yes, for a while we had candles, then we was in the dark, the water was a few feet away; when we was thirsty we drank the water, but it was very bad. No, we wasnotvery hungry, but we was most bitter cold.”
“You did not think you were so long in the stall?”
“No, not more’n a week.”
“And you were not frightened?”
Here the dark eyes, preternaturally large and eager-looking, gazed hard into mine.
“No, I worn’t feared to die. I thought I might die, we h’all thought it. I did want to kiss Nan, and father once, but Mr Morgan—”
“Well, what about Mr Morgan?”
“He spoke so, he said that the Better Land were worth going through anything to reach; he said that may be there were no other road for any of us to heaven, but right through the mine, and he axed us if we was willin’ to go through that road to reach it. After a bit we all said we was.”
“Well?”
“Then he’d pray to the Lord so earnest, it seemed as if the Lord was nigh to us, and Mr Morgan said He was with us in the stall; then we’d sing.”
“What did you sing, Miles?”
“Only one hymn, over and over. We sings it at h’our meetings.”
“I know it,” said Nan, “I’ll sing it now.
“In the deep and mighty waters.No one there can hold my head;But my only Saviour Jesus,Who was slaughtered in my stead.“Friend, he is in Jordan’s river.Holds above the wave my head;With His smile I’ll go rejoicing,Through the regions of the dead.”
“In the deep and mighty waters.No one there can hold my head;But my only Saviour Jesus,Who was slaughtered in my stead.“Friend, he is in Jordan’s river.Holds above the wave my head;With His smile I’ll go rejoicing,Through the regions of the dead.”
“Ah!” said Miles, “you never’d know wot that hymn’s worth unless you was in the mine. Then we heard the men knocking, and that kep up our hearts, and Mr Morgan said we might be rescued; but any way ’twas all right. Towards the end two of the men got queer and off their heads, and Mr Morgan, and Jones, the under-viewer, had a deal of trouble with ’em; then Mr Morgan thought the water might have gone down, and on Friday he went in and tried for a bit to wade through, but it was too deep, and he did not know the mine. Jones would have tried after him, but then we was let h’out. No, I doesn’t remember that part. I knows nothing until I felt Nan kiss me, and I thought ’twas Stephie, and that I was in heaven.”
All the time during David’s slow recovery, one person nursed him day and night—one person, with hardly any intermission, remained by his bedside; this was Owen. And no hand so soothed the sick and weary man, no face brought so peaceful a smile into his eyes, as the hand and face of Owen. As David grew better they had long talks together, but I never heard what they said.
I have one thing more to write here.
Three weeks after the accident, on an afternoon soft with west wind, and glowing with May beauty, I went to visit little David’s grave. They had laid him in a very old churchyard, and the tiny grave faced the Rhoda Vale, and could be seen with its companion graves, from the bank of the Ffynon mine below. I had brought some flowers to plant there. Having completed my task, I sat, for a few moments, by the side of the little mound to rest. As I sat there, I saw a man walking quickly along the high road. He mounted the stile and ascended the steep path which led to the graveyard. As I watched him, my heart beat loud and audibly—for this man was Owen. He was coming to visit little David’s grave. He had probably never seen it yet. Still I would not go away. I had something to say to Owen, I could say it best here. He came up, saw me, started for a moment, then seated himself by my side.
“Gwladys, this is a fit place for us to meet. I have something to say to you.”
His words, look, manner, put any speech of my own out of my head. I turned to watch him.
“There is such a thing, Gwladys, as being guilty even of this—blood-guiltiness—and yet being washed white.”
Silence on my part. He laid his hand on the little grave, and continued—
“David, who never told a lie in his life, says he is glad; that if only the death of his child could bring me to his God, he is glad—glad even at that price.” A long pause. “I have found his God. Even by so dark a path as my own sin, I have been led to his God and Saviour.”
Owen pressed his head on his hands. I saw two heavy tears drop between his fingers.
“You will never know, Gwladys, what the finding of God out of so awful a storm of sin and suffering is like. I looked for Him down in the mine. With every stroke of my mandril, my heart cried, ‘Punish me as you will. I do not care what punishment you lay upon me. My life itself is valueless. Only let me find Thee.’ But I could not find Him. As I went further and further into the mine, I seemed getting further and further away from Him; my sins were between Him and me. I could not get a glimpse of Him. I was in despair. I worked with the strength of despair. It was no true courage prompted me to go back, when the other men faltered. My life was valueless to me. Then, as you know, we brought the men out. I went to David. Iwasglad that he was saved; but my heart was as heavy as ever. I used to sit up at night and fancy myself drifting further and further from God. My whole past life was before me, and it seemed hateful. Not only the wild, reckless days at Oxford, but the months that had seemed so righteous and proper here. One evening I said to David—
”‘David, can you forgive me?’
”‘Ay, lad,’ he answered, instantly, ‘and so can thy God.’
”‘No, that He can’t,’ I said. ‘He never can forgive the death of the baby.’
”‘You wrong Him, lad,’ continued my brother. ‘He took the baby away in love. He knew your eyes were shut, and a great shock must open them. Surely, Owen, if the only way He could bring you to His arms was to take the baby first,thatwon’t turn Him away now. We must go through death to Him sometimes—the death of another, if not our own.’
”‘Andyouare willing to give up your child for that?’
”‘Willing and glad, if by so doing you may find Christ.’
”‘David, how you have worked and suffered for me.’”
“But not in vain,” said David, with a radiant smile.
“No, Gwladys, it was not in vain; the brother’s love was not in vain; the death of the Son of Man was not in vain.I have found God. There is to be a coroner’s inquest; things may go hard with me, for I have been much to blame; but I shall tell the whole story. If I am allowed, I shall remain at Ffynon; but wherever I am, I mean to devote my life—my whole life—all my time and all my energy, to the great cause of the miners; to the lessening of their many dangers; to the furthering of their well-being. This is my life-work; I promise to devote my life to the miners of Wales, here, by this little grave.”
“Owen, before we leave this spot, I have something to say to you.”
“What is that? my dear.”
“I want you to forgive me.”
“For what?”
“Do you not know—can you not guess? I shut my heart against you; I gave you no true sister’s welcome when you came home.”
“I thought you changed; I was disappointed. Had you ceased to love me?”
“No, no; never that. But I had dreamt so of you—I thought you perfect. I thought you would come back bringing honour and glory; then I was told—I—”
“I see; your love could not stand the shock.”
“No, Owen; my old, poor, and weak love—my idolatry, could not; under the blow it died.”
“Go on, my dear.”
“Owen, can you ever forgive me? I have been cold, unloving, unsisterly. I wonder, now, looking back on it, that you did not hate me!”
“No; at first I was disappointed. You hardly know how I loved you long ago; how you had managed to twine your little childish self round my heart. When away I thought of you. I longed, almost as much for your sake as for David’s, to win back that wretched gold. You were much changed. At first I was much disappointed; at last, I believe, indifferent.”
“It is my just punishment, brother. Still, I must say something now. Owen, I love you now. I love you now as I never did long ago; I understand you now. My heart can read yours at last I love you a thousand times better than of old. I don’t expect you to respond to it,” I concluded, with a sob.
Owen rose to his feet. “One moment,” he said; “do you love me well enough not to flatter me; well enough never to flatter me again; well enough to help me?”
“Oh, yes! Oh! if we might help each other!”
“I do respond to your love. Come to me, Gwladys.”
Standing by the little grave, he held out his arms and folded them round me, and kissed my cheek; and as I looked up into the dear, beautiful, noble face—it was all that truly now—I felt that my air castle had arisen out of its ashes; my day dream was fulfilled, and I had got back my hero and my darling.
The End.