The next morning Derrick went down to the mine as usual. There were several things he wished to do in these last two days. He had heard that the managers had entered into negotiations with a new engineer, and he wished the man to find no half-done work. The day was bright and frosty, and the sharp, bracing air seemed to clear his brain. He felt more hopeful, and less inclined to view matters darkly.
He remembered afterward that, as he stepped into the cage, he turned to look at the unpicturesque little town, brightened by the winter's sun; and that, as he went down, he glanced up at the sky and marked how intense appeared the bit of blue, which was framed in by the mouth of the shaft.
Even in the few hours that had elapsed since the meeting the rumor of what he had said and done had been bruited about. Some collier had heard it and had told it to his comrades, and so it had gone from one to the other. It had been talked over at the evening and morning meal in divers cottages, and many an anxious woman had warmed into praise of the man who had “had a thowt for th' men.”
In the first gallery he entered he found a deputation of men awaiting him,—a group of burly miners with picks and shovels over their shoulders,—and the head of this deputation, a spokesman burlier and generally gruffer than the rest, stopped him.
“Mester,” he said, “we chaps 'ud loike to ha' a word wi' yo'.”
“All right,” was Derrick's reply, “I am ready to listen.”
The rest crowded nearer as if anxious to participate as much as possible, and give their spokesman the support of their presence.
“It is na mich as we ha' getten to say,” said the man, “but we're fain to say it. Are na we, mates?”
“Ay, we are, lad,” in chorus.
“It's about summat as we'n heerd. Theer wur a chap as towd some on us last neet, as yo'd getten th' sack fro' th' managers—or leastways as yo'd turned th' tables on 'em an' gi'en them th' sack yo'rsen. An' we'n heerd as it begun wi' yo're standin' up fur us chaps—axin fur things as wur wanted i' th' pit to save us fro' runnin' more risk than we need. An' we heerd as yo' spoke up bold, an' argied fur us an' stood to what yo' thowt war th' reet thing, an' we set our moinds on tellin' yo' as we'd heerd it an' talked it over, an' we'd loike to say a word o' thanks i' common fur th' pluck yo' showed. Is na that it, mates?”
“Ay, that it is, lad!” responded the chorus.
Suddenly one of the group stepped out and threw down his pick.
“An' I'm dom'd, mates,” he said, “if here is na a chap as 'ud loike to shake hands wi' him.”
It was the signal for the rest to follow his example. They crowded about their champion, thrusting grimy paws into his hand, grasping it almost enthusiastically.
“Good luck to yo', lad!” said one. “We'n noan smooth soart o' chaps, but we'n stand by what's fair an' plucky. We shall ha' a good word fur thee when tha hast made thy flittin'.”
“I'm glad of that lads,” responded Derrick, heartily, by no means unmoved by the rough-and-ready spirit of the scene. “I only wish I had had better luck, that's all.”
A few hours later the whole of the little town was shaken to its very foundations, by something like an earthquake, accompanied by an ominous, booming sound which brought people flocking out of their houses, with white faces. Some of them had heard it before—all knew what it meant. From the colliers' cottages poured forth women, shrieking and wailing,—women who bore children in their arms and had older ones dragging at their skirts, and who made their desperate way to the pit with one accord. From houses and workshops there rushed men, who, coming out in twos and threes joined each other, and, forming a breathless crowd, ran through the streets scarcely daring to speak a word—and all ran toward the pit.
There were scores at its mouth in five minutes; in ten minutes there were hundreds, and above all the clamor rose the cry of women:
“My Mester's down!”
“An' mine!”
“An' mine!”
“Four lads o' mine is down!”
“Three o' mine!”
“My little un's theer—th' youngest—nobbut ten year owd—nobbut ten year owd, poor little chap! an' on'y been at work a week!”
“Ay, wenches, God ha' mercy on us aw'—God ha' mercy!” And then more shrieks and wails in which the terror-stricken children joined.
It was a fearful sight. How many lay dead and dying in the noisome darkness below, God only knew! How many lay mangled and crushed, waiting for their death, Heaven only could tell!
In five minutes after the explosion occurred, a slight figure in clerical garb made its way through the crowd with an air of excited determination.
“The Parson's feart,” was the general comment.
“My men,” he said, raising his voice so that all could hear, “can any of you tell me who last saw Fergus Derrick?”
There was a brief pause, and then came a reply from a collier who stood near.
“I coom up out o' th' pit an hour ago,” he said, “I wur th' last as coom up, an' it wur on'y chance as browt me. Derrick wur wi' his men i' th' new part o' th' mine. I seed him as I passed through.”
Grace's face became a shade or so paler, but he made no more inquiries.
His friend either lay dead below, or was waiting for his doom at that very moment. He stepped a little farther forward.
“Unfortunately for myself, at present,” he said, “I have no practical knowledge of the nature of these accidents. Will some of you tell me how long it will be before we can make our first effort to rescue the men who are below?”
Did he mean to volunteer—this young whipper-snapper of a parson? And if he did, could he know what he was doing?
“I ask you,” he said, “because I wish to offer myself as a volunteer at once; I think I am stronger than you imagine and at least my heart will be in the work. I have a friend below,—myself,” his voice altering its tone and losing its firmness,—“a friend who is worthy the sacrifice of ten such lives as mine if such a sacrifice could save him.”
One or two of the older and more experienced spoke up. Under an hour it would be impossible to make the attempt—it might even be a longer time, but in an hour they might, at least, make their first effort.
If such was the case, the Parson said, the intervening period must be turned to the best account. In that time much could be thought of and done which would assist themselves and benefit the sufferers. He called upon the strongest and most experienced, and almost without their recognizing the prominence of his position, led them on in the work. He even rallied the weeping women and gave them something to do. One was sent for this necessary article and another for that. A couple of boys were despatched to the next village for extra medical assistance, so that there need be no lack of attention when it was required. He took off his broadcloth and worked with the rest of them until all the necessary preparations were made and it was considered possible to descend into the mine.
When all was ready, he went to the mouth of the shaft and took his place quietly.
It was a hazardous task they had before them. Death would stare them in the face all through its performance. There was choking after-damp below, noxious vapors, to breathe which was to die; there was the chance of crushing masses falling from the shaken galleries—and yet these men left their companions one by one and ranged themselves, without saying a word, at the Curate's side.
“My friends,” said Grace, baring his head, and raising a feminine hand. “My friends, we will say a short prayer.”
It was only a few words. Then the Curate spoke again.
“Ready!” he said.
But just at that moment there stepped out from the anguished crowd a girl, whose face was set and deathly, though there was no touch of fear upon it.
“I ax yo',” she said, “to let me go wi' yo' and do what I con. Lasses, some on yo' speak a word fur Joan Lowrie!”
There was a breathless start. The women even stopped their outcry to look at her as she stood apart from them,—a desperate appeal in the very quiet of her gesture as she turned to look about her for some one to speak.
“Lasses,” she said again. “Some on yo' speak a word fur Joan Lowrie!”
There rose a murmur among them then, and the next instant this murmur was a cry.
“Ay,” they answered, “we con aw speak fur yo'. Let her go, lads! She's worth two o' th' best on yo'. Nowt fears her. Ay, she mun go, if she will, mun Joan Lowrie! Go, Joan, lass, and we'n not forget thee!”
But the men demurred. The finer instinct of some of them shrank from giving a woman a place in such a perilous undertaking—the coarser element in others rebelled against it.
“We'n ha' no wenches,” these said, surlily.
Grace stepped forward. He went to Joan Lowrie and touched her gently on the shoulder.
“We cannot think of it,” he said. “It is very brave and generous, and—God bless you!—but it cannot be. I could not think of allowing it myself, if the rest would.”
“Parson,” said Joan coolly, but not roughly, “tha'd ha' hard work to help thysen, if so be as th' lads wur willin'.”
“But,” he protested, “it may be death. I could not bear the thought of it. You are a woman. We cannot let you risk your life.”
She turned to the volunteers.
“Lads,” she cried, passionately, “yo' munnot turn me back. I—sin I mun tell yo'——” and she faced them like a queen,—“theer's a mon down theer as I'd gi' my heart's blood to save.”
They did not know whom she meant, but they demurred no longer.
“Tak' thy place, wench,” said the oldest of them. “If tha mun, tha mun.”
She took her seat in the cage by Grace, and when she took it she half turned her face away. But when those above began to lower them, and they found themselves swinging downward into what might be to them a pit of death, she spoke to him.
“Theer's a prayer I'd loike yo' to pray,” she said. “Pray that if we mun dee, we may na dee until we ha' done our work.”
It was a dreadful work indeed that the rescuers had to do in those black galleries. And Joan was the bravest, quickest, most persistent of all. Paul Grace, following in her wake, found himself obeying her slightest word or gesture. He worked constantly at her side, for he, at least, had guessed the truth. He knew that they were both engaged in the same quest. When at last they had worked their way—lifting, helping, comforting—to the end of the passage where the collier had said he last saw the master then, for one moment, she paused, and her companion, with a thrill of pity, touched her to attract her attention.
“Let me go first,” he said.
“Nay,” she answered, “we'n go together.”
The gallery was a long and low one, and had been terribly shaken. In some places the props had been torn away, in others they were borne down by the loosened blocks of coal. The dim light of the “Davy” Joan held up showed such a wreck that Grace spoke to her again.
“You must let me go first,” he said, with gentle firmness. “If one of these blocks should fall——”
Joan interrupted him,—
“If one on 'em should fall I'm th' one as it had better fall on. There is na mony foak as ud miss Joan Lowrie. Yo' ha' work o' yo're own to do.”
She stepped into the gallery before he could protest, and he could only follow her. She went before, holding the Davy high, so that its light might be thrown as far forward as possible. Now and then she was forced to stoop to make her way around a bending prop; sometimes there was a fallen mass to be surmounted, but she was at the front still when they reached the other end without finding the object of their search.
“It—he is na there,” she said. “Let us try th' next passage,” and she turned into it.
It was she who first came upon what they were looking for; but they did not find it in the next passage, or the next, or even the next. It was farther away from the scene of the explosion than they had dared to hope. As they entered a narrow side gallery, Grace heard her utter a low sound, and the next minute she was down upon her knees.
“Theer's a mon here,” she said, “It's him as we're lookin' fur.”
She held the dim little lantern close to the face,—a still face with closed eyes, and blood upon it Grace knelt down too, his heart aching with dread.
“Is he———” he began, but could not finish.
Joan Lowrie laid her hand upon the apparently motionless breast and waited almost a minute, and then she lifted her own face, white as the wounded man's—white and solemn, and wet with a sudden rain of tears.
“He is na dead,” she said. “We ha' saved him.”
She sat down upon the floor of the gallery and lifting his head laid it upon her bosom, holding it close as a mother might hold the head of her child.
“Mester,” she said, “gi' me th' brandy flask, and tak' thou thy Davy an' go fur some o' th' men to help us get him to th' leet o' day. I'm gone weak at last. I conna do no more. I'll go wi' him to th' top.”
When the cage ascended to the mouth again with its last load of sufferers, Joan Lowrie came with it, blinded and dazzled by the golden winter's sunlight as it fell upon her haggard face.
She was holding the head of what seemed to be a dead man upon her knee. A great shout of welcome rose up from the bystanders.
She helped them to lay her charge upon a pile of coats and blankets prepared for him, and then she turned to the doctor who had hurried to the spot to see what could be done.
“He is na dead,” she said. “Lay yo're hond on his heart. It beats yet, Mester,—on'y a little, but it beats.”
“No,” said the doctor, “he is not dead—yet,” with a breath's pause between the two last words. “If some of you will help me to put him on a stretcher, he may be carried home, and I will go with him. There is just a chance for him, poor fellow, and he must have immediate attention. Where does he live?”
“He must go with me,” said Grace. “He is my friend.”
So they took him up, and Joan stood a little apart and watched them carry him away,—watched the bearers until they were out of sight, and then turned again and joined the women in their work among the sufferers.
In the bedroom above the small parlor a fire was burning at midnight, and by this fire Grace was watching. The lamp was turned low and the room was very quiet; a dropping cinder made quite a startling sound. When a moan or a movement of the patient broke the stillness—which was only at rare intervals—the Curate rose and went to the bedside. But it was only to look at the sufferer lying upon it, bandaged and unconscious. There was very little he could do. He could follow the instructions given by the medical man before he went away, but these had been few and hurried, and he could only watch with grief in his heart. There was but a chance that his friend's life might be saved. Close attention and unremitting care might rescue him, and to the best of his ability the Curate meant to give him both. But he could not help feeling a deep anxiety. His faith in his own skill was not very great, and there were no professional nurses in Riggan.
“It is the care women give that he needs,” he said once, standing near the pillow and speaking to himself. “Men cannot do these things well. A mother or sister might save him.”
He went to the window and drew back the curtain to look out upon the night. As he did so, he saw the figure of a woman nearing the house. As she approached, she began to walk more slowly, and when she reached the gates she hesitated, stopped and looked up. In a moment it became evident that she saw him, and was conscious that he saw her. The dim light in the chamber threw his form into strong relief. She raised her hand and made a gesture. He turned away from the window, left the room quietly, and went down-stairs. She had not moved, but stood at the gate awaiting him. She spoke to him in a low tone, and he distinguished in its sound a degree of physical exhaustion.
“Yo' saw me,” she said. “I thowt yo' did though I did na think o' yo' bein' at th' winder when I stopped—to—to see th' leet.”
“I am glad I saw you,” said Grace. “You have been at work among the men who were hurt?”
“Ay,” pulling at a bush of evergreen nervously, and scattering the leaves as she spoke. “Theer's scarce a house o' th' common soart i' Riggan as has na trouble in it.”
“God help them all!” exclaimed Grace, fervently.
“Have you seen Miss Barholm?” he asked next.
“She wur on th' ground i' ten minnits after th' explosion. She wur in th' village when it happent, an' she drove to th' pit. She's been workin' as hard as ony woman i' Riggan. She saw us go down th' mine, but she did not see us come up. She wur away then wi' a woman as had a lad to be carried home dead. She would ha' come tohimbut she knowed yo' were wi' him, an' theer wur them as needed her. When th' cages coom up theer wur women as screamed an' held to her, an' throwed theirsens on their knees an' hid their faces i' her dress, an' i' her honds, as if they thowt she could keep th' truth fro' 'em.”
Grace trembled in his excitement.
“God bless her! God bless her!” he said, again and again.
“Where is she now?” he asked at length.
“Theer wur a little chap as come up i' the last cageful—he wur hurt bad, an' he wur sich a little chap as it went hard wi' him. When th' doctor touched him he screamed an' begged to be let alone, an' she heerd an' went to him, an' knelt down an' quieted him a bit. Th' poor little lad would na let go o' her dress; he held to it fur dear life, an' sobbed an' shivered and begged her to go wi' him an' howd his head on her lap while th' doctor did what mun be done. An' so she went, an' she's wi' him now. He will na live till day-leet, an' he keeps crying out for th' lady to stay wi' him.”
There was another silence, and then Joan spoke:
“Canna yo' guess what I coom to say?”
He thought he could, and perhaps his glance told her so.
“If I wur a lady,” she said, her lips, her hands trembling, “I could na ax yo' what I've made up my moind to; but I'm noan a lady, an' it does na matter. If yo' need some one to help yo' wi' him, will yo' let me ha' th' place? I dunnot ax nowt else but—but to be let do th' hard work.”
She ended with a sob. Suddenly she covered her face with her hands, weeping wildly.
“Don't do that,” he said, gently. “Come with me. It is you he needs.”
He led the way into the house and up the stairs, Joan following him. When they entered the room they went to the bedside.
The injured man lay motionless.
“Is theer loife i' him yet?” asked Joan. “He looks as if theer might na be.”
“There is life in him,” Grace answered; “and he has been a strong man, so I think we may feel some hope.”
The next morning the pony-carriage stopped before the door of the Curate's lodgings. When Grace went downstairs to the parlor, Anice Barholm turned from the window to greet him. The appearance of physical exhaustion he had observed the night before in Joan Lowrie, he saw again in her, but he had never before seen the face which Anice turned toward him.
“I was on the ground yesterday, and saw you go down into the mine,” she said. “I had never thought of such courage before.”
That was all, but in a second he comprehended that this morning they stood nearer together than they had ever stood before.
“How is the child you were with?” he asked.
“He died an hour ago.”
When they went upstairs, Joan was standing by the sick man.
“He's worse than he wur last neet,” she said. “An' he'll be worse still. I ha' nursed hurts like these afore. It'll be mony a day afore he'll be better—if th' toime ivver comes.”
The Rector and Mrs. Barholm, hearing of the accident, and leaving Browton hurriedly to return home, were met by half a dozen different versions on their way to Riggan, and each one was so enthusiastically related that Mr. Barholm's rather dampened interest in his daughter's protégé was fanned again into a brisk flame.
“There must be something in the girl, after all,” he said, “if one could only get at it. Something ought to be done for her, really.”
Hearing of Grace's share in the transaction, he was simply amazed.
“I think there must be some mistake,” he said to his wife. “Grace is not the man—not the manphysically” straightening his broad shoulders, “to be equal to such a thing.”
But the truth of the report forced itself upon him after hearing the story repeated several times before they reached Riggan, and arriving at home they heard the whole story from Anice.
While Anice was talking, Mr. Barholm began to pace the floor of the room restlessly.
“I wish I had been there,” he said. “I would have gone down myself.”
(It is true: he would have done so.)
“You are a braver man than I took you for,” he said to his Curate, when he saw him,—and he felt sure that he was saying exactly the right thing. “I should scarcely have expected such dashing heroism from you, Grace.”
“I hardly regarded it in that light,” said the little gentleman, coloring sensitively. “If I had, I should scarcely have expected it of myself.”
The fact that Joan Lowrie had engaged herself as nurse to the injured engineer made some gossip among her acquaintances at first, but this soon died out. Thwaite's wife had a practical enough explanation of the case.
“Th' lass wur tired o' pit-work; an' no wonder. She's made up her moind to ha' done wi' it; an' she's a first-rate one to nurse,—strong i' the arms, an' noan sleepy-headed. Happen she'll tak' up wi' it fur a trade. As to it bein'himas she meant when she said theer wur a mon as she meant to save, it wur no such thing. Joan Lowrie's noan th' kind o' wench to be runnin' after gentlefolk,—yo' know that yoresens. It's noan o' our business who the mon wur. Happen he's dead; an' whether he's dead or alive, you'd better leave him a-be, an' her too.”
In the sick man's room the time passed monotonously. There were days and nights of heavy slumber or unconsciousness,—restless mutterings and weary tossings to and fro. The face upon the pillow was sometimes white, sometimes flushed with fever; but whatever change came to pass, Death never seemed far away.
Grace lost appetite, and grew thin with protracted anxiety and watching. He would not give up his place even to Anice or Mrs. Barholm, who spent much of their time in the house. He would barely consent to snatch a few minutes' rest in the day-time; in truth, he could not have slept if he would. Joan held to her post unflinchingly. She took even less respite than Grace. Having almost forced her to leave the room one morning, Anice went downstairs to find her lying upon the sofa,—her hands clasped under her head, her eyes wide open.
“I conna sleep yet a while,” she said. “Dunnot let it trouble yo'. I'm used to it.”
Sometimes during the long night Joan felt his hollow eyes following her as she moved about the room, and fixed hungrily upon her when she stood near him.
“Who are you?” he would say. “I have seen you before, and I know your face; but—but I have lost your name. Who are you?”
One night, as she stood upon the hearth, alone in the room,—Grace having gone downstairs for something,—she was startled by the sound of Derrick's voice falling with a singular distinctness upon the silence.
“Who is it that is standing there?” he said.
“Do I know you? Yes—it is——-” but before he could finish, the momentary gleam of recognition had passed away, and he had wandered off again into low, disjointed murmurings.
It was always of the mine, or one other anxiety, that he spoke. There was something he must do or say,—some decision he must reach. Must he give up? Could he give up? Perhaps he had better go away,—far away. Yes; he had better go. No,—he could not,—he must wait and think again. He was tired of thinking,—tired of reasoning and arguing with himself. Let it go for a few minutes. Give him just an hour of rest. He was full of pain; he was losing himself, somehow. And then, after a brief silence, he would begin again and go the weary round once more.
“He has had a great deal of mental anxiety of late,—too much responsibility,” said the medical man; “and it is going rather against him.”
The turning-point was reached at last. One evening, at the close of his usual visit, the doctor said to Grace:
“To-morrow, I think, you will see a marked alteration. I should not be surprised to find on my next visit that his mind had become permanently cleared. The intervals of half consciousness have become lengthened. Unless some entirely unlooked-for change occurs, I feel sure that the worst is over. Give him close attention to-night. Don't let the young woman leave the room.”
That night Anice watched with Joan. It was a strange experience through which these two passed together. If Anice had not known the truth before, she would have learned it then. Again and again Derrick went the endless round of his miseries. How must it end? How could it end? What must he do? How black and narrow the passages were! There she was, coming toward him from the other end,—and if the props gave way———! Theyweregiving way!—Good God! the light was out, and he was held fast by the mass which had fallen upon him. What must he do about her whom he loved, and who was separated from him by this horrible wall? He was dying, and she would never know what he wanted to tell her. What was it that he wanted to say,—That he loved her,—loved her,—loved her! Could she hear him? He must make her hear him before he died,—“Joan! Joan!”
Thus he raved hour after hour; and the two sat and listened, often in dead silence; but at last there rose in Joan Lowrie's face a look of such intense and hopeless pain, that Anice spoke.
“Joan! my poor Joan!” she said.
Joan's head sank down upon her hands.
“I mun go away fro' Riggan,” she whispered. “I mun go away afore he knows. Theer's no help fur me.”
“No help?” repeated Anice after her.
She did not understand.
“Theer's none,” said Joan. “Dunnot yo' see as ony place wheer he is con be no place fur me? I thowt—I thowt the trouble wur aw on my side, but it is na. Do yo' think I'd stay an' let him do hissen a wrong?”
Anice wrung her hands together.
“A wrong?” she cried. “Not a wrong, Joan—I cannot let you call it that.”
“It would na be nowt else. AmIfit wife fur a gentlemon? Nay, my work's done when the danger's ower. If he wakes to know th' leet o' day to-morrow morning, it's done then.”
“You do not mean,” said Anice, “that you will leave us?”
“I conna stay i' Riggan; I mun go away.”
Toward morning Derrick became quieter. He muttered less and less until his voice died away altogether, and he sank into a profound slumber. Grace, coming in and finding him sleeping, turned to Joan with a look of intense relief.
“The worst is over,” he said; “now we may hope for the best.”
“Ay,” Joan answered, quietly, “th' worst is ower—fur him.”
At last darkness gave way to a faint gray light, and then the gray sky showed long slender streaks of wintry red, gradually widening and deepening until all the east seemed flushed.
“It's mornin',” said Joan, turning from the window to the bed. “I mun gi' him th' drops again.”
She was standing near the pillow when the first flood of the sunlight poured in at the window. At this moment Derrick awoke from his sleep to a full recognition of all around him. But the strength of his delirium had died out; his prostration was so utter, that for the moment he had no power to speak and could only look up at the pale face hopelessly. It seemed as if the golden glow of the morning light transfigured it.
“He's awake,” Joan said, moving away and speaking to those on the other side of the room. “Will one on yo' pour out th' medicine? My hand's noan steady.”
Grace went to the bedside hurriedly.
“Derrick,” he said, bending down, “do you know me?”
“Yes,” Derrick answered in a faltering whisper, and as he said it the bedroom door closed. Both of them heard it. A shadow fell upon the sick man's face. His eyes met his friend's with a question in them, and the next instant the question put itself into words:
“Who—went out?”
Grace bent lower.
“It was Joan Lowrie.”
He closed his eyes and waited a little as if to gain fresh strength. There rose a faint flush upon his hollow cheeks and his mouth trembled.
“How”—he said next—“how—long?”
“You mean to ask me,” said Grace, “how long she has been here?”
A motion of assent.
“She has been here from the first.”
He asked no further questions. His eyes closed once more and he lay silent.
Joan went back to her lodgings at the Thwaites' and left Mrs. Barholm and Anice to fill her place.
Too prostrate to question his nurses, Derrick could only lie with closed eyes helpless and weary. He could not even keep himself awake long enough to work his way to any very clear memories of what had happened. He had so many half recollections to tantalize him. He could remember his last definite sensation,—a terrible shock flinging him to the ground, a second of pain and horror, and then utter oblivion. Had he awakened one night and seen Joan Lowrie by the dim fire-light and called out to her, and then lost himself? Had he awakened for a second or so again and seen her standing close to his pillow, looking down at him with an agony of dread in her face?
In answer to his question, Grace had told him that she had been with him from the first. How had it happened? This he asked himself again and again, until he grew feverish over it.
“Above all things,” he heard the doctor say, “don't let him talk and don't talk to him.”
But Grace comprehended something of his mental condition.
“I see by your look that you wish to question me,” he said to him. “Have patience for a few days and then I will answer every question you may ask. Try to rest upon that assurance.”
There was one question, however, which would not wait. Grace saw it lying in the eager eyes and answered it.
“Joan Lowrie,” he said, “has gone home.”
Joan's welcome at the Thwaites' house was tumultuous. The children crowded about her, neighbors dropped in, both men and women wanting to have a word with her. There were few of them who had not met with some loss by the explosion, and there were those among them who had cause to remember the girl's daring.
“How's th' engineer?” they asked. “What do th' doctors say o' him?”
“He'll get better,” she answered. “They say as he's out o' danger.”
“Wur na it him as had his head on yo're knee when yo' come up i' th' cage?” asked one woman.
Mrs. Thwaite answered for her with some sharpness. They should not gossip about Joan, if she could help it.
“I dunnot suppose as she knowd th' difference betwixt one mon an' another,” she said. “It wur na loikely as she'd pick and choose. Let th' lass ha' a bit o' quoiet, wenches. Yo' moither her wi' yo're talk.”
“It's an ill wind as blows nobody good,” said Thwaite himself. “Th' explosion has done one thing—it's made th' mesters change their minds. They're i' th' humor to do what th' engineer axed fur, now.”
“Ay,” said a tired-looking woman, whose poor attempt at mourning told its own story; “but that wunnot bring my mester back.”
“Nay,” said another, “nor my two lads.”
There had been a great deal of muttered discontent among the colliers before the accident, and since its occurrence there had been signs of open rebellion. Then, too, results had proved that the seasonable adoption of Derrick's plan would have saved some lives at least, and, in fact, some future expenditure. Most of the owners, perhaps, felt somewhat remorseful; a few, it is not impossible, experienced nothing more serious than annoyance and embarrassment, but it is certain that there were one or two who were crushed by a sense of personal responsibility for what had occurred.
It was one of these who made the proposition that Derrick's plan be accepted unreservedly, and that the engineer himself should be requested to resume his position and undertake the management of the work. There was some slight demurring at first, but the catastrophe was so recent that its effect had not had time to wear away, and finally the agreement was made.
But at that time Derrick was lying senseless in the bedroom over the parlor, and the deputation from the company could only wait upon Grace, and make an effort at expressing their sympathy.
After Joan's return to her lodgings, she, too, was visited. There was some curiosity felt concerning her. A young and handsome woman, who had taken so remarkable a part in the tragedy, was necessarily an object of interest.
Mr. Barholm was so fluently decided in his opinion that something really ought to be done, that a visit to the heroine of the day was the immediate result. There was only one form the appreciation of a higher for a lower social grade could take, and it was Mr. Barholm who had been, naturally, selected as spokesman. He explained to Joan the nature of the visit. His friends of the Company had heard the story of her remarkable heroism, and had felt that something was due to her—some token of the admiration her conduct had inspired in them. They had agreed that something ought to be done, and they had called this evening to present her with a little testimonial.
The bundle of crisp bank-notes burned the hand of the man who held them, as Joan Lowrie listened to this speech. She stood upright before them, resting one hand upon the back of a chair, but when the bearer of the testimonial in question rose, she made a step forward. There was more of her old self in her gesture than she had shown for months. Her eyes flashed, her face hardened, a sudden red flew to her cheek.
“Put it up,” she said. “I wunnot tak' it.”
The man who had the money laid it upon the table, as if he were anxious to be rid of it He was in a glow of anger and shame at the false step they had made.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I see we have made a mistake.”
“Ay,” she said, “yo' ha' made a mistake. If yo' choose to tak' that an' gi'e it to th' women an' childer as is left to want bread, yo' may do it an' welcome.”
The first day Fergus Derrick was allowed to spend an hour in an easy-chair by the fire, he heard the story of his rescue from the lips of his friend, listening to it as he rested against the propping cushions.
“Don't be afraid of exciting me,” he had said to Grace. “I have conjectured until I am tired of it. Tell me the whole story. Let me hear the endnow.”
Derrick's breath came quick and short as he listened, and his haggard face flushed. It was not only to his friend he owed his life, but to Joan Lowrie.
“I should like to see her,” he said when Grace had finished. “As for you, Grace—well—words are poor things.”
“They are very poor things between friends,” was Grace's answer; “so let us have none of them. You are on this side of the grave, dear fellow—that is enough.”
During the rest of the day Derrick was silent and abstracted, but plainly full of active thought.
By nightfall a feverish spot burned upon his cheek, and his pulse had quickened dangerously.
“I must wait,” he said to Grace, “and it is hard work.”
Just at that time Anice was sitting in her room at the Rectory, thinking of Joan also, when there came to her the sound of footsteps in the passage and then a summons to the door.
“You may come in,” she said.
But it was not a servant, as she had supposed; it was Joan, with a bundle upon her arm.
“You are going away, Joan?” she said. “Tonight?”
“Ay,” Joan answered, as she came and stood upon the hearth. “I'm goin' away toneet.”
“You have quite made up your mind?”
“Ay,” said Joan. “I mun break loose. I want to get as far fro' th' owd life as I con. I'd loike to forget th' most on it. I'm goin' toneet, because I dunnot want to be axed questions. If I passed thro' th' town by day-leet, theer's them as ud fret me wi' their talk.”
“Have you seen Mr. Grace?” Anice asked.
“No. I shanna ha' th' chance to say good-by to him. I coom partly to ax yo' to say it fur me.”
“Yes, I will say it I wish there were no need that I should, though. I wish I could keep you.”
There was a brief silence. Joan knelt on one knee by the fender.
“I ha' bin thinkin' o' Liz,” she said. “I thowt I'd ax yo'—if it wur to happen so as she'd drift back here agen while I wur away—as yo'd say a kind word to her, an' tell her about th' choild, an' how as I nivver thowt hard on her, an' as th' day nivver wur as I did na pity her fro' th' bottom o' my soul. I'm goin' toward th' south,” she said again after a while. “They say as th' south is as different fro' th' north as th' day is fro' the neet. I ha' money enow to help me on, an' when I stop I shall look fur work.”
Anice's face lighted up suddenly.
“To the south!” she said. “Why did I not think of that before? If you go toward the south, there is Ashley-Wold and grandmamma, Mrs. Galloway. I will write to her now, if you will let me,” rising to her feet.
“If yo'll gi' me th' letter, I'll tak' it an' thank yo',” said Joan. “If she could help me to work or th' loike, I should be glad enow.”
Anice's mother's mother had always been her safest resource in the past, and yet, curiously enough, she had not thought of turning toward her in this case until Joan's words had suggested such a course.
Joan took the letter and put it in the bosom of her dress.
“Theer's no more danger furhim?” she said. “Thwaite towd me he wur better.”
She spoke questioningly, and Anice answered her—
“Yes, he is out of danger. Joan, what am I to say to him?”
“To say to him!”
She started slightly, but ended with a strained quietness of manner.
“Theer's nowt to say,” she added, rising, and preparing to go.
Anice rose also. She held out both her hands, and Joan took them.
“I will go downstairs with you,” said Anice; and they went out together.
When they reached the front door, they kissed each other, and Anice stood in the lighted hall and watched the girl's departure.
“Good-by!” she said; “and God bless you!”
Early in the morning, Derrick called his friend to his bedside.
“I have had a bad night,” he said to him.
“Yes,” Grace answered. “It is easy enough to see that.”
There was an unnatural sparkle in the hollow eyes, and the flush upon the cheek had not faded away.
Derrick tried to laugh, and moved restlessly upon his pillow.
“So I should imagine,” said he. “The fact is—well you see I have been thinking.”
“About—”
“Yes—yes—Grace, I cannot wait—I must hear something. A hundred things might happen. I must at least be sure she is not far away. I shall never regain strength as long as I have not the rest that knowledge will bring me. Will you go to her and take her a few words of gratitude from me?”
“Yes, readily.”
“Will you go now?”
“Yes.”
Grace would have left the room, but Derrick stretched out his hand and touched him.
“Stay—” he said.
Grace turned to him again.
“You know”—in the old resolute way—“you know what I mean the end to be, if it may be?”
“I think I do.”
Grace appeared at the Rectory very soon afterward, and asked for Miss Barholm. Anice came down into the parlor to meet him at once. She could not help guessing that for some reason or other he had come to speak of Joan, and his first words confirmed her impression.
“I have just left the Thwaites',” he said. “I went there to see Joan Lowrie, and find that she is not there. Mrs. Thwaite told me that she had left Riggan. Is that true?”
“Yes. She went away last night She came here to bid me good-by, and leave a farewell message for you.”
Grace was both troubled and embarrassed.
“I——” he faltered. “Doyouunderstand it?”
“Yes,” Anice answered.
Their eyes met, and she went on:
“You know we have said that it was best that she should break away entirely from the past. She has gone to try if it is possible to do it. She wants another life altogether.”
“I do not know what I must do,” said Grace. “You say she has gone away, and I—I came to her from Derrick.”
“From Mr. Derrick!” Anice exclaimed; and then both relapsed into silence.
It was Anice who spoke first
“Mamma was going to send some things to Mr. Derrick this morning,” she said. “I will have the basket packed and take it myself. If you will let me, I will go with you as soon as I can have the things prepared.”