He brought his plans with him, and laid them before them. They were plans for the abolition of old and dangerous arrangements, for the amelioration of the condition of the men who labored at the hourly risk of their lives, and for rendering this labor easier. Especially, there were plans for a newer system of ventilation—proposing the substitution of fans for the long-used furnace. One or two of the younger men leaned toward their adoption. But the men with the greatest influence were older, and less prone to the encouragement of novelty.

  “It’s all nonsense,” said one. “Furnaces have been used ever since the mines were opened, and as to the rest—it arises, I suppose, from the complaints of the men. They always will complain—they always did.”

  “So far they have had reason for complaint,” remarked Derrick. “As you say, there have been furnaces ever since there have been mines, and there have also been explosions which may in many cases be attributed to them. There was an explosion at Browton a month ago which was to some extent a mystery, but there were old miners who understood it well enough. The return air, loaded with gas, had ignited at the furnace, and the result was that forty dead and wounded men were carried up the shaft, to be recognized, when they were recognizable, by mothers, and wives, and children, who depended upon them for their scant food.”

  Derrick argued his cause well and with spirit, keeping a tight rein upon himself; but when, having exhausted his arguments, he found that he had not advanced his cause, and that it was a settled matter that he should not, he took fire.

  “Then, gentlemen,” he said, “I have but one resource. I will hold no human life lightly in my hands. I have the honor to tender you my resignation.”

  There was a dead silence for a moment or so. They had certainly not expected such a result as this. A well-disposed young man, who sat near to Derrick, spoke to him in a rapid undertone.

  “My dear fellow,” he said, “it will be the ruin of you. For my part, I admire your enthusiasm, but do not be rash.”

  “A man with a will and a pair of clean hands is not easily ruined,” returned Derrick a trifle hotly. “As to being rash or enthusiastic, I am neither the one nor the other. It is not enthusiasm which moves me, it is a familiarity with stern realities.”

  When he left the room his fate had been decided. At the end of the week he would have no further occupation in Riggan. He had only two more days’work before him and he had gained the unenviable reputation of being a fire-and-tow young fellow, who was flighty enough to make a martyr of himself.

  Under the first street-lamp he met Grace, who was evidently making his way home.

  “I will go with you,” he said, taking his arm.

  Once within the walls of the pleasant little room, he found it easy to unbosom himself. He described his interview with his employers, and its termination.

  “A few months ago, I flattered myself that my prospects were improving,” he said; “but now it seems that I must begin again, which is not an easy matter, by the way.”

  By the time he ended he found his temporary excitement abating somewhat, but still his mood was by no means undisturbed.

  It was after they had finished tea and the armchairs had been drawn to the fire that Grace himself made a revelation.

  “When you met me to-night, I was returning from a visit I had paid to Joan Lowrie.”

  “At Thwaite’s?” said Derrick.

  “At Thwaite’s. She—the fact is I went on business—she has determined to change her plan of life.”

  “In what manner?”

  “She is to work no more at the mines. I am happy to say that I have been able to find her other employment.”

  There was an interval of silence, at length broken by Derrick.

  “Grace,” he said, “can you tell me why she decided upon such a course?”

  Grace looked at him with questioning surprise.

  “I can tell you what she said to me on the subject,” he replied. “She said it was no woman’s work, and she was tired of it.”

  “She is not the woman to do anything without a motive,” mused Derrick.

  “No,” returned the Curate.

  A moment later, as if by one impulse, their eyes met. Grace started as if he had been stung. Derrick simply flushed.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “I—I do not think I understand,” Grace faltered. “Surely I am blundering.”

  “No,” said Derrick, gloomily. “ You cannot blunder since you know the truth. You did not fancy that my feeling was so trivial that I could have conquered it so soon? Joan Lowrie—”

  “Joan Lowrie!”

  Grace’s voice had broken in upon him with a startled sound.

  The two men regarded each other in bewilderment. Then again Derrick was the first to speak.

  “Grace,” he said, “you have misunderstood me.”

  Grace answered him with a visible tremor.

  “If,” he said, “it was to your love for Joan Lowrie you referred when you spoke to me of your trouble some months ago, I have misunderstood you. If the obstacles you meant were the obstacles you would find in the path of such a love, I have misunderstood you. If you did not mean that your heart had been stirred by a feeling your generous friendship caused you to regard as unjust to me, I have misunderstood you miserably.”

  “My dear fellow!” Derrick exclaimed, with some emotion. “My dear fellow, do you mean to tell me that you imagined I referred to Miss Barholm?”

  “I was sure of it,” was Grace’s agitated reply. “As I said before, I have misunderstood you miserably.”

  “And yet you had no word of blame for me?”

  “I had no right to blame you. I had not lost what I believed you had won. It had never been mine. It was a mistake,” he added, endeavoring to steady himself. “But don’t mind me, Derrick. Let us try to set it right; only I am afraid you will have to begin again.”

  Derrick drew a heavy breath. He took up a paper-knife from the table, and began to bend it in his hands.

  “Yes,” he said, “we shall have to begin again. And it is told in a few words,” he said, with a deliberateness painful in its suggestion of an intense effort at self-control. “Grace, what would you think of a man who found himself setting reason at defiance, and in spite of all obstacles confronting the possibility of loving and marrying—if she can be won—such a woman as Joan Lowrie?”

  “You are putting me in a difficult position,” Paul answered. “If he would dare so much, he would be the man to dare to decide for himself.”

  Derrick tossed the paper-knife aside.

  “And you know that I am the person in question. I have so defied the world, in spite of myself at first, I must confess. I have confronted the possibility of loving Joan Lowrie until I do love her. So there the case stands.”

  Gradually there dawned upon the Curate’s mind certain remembrances connected with Joan. Now and then she had puzzled and startled him, but here, possibly, might be a solution of the mystery.

  “And Joan Lowrie herself?” he asked, questioningly.

  “Joan Lowrie herself,” said Derrick, “is no nearer to me to-day than she was a year ago.”

  “Are you,”—hesitatingly,—“are you quite sure of that?”

  The words had escaped his lips in spite of himself.

  Derrick started and turned toward him with a sudden movement

  “Grace!” he said.

  “I asked if you were sure of that,” answered Grace, coloring. “I am not.”

  35. In the Pit

  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.

 

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