That lass o lowries, p.20
That Lass o' Lowrie's, page 20
“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.
36. Alive Yet
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 to him but 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.”
37. Watching and Waiting
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 man physically” 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’ him as 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.”
38. Recognition
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—! They were giving 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. Am I fit 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:
