would be dreadful if it were to go out and leave you there in the dark.
I thought of that and brought you a little bottle of kerosene so that
you can fill it. I am going to push the bottle through now, if you
please.” And with this a large phial, cork end foremost, came slowly
through the tube, propelled by one of the soldering irons. Then came
Agnes's voice: “Please fill your lantern immediately, because if it goes
out you can not find it in the dark; and then walk several times around
the cave, for you have been standing still too long already.”
I obeyed these injunctions, but in two or three minutes was again at the
end of the tube. “Agnes,” said I, “how did you happen to come here? Did
you contrive in your own mind this method of communicating with me?”
“Oh, yes; I did,” she said. “Everybody said that this mass of ice must
not be meddled with, but I knew very well it would not hurt it to make a
hole through it.”
“But how did you happen to be here?” I asked.
“Oh, I ran over as soon as I heard of the accident. Everybody ran here.
The whole neighborhood is on top of the bluff; but nobody wanted to come
into the tunnel, because they were afraid that more of it might fall in.
So I was able to work here all by myself, and I am very glad of it.
I saw the soldering iron and the little furnace outside of your house
where the plumbers had been using them, and I brought them here myself.
Then I thought that a simple hole through the ice might soon freeze up
again, and if you were alive inside I could not do anything to help you;
and so I ran home and got my diploma case, that had had one end melted
out of it, and I brought that to stick in the hole. I'm so glad that it
is long enough, or almost.”
“Oh, Agnes,” I cried, “you thought of all this for me?”
“Why, of course, Mr. Cuthbert,” she answered, before I had a chance to
say anything more. “You were in great danger of perishing before the men
got to you, and nobody seemed to think of any way to give you immediate
relief. And don't you think that a collegiate education is a good thing
for girls--at least, that it was for me?”
“Agnes,” I exclaimed, “please let me speak. I want to tell you, I must
tell you--”
But the voice of Agnes was clearer than mine and it overpowered my
words. “Mr. Cuthbert,” she said, “we can not both speak through this
tube at the same time in opposite directions. I have here a bottle of
water for you, but I am very much afraid it will not go through the
diploma case.”
“Oh, I don't want any water,” I said. “I can eat ice if I am thirsty.
What I want is to tell you-”
“Mr. Cuthbert,” said she, “you must not eat that ice. Water that was
frozen countless ages ago may be very different from the water of modern
times, and might not agree with you. Don't touch it, please. I am going
to push the bottle through if I can. I tried to think of everything that
you might need and brought them all at once; because, if I could
not keep the hole open, I wanted to get them to you without losing a
minute.”
Now the bottle came slowly through. It was a small beer-bottle, I think,
and several times I was afraid it was going to stick fast and cut off
communication between me and the outer world--that is to say, between me
and Agnes. But at last the cork and the neck appeared, and I pulled it
through. I did not drink any of it, but immediately applied my mouth to
the tube.
“Agnes,” I said, “my dear Agnes, really you must not prevent me from
speaking. I can not delay another minute. This is an awful position for
me to be in, and as you don't seem to realize--”
“But I do realize, Mr. Cuthbert, that if you don't walk about you will
certainly freeze before you can be rescued. Between every two or three
words you want to take at least one turn around that place. How dreadful
it would be if you were suddenly to become benumbed and stiff! Everybody
is thinking of that. The best diggers that Mr. Burton had were three
colored men; but after they had gone down nothing like as deep as
a well, they came up frightened and said they would not dig another
shovelful for the whole world. Perhaps you don't know it, but there's a
story about the neighborhood that the negro hell is under your property.
You know many of the colored people expect to be everlastingly punished
with ice and not with fire--”
“Agnes,” I interrupted, “I am punished with ice and fire both. Please
let me tell you--”
“I was going on to say, Mr. Cuthbert,” she interrupted, “that when the
Italians heard why the colored men had come out of the hole they would
not go in either, for they are just as afraid of everlasting ice as the
negroes are, and were sure that if the bottom came out of that hole they
would fall into a frozen lower world. So there was nothing to do but to
send for paupers, and they are working now. You know paupers have to do
what they are told without regard to their beliefs. They got a dozen of
them from the poor-house. Somebody said they just threw them into the
hole. Now I must stop talking, for it is time for you to walk around
again. Would you like another sandwich?”
“Agnes,” said I, endeavoring to speak calmly, “all I want is to be able
to tell you--”
“And when you walk, Mr. Cuthbert, you had better keep around the edge
of the chamber, for there is no knowing when they may come through. Mr.
Burton and the foreman of the ice-men measured the bluff so that they
say the hole they are making is exactly over the middle of the chamber
you are in, and if you walk around the edge the pieces may not fall on
you.”
“If you don't listen to me, Agnes,” I said, “I'll go and sit anywhere,
everywhere, where death may come to me quickest. Your coldness is worse
than the coldness of the cave. I can not bear it.”
“But, Mr. Cuthbert,” said Agnes, speaking, I thought, with some
agitation, “I have been listening to you, and what more can you possibly
have to say? If there is anything you want, let me know. I will run and
get it for you.”
“There is no need that you should go away to get what I want,” I said.
“It is there with you. It is you.”
“Mr. Cuthbert,” said Agnes, in a very low voice, but so distinctly that
I could hear every word, “don't you think it would be better for you to
give your whole mind to keeping yourself warm and strong? For if you let
yourself get benumbed you may sink down and freeze.”
“Agnes,” I said, “I will not move from this little hole until I have
told you that I love you, that I have no reason to care for life or
rescue unless you return my love, unless you are willing to be mine.
Speak quickly to me, Agnes, because I may not be rescued and may never
know whether my love for you is returned or not.”
At this moment there was a tremendous crash behind me, and, turning,
I saw a mass of broken ice upon the floor of the cave, with a cloud
of dust and smaller fragments still falling. And then with a great
scratching and scraping, and a howl loud enough to waken the echoes of
all the lower regions, down came a red-headed, drunken shoemaker. I can
not say that he was drunk at that moment, but I knew the man the moment
I saw his carroty poll, and it was drink which had sent him to the
poorhouse.
But the sprawling and howling cobbler did not reach the floor. A rope
had been fastened around his waist to prevent a fall in case the bottom
of the pit should suddenly give way, and he hung dangling in mid
air with white face and distended eyes, cursing and swearing and
vociferously entreating to be pulled up. But before he received any
answer from above, or I could speak to him, there came through the hole
in the roof of the cave a shower of stones and gravel, and with them a
frantic Italian, his legs and arms outspread, his face wild with terror.
Just as he appeared in view he grasped the rope of the cobbler, and,
though in a moment he came down heavily upon the floor of the chamber,
this broke his fall, and he did not appear to be hurt. Instantly he
crouched low and almost upon all fours, and began to run around the
chamber, keeping close to the walls and screaming, I suppose to his
saints, to preserve him from the torments of the frozen damned.
In the midst of this hubbub came the voice of Agnes through the hole:
“Oh, Mr. Cuthbert, what has happened? Are you alive?”
I was so disappointed by the appearance of these wretched interlopers
at the moment it was about to be decided whether my life--should it last
for years, or but for a few minutes--was to be black or bright, and I
was so shaken and startled by the manner of their entry upon the scene,
that I could not immediately shape the words necessary to inform Agnes
what had happened. But, collecting my faculties, I was about to speak,
when suddenly, with the force of the hind leg of a mule, I was pushed
away from the aperture, and the demoniac Italian clapped his great
mouth to the end of the tube and roared through it a volume of oaths
and supplications. I attempted to thrust aside the wretched being, but
I might as well have tried to move the ice barrier itself. He had
perceived that some one outside was talking to me, and in his frenzy he
was imploring that some one should let him out.
While still endeavoring to move the man, I was seized by the arm, and
turning, beheld the pallid face of the shoemaker. They had let him down
so that he reached the floor. He tried to fall on his knees before me,
but the rope was so short that he was able to go only part of the way
down, and presented a most ludicrous appearance, with his toes scraping
the icy floor and his arms thrown out as if he were paddling like a
tadpole. “Oh, have mercy upon me, sir,” he said, “and help me get out
of this dreadful place. If you go to the hole and call up it's you, they
will pull me up; but if they get you out first they will never think of
me. I am a poor pauper, sir, but I never did nothin' to be packed in ice
before I am dead.”
Noticing that the Italian had left the end of the aperture in the block
of ice, and that he was now shouting up the open shaft, I ran to the
channel of communication which my Agnes had opened for me, and called
through it; but the dear girl had gone.
The end of a ladder now appeared at the opening in the roof, and this
was let down until it reached the floor. I started toward it, but before
I had gone half the distance the frightened shoemaker and the maniac
Italian sprang upon it, and, with shrieks and oaths, began a maddening
fight for possession of the ladder. They might quickly have gone up one
after the other, but each had no thought but to be first; and as one
seized the rounds he was pulled away by the other, until I feared the
ladder would be torn to pieces. The shoemaker finally pushed his way up
a little distance, when the Italian sprang upon his back, endeavoring
to climb over him; and so on they went up the shaft, fighting, swearing,
kicking, scratching, shaking and wrenching the ladder, which had been
tied to another one in order to increase its length, so that it was in
danger of breaking, and tearing at each other in a fashion which made it
wonderful that they did not both tumble headlong downward. They went
on up, so completely filling the shaft with their struggling forms and
their wild cries that I could not see or hear anything, and was afraid,
in fact, to look up toward the outer air.
As I was afterward informed, the Italian, who had slipped into the hole
by accident, ran away like a frightened hare the moment he got his
feet on firm ground, and the shoemaker sat down and swooned. By this
performance he obtained from a benovolent bystander a drink of whiskey,
the first he had had since he was committed to the poorhouse.
But a voice soon came down the shaft calling to me. I recognized it as
that of Tom Burton, and replied that I was safe, and that I was coming
up the ladder. But in my attempt to climb, I found that I was unable
to do so. Chilled and stiffened by the cold and weakened by fatigue and
excitement, I believe I never should have been able to leave that
ice chamber if my faithful friend had not come down the ladder and
vigorously assisted me to reach the outer air.
Seated on the ground, my back against a great oak tree, I was quickly
surrounded by a crowd of my neighbors, the workmen and the people who
had been drawn to the spot by the news of the strange accident, to gaze
at me as if I were some unknown being excavated from the bowels of the
earth, I was sipping some brandy and water which Burton had handed me,
when Aaron Boyce pushed himself in front of me.
“Well, sir,” he said, “I am mighty glad you got out of that scrape. I'm
bound to say I didn't expect you would. I have been sure all along that
it wasn't right to meddle with things that go agin Nature, and I haven't
any doubt that you'll see that for yourself and fill up all them tunnels
and shafts you've made. The ice that comes on ponds and rivers was good
enough for our forefathers, and it ought to be good enough for us. And
as for this cold stuff you find in your gravel-pit, I don't believe it's
ice at all; and if it is, like as not it's made of some sort of pizen
stuff that freezes easier than water. For everybody knows that water
don't freeze in a well, and if it don't do that, why should it do it in
any kind of a hole in the ground? So perhaps it's just as well that you
did git shut up there, sir, and find out for yourself what a dangerous
thing it is to fool with Nature and try to git ice from the bottom of
the ground instead of the top of the water.”
This speech made me angry, for I knew that old Boyce was a man who was
always glad to get hold of anything which had gone wrong and try to make
it worse; but I was too weak to answer him.
This, however, would not have been necessary, for Tom Burton turned upon
him. “Idiot,” said he, “if that is your way of thinking you might as
well say that if a well caves in you should never again dig for water,
or that nobody should have a cellar under his house for fear that the
house should fall into it. There's no more danger of the ice beneath us
ever giving way again than there is that this bluff should crumble under
our feet. That break in the roof of the ice tunnel was caused by
my digging away the face of the bluff very near that spot. The high
temperature of the outer air weakened the ice, and it fell. But down
here, under this ground and secure from the influences of the heat of
the outer air, the mass of ice is more solid than rock. We will build
a brick arch over the place where the accident happened, and then there
will not be a safer mine on this continent than this ice-mine will be.”
This was a wise and diplomatic speech from Burton, and it proved to be
of great service to me; for the men who had been taking out ice had been
a good deal frightened by the fall of the tunnel, and when it was proved
that what Burton had said in regard to the cause of the weakening of the
ice was entirely correct, they became willing to go to work again.
I now began to feel stronger and better, and, rising to my feet, I
glanced here and there into the crowd, hoping to catch a sight of Agnes,
But I was not very much surprised at not seeing her, because she would
naturally shrink from forcing herself into the midst of this motley
company; but I felt that I must go and look for her without the loss of
a minute, for if she should return to her father's house I might not be
able to see her again.
On the outskirts of the crowd I met Susan, who was almost overpowered
with joy at seeing me safe again. I shook her by the hand, but, without
replying to her warm-hearted protestations of thankfulness and delight,
I asked her if she had seen Miss Havelot.
“Miss Agnes!” she exclaimed. “Why, no sir; I expect she's at home; and
if she did come here with the rest of the neighbors I didn't see her;
for when I found out what had happened, sir, I was so weak that I sat
down in the kitchen all of a lump, and have just had strength enough to
come out.”
“Oh, I know she was here,” I cried; “I am sure of that, and I do hope
she's not gone home again.”
“Know she was here!” exclaimed Susan. “Why, how on earth could you know
that?”
I did not reply that it was not on the earth but under it, that I became
aware of the fact, but hurried toward the Havelot house, hoping to
overtake Agnes if she had gone that way. But I did not see her, and
suddenly a startling idea struck me, and I turned and ran home as fast
as I could go. When I reached my grounds I went directly to the mouth
of the shaft. There was nobody there, for the crowd was collected into
a solid mass on the top of the bluff, listening to a lecture from Tom
Burton, who deemed it well to promote the growth of interest and healthy
opinion in regard to his wonderful discovery and my valuable possession.
I hurried down the shaft, and near the end of it, just before it joined
the ice tunnel, I beheld Agnes sitting upon the wooden track. She was
not unconscious, for as I approached she slightly turned her head. I
sprang toward her; I kneeled beside her; I took her in my arms. “Oh,
Agnes, dearest Agnes,” I cried, “what is the matter? What has happened
to you? Has a piece of ice fallen upon you? Have you slipped and hurt
yourself?”
She turned her beautiful eyes up toward me and for a moment did not
speak. Then she said: “And they got you out? And you are in your right
mind?”
“Right mind!” I exclaimed. “I have never been out of my mind. What are
you thinking of?”
“Oh, you must have been,” she said, “when you screamed at me in that
horrible way. I was so frightened that I fell back, and I must have
fainted.”
Tremulous as I was with love and anxiety, I could not help laughing.
“Oh, my dear Agnes, I did not scream at you. That was a crazed Italian
who fell through the hole that they dug.” Then I told her what had
happened.
She heaved a gentle sigh. “I am so glad to hear that,” she said. “There
was one thing that I was thinking about just before you came and which
gave me a little bit of comfort; the words and yells I heard were
dreadfully oniony, and somehow or other I could not connect that sort of
thing with you.”
It now struck me that during this conversation I had been holding
my dear girl in my arms, and she had not shown the slightest sign of
resistance or disapprobation. This made my heart beat high.
“Oh, Agnes,” I said, “I truly believe you love me or you would not have
been here, you would not have done for me all that you did. Why did you
not answer me when I spoke to you through that wall of ice, through the
hole your dear love had made in it? Why, when I was in such a terrible
situation, not knowing whether I was to die or live, did you not comfort
my heart with one sweet word?”
“Oh, Walter,” she answered, “it wasn't at all necessary for you to say
all that you did say, for I had suspected it before, and as soon as you
began to call me Agnes I knew, of course, how you felt about it. And,
besides, it really was necessary that you should move about to keep
yourself from freezing. But the great reason for my not encouraging you
to go on talking in that way was that I was afraid people might come
into the tunnel, and as, of course, you would not know that they were
there, you would go on making love to me through my diploma case, and
you know I should have perished with shame if I had had to stand there
with that old Mr. Boyce, and I don't know who else, listening to your
words, which were very sweet to me, Walter, but which would have sounded
awfully funny to them.”
When she said that my words had been sweet to her I dropped the
consideration of all other subjects.
When, about ten minutes afterward, we came out of the shaft we were met
by Susan.
“Bless my soul and body, Mr. Cuthbert!” she exclaimed. “Did you find
that young lady down there in the centre of the earth? It seems to me as
if everything that you want comes to you out of the ground. But I have
been looking for you to tell you that Mr. Havelot has been here after
his daughter, and I'm sure if he had known where she was, he would have
been scared out of his wits.”
“Father here!” exclaimed Agnes. “Where is he now?”
“I think he has gone home, miss. Indeed I'm sure of it; for my daughter
Jennie, who was over here the same as all the other people in the
county, I truly believe told him--and I was proud she had the spirit
to speak up that way to him--that your heart was almost broke when you
heard about Mr. Cuthbert being shut up in the ice, and that most likely
you was in your own room a-cryin' your eyes out. When he heard that he
stood lookin' all around the place, and he asked me if he might go
in the house; and when I told him he was most welcome, he went in. I
offered to show him about, which he said was no use, that he had been
there often enough; and he went everywhere, I truly believe, except in
the garret and the cellar. And after he got through with that he went
out to the barn and then walked home.”
“I must go to him immediately,” said Agnes.
“But not alone,” said I. And together we walked through the woods, over
the little field and across the Havelot lawn to the house. We were told
that the old gentleman was in his library, and together we entered the
room. Mr. Havelot was sitting by a table on which were lying several
open volumes of an encyclopedia. When he turned and saw us, he closed
his book, pushed back his chair and took off his spectacles. “Upon my
word, sir,” he cried; “and so the first thing you do after they pull you
out of the earth is to come here and break my commands.”
“I came on the invitation of your daughter, sir.”
“And what right has she to invite you, I'd like to know?”
“She has every right, for to her I owe my existence.”
“What rabid nonsense!” exclaimed the old gentleman. “People don't owe
their existence to the silly creatures they fall in love with.”
“I assure you I am correct, sir.” And then I related to him what his
daughter had done, and how through her angelic agency my rescuers had
found me a living being instead of a frozen corpse.
“Stuff!” said Mr. Havelot. “People can live in a temperature of
thirty-two degrees above zero all winter. Out in Minnesota they think
that's hot. And you gave him victuals and drink through your diploma
case! Well, miss, I told you that if you tried to roast chestnuts in
that diploma case the bottom would come out.”
“But you see, father,” said Agnes, earnestly, “the reason I did that
was because when I roasted them in anything shallow they popped into the
fire, but they could not jump out of the diploma case.”
“Well, something else seems to have jumped out of it,” said the old
gentleman, “and something with which I am not satisfied. I have been
looking over these books, sir, and have read the articles on ice,
glaciers and caves, and I find no record of anything in the whole
history of the world which in the least resembles the cock-and-bull
story I am told about the butt-end of a glacier which tumbled into a
cave in your ground, and has been lying there through all the geological
ages, and the eras of formation, and periods of animate existence down
to the days of Noah, and Moses, and Methuselah, and Rameses II, and
Alexander the Great, and Martin Luther, and John Wesley, to this day,
for you to dig out and sell to the Williamstown Ice Co.”
“But that's what happened, sir,” said I.
“And besides, father,” added Agnes, “the gold and silver that people
take out of mines may have been in the ground as long as that ice has
been.”
“Bosh!” said Mr. Havelot. “The cases are not at all similar. It is
simply impossible that a piece of a glacier should have fallen into a
cave and been preserved in that way. The temperature of caves is always
above the freezing-point, and that ice would have melted a million years
before you were born.”
“But, father,” said Agnes, “the temperature of caves filled with ice
must be very much lower than that of common caves.”
“And apart from that,” I added, “the ice is still there, sir.”
“That doesn't make the slightest difference,” he replied. “It's against
all reason and commonsense that such a thing could have happened. Even
if there ever was a glacier in this part of the country and if the lower
portion of it did stick out over an immense hole in the ground, that
protruding end would never have broken off and tumbled in. Glaciers are
too thick and massive for that.”
“But the glacier is there, sir,” said I, “in spite of your own
reasoning.”
“And then again,” continued the old gentleman, “if there had been a cave
and a projecting spur the ice would have gradually melted and dripped
into the cave, and we would have had a lake and not an ice-mine. It is
an absurdity.”
“But it's there, notwithstanding,” said I.
“And you can not subvert facts, you know, father,” added Agnes.