Can I ever forget that day? It seemed the worst of all the ten. Yes, I
think it was quite the worst. Before the last of those ten days came, I
had grown accustomed to suffering; the burden given me to carry began to
fit on my young shoulders. I lay down with it, and arose with it; under
its weight I grew old in heart and spirit, as old as Nan. Laughter was
far from my lips, or smiles from my eyes.
But why do I speak of myself? Why do I say, I, I? I was one of many
suffering women at Ffynon?
Let me talk of it as _our_ sorrow!
What a leveller trouble is! There was mother, laying her proud head on
little Nan's neck; there was the under-viewer's wife taking me in her
arms, and bidding me sob a few tears, what tears I could shed, on her
bosom.
Yes, in the next ten days the women of Ffynon had a common sorrow. I do
not speak here of the men, the men acted nobly, but I think the women
who stood still and endured, had the hardest part to play.
"Heroic males the country bears,
But daughters give up more than sons;
Flags wave, drums beat, and unawares
You flash your souls out with the guns,
And take your heaven at once.
"But we; we empty heart and home.
Of life's life, love! we bear to think
You're gone, to feel you may not come.
To hear the door-latch stir and clink,
Yet no more you--nor sink."
But I must tell my story. I left little Nan, I went home to mother. I
told her, for I had to tell her now, something about David. She was not
much alarmed, I don't think I was either. We thought it probable that
David would come up out of the mine at any moment. I think our worst
fears and our strongest suffering was for Owen. We sat together, dear
mother and I, very anxious, very expectant, very patient. Hour after
hour we sat together, waiting for David and Owen. Overhead, poor Gwen
suffered and moaned; we did not tell her of our anxiety, she was too ill
to hear it. In the room next to Gwen's, the little baby slept. When my
fear and anxiety grew quite unbearable, I used to steal upstairs and
look at David's little lad. Once I took the little icy hand and held it
in my own for a long time, and tried to chafe it into life and warmth.
I could not do it. No more than I could chase away the fear which was
growing, growing in my own hearty From my window I could see the pit
bank. It was an ugly sight, and one I seldom gazed at. I hated the
appearance of the ugly steam-engines, and the dusty coal-covered
figures. I hated the harsh noise, the unpleasing commotion; but to-day
nothing comforted me so much as to draw the blinds, which were down, and
look towards this same pit bank; the roaring steam, the appearance of
quiet, rapid, regular work soothed my fears, and became a blessed and
soul-sustaining sight. I felt sure as long as these signs of regular
work were going on on the bank, that all must be right in the mine.
Still, why did not David return? So much depended on his return, he had
promised so faithfully not to remain below a moment longer than was
necessary.
As the day wore on, my heart sank and sank, and my fears rose and rose,
and at five o'clock on that April afternoon, the blow came. I was
standing by my room window, looking toward the pit bank. Suddenly I saw
in that familiar scene a change. The greater number of the day crew had
come up. I waited to see David's figure, taller than the rest. The men
stood in groups talking eagerly, a number crowded round the mouth of the
shaft; out of the houses around, women came rushing, then on the air
there rose a bitter sharp cry, and one woman leaving the group, which
increased each moment round the shaft, ran, clasping her hands and
weeping, towards our house. I recognised her, even as she ran, as the
bearer of former ill tidings, Mrs Jones. I went downstairs to meet
her. I opened the dining-room door. I called to mother, who was
sitting close to the window watching, watching for Owen, thinking little
of David. She must know all now, better learn the worst at once.
"Mother," I said, "Mrs Jones has come, and something dreadful has
happened in the mine."
Then I took the weeping, agitated woman's hand, and mother clasped her
other hand, and we both looked hard in her face, and she looked into
ours, and in broken words she told her tale.
How few were her words, but how crushing her intelligence! Just as the
men were leaving work, the water had burst in like the sea into the
workings; most of the day crew had escaped in time, but fourteen were
still below.
"Which?" we asked breathlessly, "who were the doomed ones?"
"Not my son?" said mother.
"Not my brother?" said I.
"Yes," said the woman, "Squire Morgan is still below--and--and--"
bringing out the words with a great gasp, her face, her lips, growing
white, "My husband--my George."
She was silent then, and we three looked at each other in blank wonder
and surprise; each was saying in her heart of hearts, "My sorrow is the
greatest."
At last I started to my feet.
"I will go down to the bank and learn more," I said.
Bonnetless and shawlless the next moment I was mingling with the black
men, and wild-looking women; _I_ was clasping their hands, looking into
their faces, and entreating them to tell me all they knew. One or two
turned away from me, one or two muttered that it was the new manager's
fault. Words that made my heart freeze within me, about the blood of
husbands and sons being on our heads, reached my ears, then a strong
hand was laid on my shoulder, and turning, I recognised through all his
coal dust, and blackened face, little Nan's father, Moses Thomas.
"Come round to my house, dear young lady," he said, in a gentle tone;
then turning to the angry men and women, "Shame on you! cowards! has not
Squire Morgan sacrificed his life for you to-day?"
The people shrank back; one woman said, "God bless him!" and Moses
Thomas took my hand in his.
Little Nan was waiting for us. In the midst of all my own agony, I
almost dreaded seeing Nan's face, but to my surprise it was quiet. When
I entered the house she came up and kissed me. She had never ventured
to kiss me of her own accord before, but on this occasion we were
equals--nay, on this occasion Nan was greater than I.
"Yes, Miss Morgan," said Thomas, seating himself and beginning his tale
at once. "'Tis very like they is drowned, the Squire, and my lad, and
Jones, and eleven more of 'em; and oh! Lord! some was ready, and some
isn't; some was turning to the Lord, and some was just goin' on in evil;
and oh! dear Lord! forgive me, and have mercy upon me!" The man covered
his face with his hands, and Nan went down on her knees.
"Lord, forgive father, and lay not this sin to his charge," she said.
Thomas looked at her from under his shaggy brows, stretched out his hand
and stroked her cheek, then making an effort to master some strong
emotion, continued his tale.
"Yes, my dear young lady, as I say, 'twas mostly my fault; I felt rare
and h'angered this morning, when I went down into the mine, to find that
the little chap, unknownst to me, had brought down the Squire. I spoke
sharp to the lad, the Lord have mercy on me! The Squire, he had a long
talk with me and the deputy, and he wanted the overman to be sent for,
but the overman was ill, and I ranks next, and I was rare and vexed, and
I laughed at the thought of danger, and I knew the Squire had no
knowledge of mines, and 'twas all the little chap's conceit. So the
upshot of it was we went on with the workin' of the new seam, and I had
my h'eye out sharp, and to prevent all chance of danger, I made the men
work, as I thought, in a new direction, away from Pride's Pit. Well,
the Squire stayed down all day, and two or three times he axed me to
stop working until Mr Morgan come back; but I never, no, God knows, I
never _thought_ of danger. At last it was evening, and I came to the
surface, but Miles, being trapper, had to stay down to the last; and the
Squire, who seemed mighty taken with the lad, said they would come up
together. Well, I had not been to the surface more'n ten minutes, when
the news came that the water had burst out of Pride's Pit; most of the
men got to the surface in time, but fourteen are below. Oh! God
forgive me, God forgive me. My boy, my brave boy was right; if I had
hearkened to him, all would have been saved."
At these words Nan went down on her knees again, and looked into her
father's face with flushed cheeks and glistening eyes.
"Father, father, _do_ you call Miles brave and noble now?"
"Ay, ay, little lass, brave as a lion, my noble lad; how patient he was
when I nearly struck him across the face this morning, and how he spoke
up so manful, `Father, I'm not afeerd, but I _know_ there's danger.'"
"I'm so glad," said little Nan. "I'm so glad he was brave and noble,
and not afeerd; he was follerin' of Jesus. Why, father, if Miles is
drowned, he's only gone to Jesus."
"True enough, Nan, he's crossed the Jordan river, and is safe on the
holy hill of the better land. No fear for Miles, little lass."
"But, perhaps--perhaps," I murmured, "they are not all drowned; is there
no place of escape in the mine?"
"Oh! God grant it, lady; yes, there are rises and levels, they may have
got into them, but how are they to be got out? however are they to be
got at? Well, if there's a shadow of a chance of this, we miners won't
leave a stone unturned to save 'em, no, _not one_, trust us! I must see
what can be done!"