THE MINE AT MIDNIGHT.
Mr. Balfour--for so we must call him now, since he is attired
respectably, travels first-class, and, moreover, even looks like a
gentleman--did not go to the Midlands, as he had given out was his
purpose, but took his ticket to Plymouth, to which place the railway had
just extended in those days. He bought neither book nor newspaper, but
sat in the corner, with his hat drawn over his eyes, for the whole nine
hours, thinking. From Plymouth he posted to Turlock, where he arrived
late at night, and without having broken fast since morning. He took no
pains either to divulge or conceal his name; he asked no questions, nor
was asked any except "whether he preferred to sleep between sheets or
blankets"--for Turlock was still an out-of-the-way region, and the
little inn about three-quarters of a century behind our modern
caravansaries, with their "daily fly-bills" and "electric bells."
After dinner, which he scarcely touched, he wandered out--it was his
habit to do so, as he told the hostler, who was also the
night-chamberlain--and did not return till long after midnight. He
observed, as he gave the man half a crown for sitting up for him to so
late an hour, that the moon looked very fine upon the sea.
"You must be a painter, I guess, Sir," said the hostler, with a grin of
intelligence.
"Why?" asked Balfour, sharply. "What makes you think that?"
"Well, Sir," returned the man, apologetically, "I mean no offense; but
it is always the gentlemen-painters--or, at least, so they say at
Gethin, and I wish more of 'em came here--as is so free with their
money, and so fond of the moon."
"Lunatics, eh?" said the new arrival, with a loud, quick laugh. "Well,
I'm no painter, my friend."
Then he took his candle and retired to his room, but not to bed. He
disarranged the bed-clothes and rumpled the pillow; then walked softly
to and fro in his slippers until morning. On the following day he made
no attempt to visit his newly acquired property, but strolled about the
harbor, or stood, in sheltered and, therefore, secluded places in the
rocks, watching the winter sea. His meals at the inn were sent down
almost as they were served up, yet he showed no sign of weakness or
fatigue, but in the evening sallied forth as before. The night was very
cloudy, with driving showers, and the landlady good-naturedly warned him
of the danger of venturing on the cliff-path, which was narrow, and had
been broken in places by a late storm.
"I will take care," said he, mechanically.
"Perhaps you would like supper--some cold meat, or something--since you
have eaten so little, placed in your sitting-room against your return?"
"Yes, yes," said he, approvingly; "you are right; I shall doubtless be
hungry to-night." Then he went out into the bleak, black night.
He hung about the harbor as before until near eleven, when all the
lights of the little town had faded away, save that at the inn, which
was burning for him alone; then he climbed the cliff, and pushed
southward along the very path against the dangers of which he had been
cautioned. He walked fast, too, with his gaze fixed before him, like one
who has an appointment of importance for which there is a fear of being
late. Presently he struck inland over the down, when he began to move
less quickly, and to peer cautiously before him. All was dark: the grass
on which he trod seemed to be black, until he suddenly arrived at a
large circular patch of it which _was_ black, and made the surrounding
soil less sombre by contrast. This was the mouth of a great pit; and he
sat on the brink of it, with his face to seaward, and his ear in his
hollowed hand, listening. Nothing was to be heard, however, but the
occasional scud of the rain, and the ceaseless roar of the now distant
waves. Far out to sea there was a round red light, which fell upon him
at regular intervals, its absence making the place which it had filled
more dark than elsewhere. It had a weird effect, as though some evil
spirit was keeping watch upon him, but he knew it for what it was--the
revolving lamp of a light-house. Presently, in the same direction as the
red light, he perceived a white one, which, though moving slowly, was
certainly advancing toward him; nor did it, like the other, become
obscure.
"He is coming," said Balfour to himself, with a great sigh. He had begun
to have doubts of the other's keeping his appointment; though, indeed,
it was not yet the time that he had himself fixed for it. The light came
on, quite close to the ground, and with two motions--across as well as
along. It was that of a lantern, which guided thus the footsteps of a
tall, stout man, who bore upon his shoulders a ladder so long that it
both projected above his head and trailed behind him. Balfour rose up,
and stood motionless in the path of the new-comer till this light fell
full upon him. "Hollo!" cried the man, a little startled by the white,
worn face that so suddenly confronted him, although he had been looking
for it. "Is that you, Mr. Balfour?"
"Yes. Hush! There is no need to mention names."
"Quite true, Sir; but you gave me quite a turn," remonstrated the other,
"coming out of the darkness like a ghost. This Wheal Danes, at midnight,
puts queer thoughts into one's head."
"John Trevethick was not afraid of coming here," observed Balfour.
"Well, so he always said. He told me at the last that he only pretended
to believe in any of the foolish stories that folks talk about, and in
favor of which he used to argue. But he's dead and gone, and _that_
don't make this place less uncanny. Nobody since his time has been
a-near it; they think he haunts the pit, it seems, so every body gives
it a wide berth, both night and day. We shall see, however, and pretty
soon, I hope, whether that notion can not be got over. Why, in six
months' time we ought to have a hundred men at work here."
"Let us hope so. But in the mean time you say nobody comes here even in
the daytime, eh?"
"Never. The place lies out of the way, you see: about midway between the
cliff-path and the road."
"That's well," said Balfour, mechanically. "And you have not been
babbling to any one of our prospects, Mr. Coe--nor of me, I hope?"
"Certainly not, Sir; that was the first article of our partnership, as I
understood. Not a soul at Gethin has heard a whisper of Wheal Danes, or
of your coming; they think I'm fast asleep at my own house, this
instant. But it's been hard work lugging this cursed ladder up here in
such a breakneck night as this, _I_ can tell you, and I am glad enough
to rest a bit."
"Well, it's all over now, Mr. Coe."
"Except that I have got to take it back again," grumbled Solomon.
"True, I had forgotten that. We must not leave it here, must we?"
"Of course not. I do not complain of the trouble, however, only you must
admit I've kept my tryst under some little difficulties, eh, partner?"
and Solomon chuckled self-approval.
"You will be paid in full for all, my good Sir," answered Balfour,
gravely; "that is," he added, hastily, "if the mine should turn out as
you predict. How deep is it? That ladder of yours will surely never
reach the bottom."
"No, indeed. Did I not tell you that there are three levels, each about
the same depth? The copper lode lies at the bottom of the last, in the
northeastern corner. You will find I have concealed nothing from you.
Well, I have got my breath again now. Are you ready, Mr. Balfour?"
"Quite; but walk slowly, I beg, for your lantern is very dim."
"Yes, yes. But wait a minute; I came here yesterday and hid something."
Solomon seated himself upon the edge of the pit, with his legs hanging
over, and began to peer and feel about him.
"Take care what you are at," cried Balfour, eagerly; "you may slip down
and kill yourself, sliding along like that."
Solomon laughed contemptuously. "Never fear, Sir; I have had too many
mischances with mines to fear them. I have fallen down worse places, and
been shut up in others far deeper and darker than Wheal Danes, without
food or candle, for a week, and yet lived through it. The shaft has not
yet been dug, I reckon, as will prove--Oh, here's the torch."
He dragged from under the overhanging rim of the pit a piece of wood
like a bludgeon, one end of which was smeared with pitch; and placing
the lantern with its back to the wind, pushed the stick inside, which
came out a torch, flaming and dropping flame.
"There's our corpse-candle!" cried Coe, triumphantly; "that would keep
us without witnesses, even if any one were so bold as, in a night like
this, to venture near Wheal Danes, to trespass on Tom Tiddler's ground,
where we shall pick up the gold and the silver." There was a wild
excitement, quite foreign to his habit, about this man, and he whirled
the torch about his head in flaring circles.
"Keep your wits steady, if you please," observed Balfour, sternly.
"It is over now, Sir, and I am in the counting-house again," answered
Solomon, submissively. "I felt a little exhilarated at the prospect of
plucking a fruit that has been ripening for fifty years, that's all.
This Wheal Danes is the very aloe of mines, and it is about to blossom
for us only. You had better take the torch yourself; the lantern will
serve for me; but just show a light here while I place the ladder."
Balfour held the blazing pine aloft, and disclosed the gaping mouth of
the old pit, its margin wet with the rain, and its sheer sides slippery
with the damps of ages.
"It would be easy enough to get down without this contrivance," observed
Solomon, grimly, as he carefully adjusted the ladder, the foot of which
was lost in gloom; "but it would take us some trouble to find our way
back again without wings."
"In daylight, however, I dare say it looks easier," said Balfour,
carelessly.
"It may look so, but it ain't. Nothing but a sea-gull ever goes in and
out of Wheal Danes; even the bats keep there, where indeed they are snug
and warm enough."
"It doesn't feel very warm at present," replied the other, who did not
seem to be in a hurry to explore this unpromising territory.
"Ay, but you wait till we get to the lower level; you might live there,
if the rats would let you, for a whole winter, and never need a fire."
"Oh, there are rats, are there? Why, what do _they_ live upon?"
"Well, that's _their_ look-out," laughed Solomon; "they would be very
glad to have _us_, no doubt. It would be only just in my case, for I
have lived on them before now; with rats and water a man may do very
well for a week or two."
"What! there is water laid on in this establishment, is there?"
"No; the low levels are quite dry. But come, let us see for ourselves.
We are losing time. I will start first, and do you follow close upon me,
but without treading on my fingers;" and Solomon placed his heavy foot
upon the first rung.
"No, no," said Balfour, drawing back; "I will not trust myself on the
same ladder with a man of your weight. When you are at the bottom give
me a call, and then I'll join you."
"As you like, Sir," responded Solomon, civilly; but his thick lips
curled contemptuously, and he muttered, "So this man is lily-livered
after all; so much the better: it is well to have a coward for a
partner."
The next moment his descending form was lost in the gloom.
Balfour waited, torch in hand, until an "All right," that sounded like a
voice from the tomb, assured him that his companion had reached terra
firma. Then he descended very carefully, and joined him.
"Stand close to the wall, Sir, while I move the ladder," said Coe; "your
head don't seem made for these deep places. Ah, here's the spot. This is
a drop of twenty feet."
"And what is the depth of the last level?"
"Five-and-twenty. But don't you be afraid; the ladder will just reach
it, only you won't have so much to hold on by at the top. It's only the
getting down that's unpleasant; you'll find going back quite easy work.
And then, just think of the lode!"
Solomon began to be anxious lest his companion's fears should induce him
to give up the expedition altogether. It had never entered into his mind
that what was so easy to himself could prove so formidable to another;
and, besides, he had somehow concluded that Balfour was a man of strong
nerves.
"Make haste," said the latter, in the tone of one who has achieved some
mental victory: "let us go through with it."
In the second level it was perceptibly warmer. Dark, noiseless objects
began to flit about the torch, and once something soft struck against
Balfour's foot, and then scampered away.
He looked behind him, and not a trace of light was to be discerned,
while before him was impenetrable gloom, except for the feeble gleam of
his companion's lantern. Above him the roof was just discernible, from
which long strings of fungi, white and clammy, hung down and brushed
against his face as he moved slowly forward.
"Come on!" said Solomon, impatiently, whose spirits seemed to rise in
this familiar scene. "We are only a few score yards from Golconda."
Balfour stopped short. "I thought you said there was another level?"
There was a strange look of disappointment in his face, and even of
rage.
"Yes, yes, and here it is," cried the other, putting down the ladder,
which he had carried from place to place. "It is only depth that
separates us from it. They dug well, those Romans, but left off, as you
shall see, upon the very threshold of fortune. You have only to be a
little careful, because the ladder does not quite reach."
He descended, as before, in advance, while Balfour followed slowly and
cautiously. "How steep and smooth the rock is!" observed he, examining
its surface.
"Yes, indeed; it is like a wall of marble. But what matters that? It
baffles the rats, but not us. Here is the land of gold, here is--What
the devil are you at?"
Solomon, in his impatience, had stridden on to the object of his
desires; and Balfour, halting midway in his descent, suddenly retraced
his footsteps, and having reached the top, was dragging the ladder up
after him.
Solomon heard this noise, with which his ear was familiar, and his tone
had some alarm in it as he cried out, "I say, no tricks, Mr. Balfour."
There was no reply. He hastened back to the spot he had just left, and
from thence could dimly perceive his late companion sitting on the verge
of the steep wall, peering down upon him.
"Come, come, a joke is a joke," remonstrated Coe. "What a fellow you are
to be at such games when an important matter is at stake! Why, here is
the lode, man."
"It is very valuable, I dare say, Mr. Coe, but it is worth more to one
man than to two."
"Great Heaven! what do you mean?" cried Solomon, while a sudden sweat
bedewed his forehead. "You would not murder a man to dissolve a
partnership?"
"Certainly not. I shall leave him to die, that's all. He and the rats
will have to settle it together. Six months hence, perhaps, we may have
a picnic here, and explore the place. Then we shall find, where you are
now standing, some well-picked bones and the metal part of your lantern.
That will cause quite an excitement; and we shall search further, and in
the northeast corner there will be found a copper lode. I will take your
word for that."
"Mr. Balfour, I am sure you will not do this," pleaded the wretched man.
"It is not in man's nature to treat a fellow-creature with such
barbarity. You are trying to frighten me, I know, and I own you have
succeeded. I know what it is to be shut up in desolate, dark places
alone, out of reach of succor; and even for eight-and-forty hours or so
it is terrible."
"_What must it be, then, to suffer so for twenty years?_"
It was a third voice that seemed to wake the echoes of that lonesome
cavern. Solomon looked up in terror, and beheld a third face, that of
Robert Balfour, but transfigured. He held the glowing brand above him,
so that his deep-lined features could be distinctly seen, and they were
all instinct with a deadly rage and malice. There was a fire in his eyes
that might well have been taken for that of madness, and Solomon's heart
sank within him as he looked.
"Mr. Balfour," said he, in a coaxing voice, "come and look at your
treasure. It sparkles in the light of my lantern like gold, and you
shall have it all if you please; I do not wish to share it with you."
"So you take me for a madman, do you? Look again; look fixedly upon me,
Solomon Coe. You do not recognize me even yet? I do not wonder. It is
not you that are dull, but I that am so changed by wrong and misery. My
own mother does not know me, nor the woman of whom you robbed me
nineteen years ago. Yes, you know me now. I am Richard Yorke!"
"Mercy, mercy!" gasped Solomon, dropping on his knees.
Richard laughed long and loud. The echoes of his ghastly mirth died
slowly away, and when his voice was heard again it was stern and solemn.
"It is my turn at last, man; I am the judge to-day, as you were the
witness nineteen years ago who doomed me wrongfully to shame and misery.
Night and day I have had this hour in my mind; the thought of it has
been my only joy--in chains and darkness, in toil and torment, fasting
and wakeful on my prison pillow, I have thought of nothing else. I did
not know how it would come about, but I was sure that it would come. You
swore falsely once that I was a thief; I am now about to be a murderer,
and your whitening bones will not be able to witness against me."
"I never swore it, Mr. Yorke," pleaded Solomon, passionately.
"Your memory is defective," answered Richard, gloomily; "you forget that
I was in court myself on that occasion. You did your very worst to
blacken me before judge and jury, and you succeeded."
"But it was Trevethick--it was father-in-law who urged me to do it; it
was indeed."
"I know it," replied the other, coldly; "he was a greater villain than
yourself, but unhappily an older one. Death has robbed me of him, and
made my vengeance incomplete. Still there is something left for me.
While you die slowly here--But no; I shall wait at Turlock for that to
happen. A strong man like you, who have rats to live upon, may last ten
days, perhaps. Well, when you are dead, I shall return to your London
house, and lead your son to ruin. You permitted me to begin the work in
hopes of getting half this mine; I shall finish it while you are in sole
possession of the whole of it."
"Devil!" cried Solomon, furiously.
"The appellation is a true one, my good Sir; but I was a man once. Evil
is now my good, thanks to your teaching. Look at me--look at me, and see
what you have brought me to at eight-and-thirty! You almost drove me
mad, and it was easy, for I had the Carew blood in my veins; but I
contrived to keep my wits for the enjoyment of this hour. I feel very
old, and have few pleasures left, you see. It is impossible,
unfortunately, to return here and see you rot; there would be danger in
it; just the least risk in the world of somebody coming here to look for
us. I must be off now, too, for there is a worthy man sitting up for me
at the inn, and I have got to take this ladder back to Gethin."
A cry of mingled rage and despair burst forth from Richard's foe.
"What! you had calculated upon the absence of that ladder producing
suspicion? It is curious how great wits jump together: that had also
struck me. I shall take it back, for I well know where it ought to be; I
am quite familiar with your house at Gethin, as you may remember,
perhaps. You may keep the lantern, which will not be missed; but, if you
will take my advice, you will put out the light, to preserve the
candle--as an article of food. Put it somewhere where the rats can not
eat it, and it may prolong your torments half a day. You can also eat
the horn of the lantern, but you will doubtless preserve that for a
_bonne bouche_. You are not superstitious, else I would suggest that
your father-in-law's spirit is exceedingly likely to haunt that
northeastern corner down yonder."
Here there was a dull scrambling noise, a violent struggle as of feet
and hands against a wall, and then a heavy thud.
"Now that is very foolish of you, Solomon, to attempt to get out of a
place which you yourself informed me could never be escaped from without
wings. I sincerely hope you have not hurt yourself much. I hear you
moving slowly about again, so I may leave you without anxiety. Good-by,
Solomon." Richard waited a moment, a frightful figure of hate and
triumph, peering down into the pit beneath, where all was now dark. "You
are too proud to speak to a convict, perhaps. Well, well, that is but
natural in so honest a man. I take my leave, then. You have no message,
I conclude, for home?"
An inarticulate cry, like that of a wild animal caught in a snare, was
the only reply.
"That is the worst of letting his candle go out," mused Richard, aloud;
"some rat has got hold of him already." Then, with a steady foot and
smiling face, which showed how all his previous fears had been assumed,
he retraced his steps, and mounted to the upper air. The sky was clearer
now; and, casting the torch, for which he had no further need, far into
the mine, and shouldering the ladder, he started for Gethin at good
speed. It was past two o'clock before he reached his inn at Turlock; but
before he retired to rest he sat down to the supper that had been
prepared for him, but without the appetite which he had anticipated.