The owners of the Riggan collieries held their meeting. That a person
in their employ should differ from them boldly, and condemn their course
openly, was an extraordinary event; that a young man in the outset of
his career should dare so much was unprecedented. It would be a ruinous
thing, they said among themselves, for so young a man to lose so
important a position on the very threshold of his professional life, and
they were convinced that his knowledge of this would restrain him. But
they were astounded to find that it did not.
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.”