Joan went back to her lodgings at the Thwaites' and left Mrs. Barholm
and Anice to fill her place.
Too prostrate to question his nurses, Derrick could only lie with closed
eyes helpless and weary. He could not even keep himself awake long
enough to work his way to any very clear memories of what had happened.
He had so many half recollections to tantalize him. He could remember
his last definite sensation,--a terrible shock flinging him to the
ground, a second of pain and horror, and then utter oblivion. Had he
awakened one night and seen Joan Lowrie by the dim fire-light and called
out to her, and then lost himself? Had he awakened for a second or so
again and seen her standing close to his pillow, looking down at him
with an agony of dread in her face?
In answer to his question, Grace had told him that she had been with
him from the first. How had it happened? This he asked himself again and
again, until he grew feverish over it.
“Above all things,” he heard the doctor say, “don't let him talk and
don't talk to him.”
But Grace comprehended something of his mental condition.
“I see by your look that you wish to question me,” he said to him. “Have
patience for a few days and then I will answer every question you may
ask. Try to rest upon that assurance.”
There was one question, however, which would not wait. Grace saw it
lying in the eager eyes and answered it.
“Joan Lowrie,” he said, “has gone home.”
Joan's welcome at the Thwaites' house was tumultuous. The children
crowded about her, neighbors dropped in, both men and women wanting to
have a word with her. There were few of them who had not met with some
loss by the explosion, and there were those among them who had cause to
remember the girl's daring.
“How's th' engineer?” they asked. “What do th' doctors say o' him?”
“He'll get better,” she answered. “They say as he's out o' danger.”
“Wur na it him as had his head on yo're knee when yo' come up i' th'
cage?” asked one woman.
Mrs. Thwaite answered for her with some sharpness. They should not
gossip about Joan, if she could help it.
“I dunnot suppose as she knowd th' difference betwixt one mon an'
another,” she said. “It wur na loikely as she'd pick and choose. Let th'
lass ha' a bit o' quoiet, wenches. Yo' moither her wi' yo're talk.”
“It's an ill wind as blows nobody good,” said Thwaite himself. “Th'
explosion has done one thing--it's made th' mesters change their minds.
They're i' th' humor to do what th' engineer axed fur, now.”
“Ay,” said a tired-looking woman, whose poor attempt at mourning told
its own story; “but that wunnot bring my mester back.”
“Nay,” said another, “nor my two lads.”
There had been a great deal of muttered discontent among the colliers
before the accident, and since its occurrence there had been signs
of open rebellion. Then, too, results had proved that the seasonable
adoption of Derrick's plan would have saved some lives at least, and,
in fact, some future expenditure. Most of the owners, perhaps, felt
somewhat remorseful; a few, it is not impossible, experienced nothing
more serious than annoyance and embarrassment, but it is certain
that there were one or two who were crushed by a sense of personal
responsibility for what had occurred.
It was one of these who made the proposition that Derrick's plan be
accepted unreservedly, and that the engineer himself should be requested
to resume his position and undertake the management of the work. There
was some slight demurring at first, but the catastrophe was so recent
that its effect had not had time to wear away, and finally the agreement
was made.
But at that time Derrick was lying senseless in the bedroom over the
parlor, and the deputation from the company could only wait upon Grace,
and make an effort at expressing their sympathy.
After Joan's return to her lodgings, she, too, was visited. There was
some curiosity felt concerning her. A young and handsome woman, who had
taken so remarkable a part in the tragedy, was necessarily an object of
interest.
Mr. Barholm was so fluently decided in his opinion that something
really ought to be done, that a visit to the heroine of the day was the
immediate result. There was only one form the appreciation of a higher
for a lower social grade could take, and it was Mr. Barholm who had
been, naturally, selected as spokesman. He explained to Joan the nature
of the visit. His friends of the Company had heard the story of her
remarkable heroism, and had felt that something was due to her--some
token of the admiration her conduct had inspired in them. They had
agreed that something ought to be done, and they had called this evening
to present her with a little testimonial.
The bundle of crisp bank-notes burned the hand of the man who held them,
as Joan Lowrie listened to this speech. She stood upright before them,
resting one hand upon the back of a chair, but when the bearer of the
testimonial in question rose, she made a step forward. There was more
of her old self in her gesture than she had shown for months. Her eyes
flashed, her face hardened, a sudden red flew to her cheek.
“Put it up,” she said. “I wunnot tak' it.”
The man who had the money laid it upon the table, as if he were anxious
to be rid of it He was in a glow of anger and shame at the false step
they had made.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I see we have made a mistake.”
“Ay,” she said, “yo' ha' made a mistake. If yo' choose to tak' that an'
gi'e it to th' women an' childer as is left to want bread, yo' may do it
an' welcome.”