_SAVED FROM THE SHAFT._
It was a disturbed night at Tregowan, not at all the typical
Christmas Eve it was wont to be. It was not until dinner was served
that Mrs. Tregowan was informed of Duke's absence, and then it came
upon them all with the shock of an unpleasant surprise. Duke absent
from home on Christmas Eve! such a thing had never happened in all
his life before. The mother could scarcely believe her ears.
"Not in! Mr. Marmaduke not in! Why, Antony, how is that? Did he
say he would be out?" This was in the drawing-room before the bell
had rung. The mother in her surprise spoke to the butler as though
he were in a degree responsible for the truant's absence.
"Mr. Marmaduke said, madam, that he would probably be back for
dinner, but in case he was not, I was to ask you not to wait for
him." And grey-haired Mr. Antony rubbed his hands together in
deprecation of his mistress's displeasure.
"Did he say where he was going?"
"Not that I have heard, madam. I understand he had 'Tony' out, but
he left no word where he was going. He merely said that he would
probably be back for dinner."
"Then we will wait a few minutes. I will ring when we are ready; no
doubt he will be back directly."
They waited, but in vain. The minutes passed, but there were no
signs of the absentee's return. They wore all at a loss to think
what could have become of him. He had never mentioned a word to one
of them that he thought of going out; they would certainly have
remonstrated if he had. The whole proceeding was so unusual, so
unlike their Duke, who was wont to look upon Christmas as a season to
be especially and solely devoted to the folks at home, that they
could not understand the thing at all.
"He must have forgotten something in the town," suggested Winnie when
it became obvious that if they waited much longer dinner would be
scarcely worth the eating, "and gone back to fetch it. Perhaps he
has been detained or met some one who has kept him longer than he
intended."
"I think it's very unkind of him," burst out Ria in her usual
impetuous way. "I don't care where he's gone or why he's gone; I
think it's just unkind of him. Fancy his going out on Christmas Eve!
I don't want any dinner if Duke is not at home."
But the mother was silent--she never spoke a word. It puzzled her to
think where he had gone, it was so unlike the lad to go out and leave
her in ignorance where he had gone; but she never told her thoughts.
She had not the faintest suspicion of what was the real errand which
had taken him abroad on Christmas Eve, or she would not have had a
moment's peace until he had returned to her. As it was, since it was
really no use postponing dinner for an indefinite period, as,
moreover, it was quite possible that Duke would have something to eat
while he was out, the meal was served, and the mother and the girls
went to it.
But it was very far from being a festive repast. They missed the
truant; his face, his voice, his laugh, were conspicuous by absence;
it was as though a ghost sat at the feast. It was a silent meal;
scarcely a word was spoken; and when they did speak, it was only to
wonder why Duke was still away. Their appetites were of the
smallest; dish after dish was sent away untouched. A heaviness, a
gloom hung over all which effectually destroyed all thoughts of mirth
and jollity.
"Well," said Ria, when the meal was ended and just before the cloth
was cleared, "I must say that this promises to be a pleasant sort of
Christmas Eve. If to-morrow is the same, it will be the happiest
Christmas we have spent." And there was a look upon the maiden's
face as though she were not very far away from the borderland of
tears.
It really was too bad of Duke to be away on Christmas Eve. The
mother rose, and the girls followed her example. She said never a
word--it was not her way to reproach the absent; but they all knew
that she thought it was unkind of Duke to be away from home.
"I shall be in the drawing-room in a minute," she said as they went
out. "I have something to do in my room, but it will not detain me
long."
So the girls went off to the drawing-room alone, and the mother to
her room. When she reached it, she put her hand to her side, and a
look came in her face of pain and trouble. She locked the door, as
though to make certain she would be alone, and she grew so white upon
a sudden that she hardly seemed the same. Why she scarce could toll,
but a great fear came to her heart, which for a moment almost stopped
its beating. What had taken Duke away from home? Still, with her
hand pressed to her side, she sank into a chair and took a book which
lay on the dressing-table--it was a Bible! She opened it, and read
somewhere in the Psalms; but her thoughts were wandering, and she
could not keep them fixed upon the page. She closed the book; the
effort to read was vain; she simply could not control her nerves.
She rose, and murmuring, "My boy! my boy!" she fell down upon her
knees and prayed. Aye! how many a time had the mother prayed for her
son before, how many a time would she pray again until the end? What
had become of Duke? She prayed the Lord that nothing evil had
befallen him upon the way; she prayed Him that all might be well with
him, and that He would return him unto his mother soon.
Comforted somewhat by prayer--wonderful is the comfort which the mere
act of prayer conveys unto the prayerful soul!--the mother rose up
from her knees, and turned to remove all traces of agitation from her
countenance, for she would not distress the girls by any distress of
hers. It was then past eleven o'clock. As she turned suddenly there
arose a disturbance in the house, sounds of voices and of people
hurrying; she knew not what it was, but she guessed that there was
something wrong. Strange how quick the heart is to fear mischief has
chanced to those it loves! A spasm came over her, she staggered to
the dressing-table, and leant on it to prevent her falling. Some
came hurrying to her door; there was a knock. With a strong effort
she controlled herself and went to see who was there. There were the
girls, her own maid, the butler, and a boy, Reuben Curtis, over from
Menadarvar. There could be no doubt that something unusual had
happened; the lad, despite the temperature of the night, was covered
with perspiration.
"What is it?" asked the mother, trying her best to appear calm and
collected. It was not easy at once to learn. Ria was crying as
though her heart would break; the lad, what with his excitement, the
heat which he was in, and the novelty of his position, could scarcely
articulate a syllable; but at last everything was told--at least, all
there was to tell, which, after all, was little enough.
It appeared that Master Reuben had been to Copperhouse that evening,
sent on an errand by his mother, and coming back, crossing by Fruin's
stream-works, for he had taken care to choose the nearest road all
through the spinneys, he had come upon a crowd of boys. So dense was
the fog, he explained, that he had not the slightest suspicion of
their neighbourhood till he was in the very midst of them. He could
not say what they were doing there; their movements went beyond his
comprehension entirely; in fact, his whole narrative, like the fog,
was misty. No sooner had he come upon them, he declared, than a
whole lot of fireworks were exploded, for what purpose was more than
he could say, but by their light he saw that Mr. Marmaduke was
standing by his side; he saw him distinctly; he could swear that it
was Mr. Marmaduke; no, he had not the slightest doubt about it; he
knew that it was Mr. Marmaduke. The fireworks went out; directly
they were out a lot of guns were fired--he was sure that they were
guns--and a crowd of men and dogs came running after them. For his
part, he fled for his life--there could be no doubt that his fright
at least was genuine--but not before he saw Mr. Marmaduke turn and
run also. He was not certain--in the fog it was impossible to be
certain--but it was his belief that Mr. Marmaduke was shot by one of
the guns, and had fallen into the river.
This was the cheerful story which Master Reuben Curtis had to tell.
No wonder the house was in an uproar; no wonder Ria did her best to
break her heart with crying; it was well the mother had her wits
about her.
"Tell Jones to call the men together, and bid them go off to Fruin's;
and bid Coxon saddle 'Queenie,' and something for himself. I shall
be down in five minutes, ready to start with him."
"Queenie" was the mother's mare, reserved for her special riding, as
beautiful a creature as you would care to see; but Antony pointed
out, with the freedom permitted to an old retainer, that for the
mother to think of riding out at such an hour, in such a country, and
in such a fog, was little short of madness. The men would do quite
as well alone; it would be better for her to remain at home, and wait
for news. But the mother would hear nothing of it; she could not,
would not, stay quietly at home while Duke was perhaps struggling for
his life in Zunny Waters. They knew the tone in which she spoke so
well, that they knew it was hopeless to remonstrate; so, because they
could not help it, they let her have her own way.
She returned into her room alone, and again knelt down in prayer; for
God was to her such a very present help in time of trouble, that she
never entered on any course of action without going with it first
unto the Lord in prayer. Then, unassisted, she removed the unusual
splendour of her attire, which she had donned in honour of Christmas
Eve, and in its place put on her riding-habit. No boy--and we know
what are his powers in that direction--could have been quicker in
effecting the change than she. She put on a low felt hat, took her
riding-whip and gloves, and was ready. Her cheeks still were pale,
but there was a light in her eyes, and as she stood there one could
well understand how it was that Duke was so proud of his mother.
She went downstairs, passing Nelly and Ria on the way. Ria still was
crying.
"Pray God, darling, that all may yet be well," the mother said, and
stooped and kissed her. "He has been very good to us; we need not
fear to trust ourselves to Him."
She found the horses waiting at the door with Coxon. There were
three instead of two, and by the third stood Winnie. She too was in
her habit, and had her riding-whip in hand.
"What are you doing here, Winnie?" asked the mother. "What is the
meaning of this, child?"
"Forgive me, mother darling, but I am coming too," answered Winnie.
"If it is right for you, it is right for me as well. I cannot let
you go alone."
"God bless you, thou daughter mine;" and the mother went and kissed
her where she stood. "God bless you; I shall be glad to have you
come."
And so they started, mother and daughter, through the night, in
search of Marmaduke. Nelly and Ria stayed at home. Nelly, practical
in all things, saw that his room was ready and the bed warmed, and
everything in order for his returning home; then she went to Ria,
and, though her own heart was heavy and her own face was very pale,
strove to comfort her. But Ria would not be comforted.
"O Duke! Duke! why did you go? Oh, it is cruel to make me stay at
home! Duke! Duke! my darling Duke! why did you leave us on
Christmas Eve?"
And so she cried her eyes away. It was vain for Nelly to point out
that her woe at least was premature--that there was certainly no
proof that anything very terrible had happened. Ria would pay
attention to not a word of it; she had made up her mind to cry, and
cry she did. So Nelly, finding it useless to talk to her, and since
it was impossible to read, and still more impossible to do nothing,
went to the piano and played, with the strangely sweet touch which
was peculiar to her, the Christmas Hymn. And as she played very
softly, she sang it too--
"Hark! the herald angels sing
Glory to the new-born King;"
breaking out, however, into a louder pæan as she came to the
reiterated cry--
"Hark! the herald angels sing
Glory to the new-born King."
And while she sang and Ria cried, Winnie and the mother were riding
through the night.
The fog still was dense, but not so dense as it had been in the
valley down by Zunny Waters. On those higher levels the atmosphere
was clearer, and with little difficulty they could see their way in
front of them; but it was very cold, and still the night was dark.
It was along the North Cliffs they rode--those cliffs which are
always covered, from year's end to year's end, with gorse and
heather. To their right the sea moaned at their bases as if sullen
and in pain. There was not a breath of wind; all was silent, save
for the distant moaning of the sea and the clattering of their
horses' hoofs. Winnie and the mother rode in front, Coxon close
behind. They sent their horses along at a pelting pace, for they had
some way to go, and their hearts were filled with fear. It was
curious to see those women ride so swiftly along those wild North
Cliffs at such a season of the night, but neither of them were
acquainted with any sort of fear. There were few words spoken: they
had work to do, and had neither time nor heart for speech.
They cantered down the slope which runs into Godrevy. There was the
lighthouse on their right, seemingly within a stone's throw of the
land, upon its island base of rock. By now the fog had almost
cleared entirely--they could see the light distinctly, as though
there were no mist to hide it from their eyes; but yet the fog-bell
sounded drearily across the sea. They passed Ben Newton's farm; they
reached the gate which bars the road to Gwithian. As they did so the
bells at Gwithian Church rang in the midnight hour and another
Christmas morn.
"A merry Christmas to you, mother," said Winnie, as she heard them
peal. They were stopping for a moment. Coxon was off his horse,
undoing the gate to let them through. "I cannot kiss you, as I
would, for her wicked ladyship will not keep still."
By "her wicked ladyship" she meant her mare, "My Lady Belle." In
truth her ladyship was somewhat restive, as though she did not
approve of what was going on at all. This was not the way in which
to treat a well-bred horse, dragging her out at dead of night on
Christmas Eve: she was surprised at Winifred Tregowan. "Tony" had
had similar views five hours before. But when they were through the
gate "My Lady Belle" calmed down a little, and they began to canter
on again.
They had scarcely gone a dozen yards, and were about to sweep round
the bend which leads past the sandhills to the bridge which crosses
Zunny Waters, when something unexpected happened. Some one or
something came blundering along the sandy path, gave a cry at sight
of them, and fell down upon the road. It was well they were good
horsewomen, for their horses gave such a start of terror that they
were like to have thrown them then and there.
"What was that?" asked the mother eagerly, bending forward in her
saddle in an attempt to see.
"I don't know," said Winnie, who just now found sufficient occupation
in managing "My Lady Belle;" "I think it was a man."
It was a sufficiently startling occurrence; the place was lonely, the
night was dark; it was not exactly pleasant to have an unknown
something start, as it were, out of the ground, and give a cry of
pain or terror, whichever it might be, and then to disappear as
quickly as it came; for at first they did not know where it had gone.
Coxon, whose horse was least alarmed, rode on in front of them.
"Whoever it was, fell down upon the road," he said, as he went by; "I
saw him fall;" and then, in a somewhat lower tone, "It's some one
who's been indulging over-freely, I expect, because it's Christmas
Eve."
But it was not; it was nothing of the kind. Going very slowly, for
he really was in doubt as to what it was with which he had to deal,
he came upon the road just in front of him. His horse stopped and
refused to pass. Mrs. Tregowan and Winnie came up to him. The
mother's quick eyes saw in an instant that what was lying there was
nothing but a boy.
"It's Duke!" she cried, "it's Duke!" She was off the saddle in an
instant. It was well that Winnie caught the rein, for her mare would
have certainly made off; but it was not Duke,--it was Eddie Mason.
The mother knelt beside him in the sand and half raised him in her
arms. The lad seemed utterly exhausted; he was conscious enough, but
what with pain, or terror, or fatigue, or all three of these
together, he seemed for a time to have lost even the faculty of
speech. His plight was piteous; he was cut and wounded, he had lost
his hat, his clothes were all in rags, there was blood upon his face,
his hands were torn. There could be no doubt whatever that Master
Eddie Mason had spent a pleasant Christmas Eve.
Winnie got off her horse to help her mother, and Coxon had to hold
the reins of both the animals. Eddie had fallen into the hands of
good Samaritans. At the sight of such a little lad in such a sorry
plight, their women's hearts were touched and their tears began to
flow. They never paused to ask if he had not brought this evil on
himself; the mother bent and kissed him, and with her handkerchief
wiped the dirt and blood from off his brow; and Winnie, upon her
side, was all agog to kiss him too; for women think that there is no
such effectual cure as a kiss when a boy has been in the wars. But
her ambition was not to be gratified as yet, for at last Eddie got
back something of his tongue again, and what he said made the women
open their eyes still wider and prick their ears more eagerly.
"Duke!" he cried, "Duke and Lionel!" And the mother's head was bent
still lower, and Winnie's too, upon her side. Never yet was boy
looked at more anxiously by such sweet eyes.
"What of Duke?" the mother asked; "what of Duke, you darling boy?"
Eddie raised himself a little, which brought his face nearer still to
theirs, and motioned with his arm towards Gwithian.
"They're down the mine," he said, "down Wheal Galore!"
"What!" cried the mother, and trembled so that Eddie, who still lay
in her arms, was shaken as though he were a bag of bones. "Do you
think," she asked, "that you could ride upon a horse?" She did not
wait for his reply, but lifted him, and tried to place him on the
saddle of her mare.
"I think, madam," said Coxon, "if you will let me take him, I can
ride with him in front of me."
So Coxon took him and set him on the saddle there in front of him,
and Winnie and the mother remounted without the slightest aid, and
they all rode on again. And as they went the mother plied the lad
with questions. It seemed that when Duke and Pollyon missed him, it
was because, utterly exhausted, he had sank down upon the sand. He
in his turn missed them. When he staggered to his feet again, he
found that they had gone; the fog had lifted, and by his side he saw
the boards displaced which were wont to cover over the deserted mine.
That was enough for him; with some indistinct idea of seeking help,
he took to his heels and ran, though where help was to come from,
seeing that he had made for the Godrevy side, was difficult to see.
It appeared that, short though the distance was, he had fallen down a
dozen times upon the way; it was in the truest sense a God-send that
he had fallen in with the mother at last.
All this was got from him in disjointed sentences as they hastened
towards the mine. When they were over the bridge which crosses the
mouth of the Zunny Waters, the sand was so shifting and so deep, that
they judged it better to get off their horses and lead them by the
reins. So all three of them dismounted. Eddie was put on Coxon's
horse, and told to stick on as tightly as he could. The women threw
their habits across their arms, and began to stumble across the
desert at Gwithian.
In a few minutes they had reached the shaft of Wheel Galore.
There was not a sound. They saw the boards were all displaced. They
saw that the sea, which now was going down, still almost reached the
mine, and at that sight a new fear came to their hearts, and the
mother left her mare and ran forward in an agony of terror. She
leant over the shaft--
"Duke!" she cried, "Duke! Duke! my darling boy!" But at first there
was no reply. She listened, they all listened, but there was not a
sound. So she called again--
"Duke! Duke! speak to me. Duke! it is the mother! it is I!" Then,
as she waited a moment for a reply, a voice came from the depths, a
hoarse and husky voice--
"Duke's here! he's all right. Let down a rope, and I will tie him to
it."
"Thank God! oh, thank God!" the mother cried, and burst into a flood
of tears, and laughed and cried, and cried and laughed at the same
time. But a rope! What were they to do for that? And without one
they could not get him to the surface.
"The reins!" cried Winnie. It was an inspiration. With marvellous
expedition they were taken off, knotted together, and let down to
Duke below. The horses, who seemed to have resigned themselves to
fate, and to have come to the conclusion that they had better prepare
themselves for anything to happen, for a wonder stood quite still,
and did not avail themselves of the capital opportunity which was
offered them to bolt.
The impromptu rope was let down the shaft. All three of them were
there to bear a hand, Coxon in front, the mother and Winnie behind.
There could be no doubt that all their strength would be required.
The women were beside themselves with fear and trembling, hope and
excitement. Coxon, who, by education and by nature, was phlegmatic,
was as self-possessed as though it were the most commonplace occasion.
They felt the rope tighten and the strain on it increase. If the
knots were not tied tight enough! The women, who thought of it,
almost wished that they could draw them up again to see, but Coxon,
who had done the tying, knew that he had tied them well. At last the
same hoarse, husky, croaking voice, whose sound was discord to the
musician's ear, cried out in quavering tones--
"Be careful how you pull; he's not himself entirely. Ready!"
And they began to pull steadily, inch by inch, foot by foot. There
was a dead weight upon the end, but at last they brought him to the
top; and although he was soaked with wet, despite the plight which he
was in, Duke was in his mother's arms; and the women laughed and
cried over him, as though for the time they did not know what else
there was which they could do.
But Pollyon, who that night had not on the whole borne himself badly,
was still at the bottom of the shaft. He had no mother there to
laugh and cry for him, He had nothing but a curious and quiet and
wondrous trust in God.