A SUDDEN CALL.
“Kate,” said Daintry, looking up from a lesson book as her sister
entered the dining-room a few mornings after the bazaar, “are you
_never_ going to see old Peggy Jones again? I am sure that you have not
been near her for a fortnight?”
“I ought to go, I know,” Kate answered, pausing by the sideboard, with
a big bunch of keys dangling from her fingers and an absent expression
in her gray eyes. “I have not been for some time.”
“I should think you had not!” quoth Daintry severely. “You have hardly
been out of the house the last four days.”
A faint color stole into the elder girl’s face, and, seeming suddenly
to recollect what she wanted, she turned and began to search in the
drawer behind her. She knew quite well that what Daintry said was
true—that she had not been out for four days. Jack had delivered the
rector’s message to her, and she had listened with downcast eyes and a
grave composure—a composure so perfect that even the messenger who held
the clue in his hand was almost deceived by it. All the same, it had
made her very happy. The young rector appreciated at last the motive
which had led her to give him that strange warning. He was grateful to
her, and anxious to make her understand his gratitude. And while she
dwelt on this with pleasure, she foresaw with a strange mingling of joy
and fear, of anticipation and shrinking, that the first time she met
him abroad he would strive to make it still more clear to her.
So for four days, lest she should seem even to herself to be
precipitating the meeting, she had refrained from going out. Now, when
Daintry remarked upon the change in her habits, she blushed at the
thought that she might all the time have been exaggerating a trifle;
and, though she did not go out at once, in the course of the afternoon
she did issue forth, and called upon old Peggy. Coming back she had to
pass through the churchyard, and there, on the very spot where she had
once forced herself to address him, she met the rector.
She saw him while he was still some way off, and before he saw her, and
she looked eagerly for any trace of the trouble of the last few days.
It had not changed him, at any rate. It had rather accentuated him, she
thought. He looked more boyish, more impetuous, more independent than
ever, as he came swinging along, his blond head thrown back, his eyes
roving this way and that, his long skirts flapping behind him. Of
defeat or humiliation he betrayed not a trace; and the girl wondered,
seeing him so calm and strong, if he had really sent her that
message—which seemed to have come from a man hard pressed.
A glance told her all this; and then he saw her, and, a flash of
recognition sweeping across his face, quickened his steps to meet her.
He seemed to be shaking hands with her before he had well considered
what he would say, for when he had gone through that ceremony, and said
“Good morning.” he stood awkwardly silent. Then he said hurriedly, “I
have been waiting for some time to speak to you, Miss Bonamy.”
“Indeed?” she said calmly. She wondered at her own self-control.
“Yes,” he answered, his color rising. “And I could not have met you in
a better place.”
“Why?” she asked. As if she did not know! The simplest woman is an
actress by nature.
“Because,” he answered, “it is well that I should do penance where I
sinned, Miss Bonamy,” he continued impetuously, yet in a low voice, and
with his eyes on the ground. “I owe you a deep apology for my rude
thanklessness when I met you here last. You were right and I was wrong;
but if it had been the other way, still I ought not to have behaved to
you as I did. I thought—that is—I——”
He faltered and stopped. He meant that he had thought that she was
playing into her father’s hands, but he could hardly tell her that. She
understood, however, or guessed, and for the first time she blushed.
“Pray, do not say any more about it,” she said hurriedly.
“I did send you a message,” he answered.
“Oh, yes, yes,” she replied, anxious only to put an end to his
apologies.
“Well,” he rejoined with a smile which did not completely veil his
earnestness, “I do find it a little more pleasant to look farther back
to our Oxford visit. But you are going this way. May I turn with you?”
“I am only going home,” Kate answered coldly. He had been humble enough
to her. He had said and looked all she had expected. But he was not at
all the crushed, beaten man whom she had looked to meet. He was,
outwardly at least, the same man who had once sought her society for a
few weeks and had then slighted her and shunned her to consort with the
Homfreys and their class. He had not said he was sorry for _that_.
He read her tone aright, and he colored furiously, growing in a second
a thousand times more confused than before. It was on the cards that he
would accept the rebuff, and leave her in resentment. Indeed, that was
his first impulse. But the consciousness, which the next moment filled
his mind, that he had deserved this, and perhaps the charm of her gray
eyes and proud downturned face, overcame him. “I will come a little way
with you, if you will let me,” he said, turning and walking by her
side.
Kate’s heart gave a great leap. She understood both the first thought
and the second, the weaker impulse and the stronger one which mastered
it, and she would not have been a woman had she not felt her triumph.
She hastened to find something to say, and could think only of the
bazaar. She asked him if it had been a success.
“The bazaar?” he said. “To tell you the truth, I am afraid I hardly
know. I should say so, now you ask me, but I have not given much
thought to it since. I have been too fully occupied with other things,”
he added, a note of bitterness in his voice. “Ah! Miss Bonamy,” with a
fresh change of tone, “what a good fellow your cousin is!”
“Yes, he is indeed!” she answered heartily.
“I cannot tell you,” he continued, “what generous help and support he
has given me during the last few days. He has been the greatest
possible comfort to me.”
She looked up at him impulsively. “He is Daintry’s hero,” she said.
“Yes,” he answered laughing, “I remember that her praise made me almost
jealous of him. That was when I first knew you—when I was coming to
Claversham, you remember, Miss Bonamy, full of pleasant anticipations
and hopes. The reality has been different. Jack has told you, of
course, of Lord Dynmore’s strange attack upon me? But perhaps,” he
added, checking himself, and glancing at her, “I ought not to speak to
you about it, as your father is acting for him.”
“I do not think he is,” she murmured, looking straight before her.
“But—it is true the only communication I have had since has been from
London—still I thought—I mean I was under the impression that Lord
Dynmore had at once gone to your father.”
“I think he saw him at the office,” Kate answered, “but I believe my
father is not acting for him.”
“Do you know why?” said the rector bluntly. “Why he is not, I mean?”
“No,” she said—that and nothing more. She was too proud to defend her
father, though he had let drop enough in the family circle to enable
her to come to a conclusion, and she might with truth have made out a
story which would have set the lawyer in a light differing much from
that in which the rector was accustomed to view him.
Reginald Lindo walked on considering the matter. Suddenly he said, “The
archdeacon thinks I ought to resign. What do you think, Miss Bonamy?”
Her heart began to beat quickly. He was seeking her advice!—asking her
opinion in this matter so utterly important to him, so absolutely
vital! For a moment she could not speak, she was so filled with
surprise. Then she said gently, her eyes on the pavement, “I do not
think I can judge.”
“But you must have heard—more I dare say than I have!” he rejoined with
a forced laugh. “Will you tell me what you think?”
She looked before her, her face troubled. Then she spoke bravely.
“I think you should judge for yourself,” she said in a low tone, full
of serious feeling. “The responsibility is yours. I do not think that
you should depend entirely on any one’s advice, but should try to do
right according to your conscience—not acting hastily, but coolly, and
on reflection.”
They were almost at Mr. Bonamy’s door when she said this, and he
traversed the remainder of the distance without speaking. At the steps
he halted and held out his hand. “Thank you,” he said simply. “I hope I
shall use this advice to better purpose than the last you gave me.
Please remember me to your sister. Good-by.”
She bowed silently and went in, and he turned back and walked up the
street. The dusk was falling. A few yards in front of him the lame
lamplighter was going his rounds, ladder on shoulder. In every other
shop the gas was beginning to gleam. The night was coming, was almost
come, yet still above the houses the sky, a pale greenish-blue, was
bright with daylight, against which the great tower of the church stood
up bulky and black. The young man was in a curious mood. Though he
walked the common pavement, he felt himself, as he gazed upward, alone
with his thoughts which went back, will he nill he, to his first
evening in Claversham. He remembered how free from reproach or
stumbling-blocks his path had seemed then, to what blameless ends he
had in fancy devoted himself. What works of thanksgiving, small but
beneficent as the tiny rills which steal downward through the ferns to
the pasture, he had planned. And in the centre of that past dream of
the future he pictured now—Kate Bonamy. Well, the reality had been
different.
He was just beginning to wonder when he would be likely to meet her
again, and to dwell with curious pleasure on some of the details of her
dress and appearance, when the sudden clatter of hoofs behind him
caused him to turn his head. Far down the street a rider had just
turned the corner, and was now galloping up the middle of the roadway,
the manner in which he urged on his pony speaking loudly of disaster
and ill news. Opposite the rector he pulled up and cried out, “Where is
the doctor’s, sir?”
Lindo turned sharply round and rang the bell of the house behind him,
which happened to be Gregg’s.
“Here,” he said briefly. “What is it, my man?”
“An explosion in the Big Pit at Baerton,” the man replied, almost
blubbering with excitement and the speed at which he had come. “There
is like to be fifty killed and as many hurt, I was told. But I came
straight off.”
“When did it happen?” Lindo asked, a wave of wild excitement following
his first impulse of horror.
“About an hour and a quarter ago, as near as I can say,” the messenger,
a farm laborer called from the plough, answered.
Dr. Gregg was out, and the clergyman walked by the side of the horse, a
crowd gathering behind him as the news spread, to the house of Mr.
Keogh the other doctor, who fortunately lived close by. He was at home,
and, the messenger going in to tell him the particulars, in five
minutes his gig was at the door, The rector, who had gone in too, came
out with him, and, without asking leave, climbed to the seat beside
him.
“Hallo!” said the surgeon, an elderly man, stout and white-haired, “are
you coming, too, Mr. Lindo?”
“I think,” the rector answered, “that there may be cases in which you
can do little and I much. Mr. Walker, the vicar of Baerton, is ill in
bed, I know; and as the news has come to me first, I think I ought to
go.”
“Right you are!” said Mr. Keogh gruffly. “Let go!”
In another moment the fast trotting cob was whirling the two men down
the street. They turned the corner sharply, and as the breeze met them
on the bridge, compelling Lindo to turn up the collar of his coat and
draw the rug more closely round him, the church clock in the town
behind them struck the half-hour. “Half-past five,” said the rector.
The surgeon did not answer. They were in the open country now, the
hedges speeding swiftly by them in the light of the lamps, and the long
outline of Bear Hill, a huge misshapen hump which rose into a point at
one end, lying dim and black before them. A night drive is always
impressive. In the gloom, in the sough of the wind, in the sky serenely
star-lit, in a tumult of hurrying clouds, in the rattle of the wheels,
in the monotonous fall of the hoofs, there is an appeal to the sombre
side of a man. How much more when the sough of the wind seems to the
imagination a cry of pain, and the night is a dark background on which
the fancy paints dying faces! At such a time the cares of life, which
day by day rise one beyond another and prevent us dwelling over-much on
the end, sink into pettiness, leaving us face to face with weightier
issues.
“There have been accidents here before?” the clergyman asked, after a
long silence.
“Thirty-five years ago there was one!” his companion answered, with a
groan which betrayed his apprehensions. “Good heavens, sir, I remember
it now! I was young then and fresh from the hospitals; but it was
almost too much for me!”
“I hope that this one has been exaggerated,” Lindo replied, entering
fully into the other’s feelings. “I did not quite understand the man’s
account; but, as far as I could follow it, one of the two shafts—the
downcast shaft I think it was—-was jammed full of rubbish and rendered
quite useless.”
“Just what I expected!” ejaculated his companion.
“And they could now communicate with the workings only through the
upcast shaft, in which they had rigged up some temporary lifting gear.”
“Ay, and it is the deepest pit here,” the surgeon chimed in, as the
horse began to breast the steeper part of the ascent, and the furnace
fires, before and above them, began to flicker and glow, now sinking
into darkness, now flaming up like beacon-fires. “The workings are two
thousand feet below the surface, man!”
“Stop!” Lindo said. “Here is some one looking for us, I think.”
Two women with shawls over their heads came to the side of the gig. “Be
you the doctors?” said one of them; and then in another minute the two
were following her up the side of the cutting which here confined the
road. The hillside gained, they were hurried round pit-banks and
slag-heaps, and under cranes and ruinous sinking walls, and over and
under mysterious obstacles, sometimes looming large in the gloom and
sometimes lying unseen at their feet—until they emerged at length with
startling abruptness into a large circle of dazzling light. Four great
fires were burning close together, and round them, motionless and for
the most part silent, in appearance almost apathetic, stood hundreds of
dark shadows—men and women waiting for news.
The silence and inaction of so large a crowd struck a chill to Lindo’s
heart. When he recovered himself, he was standing in the midst of a
dozen rough fellows, some half-stripped, some muffled up in
pilot-jackets or coarse shiny clothes. The crowd seemed to be watching
them, and they spoke now and then to one another in a desultory
expectant fashion, from which he judged they were in authority.
“It is a bad job—a very bad job!” his companion was saying nervously.
“Is there anything I can do yet?”
“Well, that depends, doctor,” answered one of the men, his manner of
speaking proving that he was not a mere working collier. “There is no
one up yet,” he added, eyeing the doctor dubiously. “But it does not
exactly follow that you can do nothing. Some of us have just come up,
and there is a shift of men exploring down there now. Three bodies have
been recovered, and they are at the foot of the shaft; and three poor
fellows have been found alive, of whom one has since died. The other
two are within fifty yards of the shaft, and as comfortable as we can
make them. But they are bad—too bad to come up in a bucket; and we can
rig up nothing bigger at present so there they are fixed. The question
is, will you go down to them?”
Mr. Keogh’s face fell, and he shook his head. He was no longer young,
and to descend a sheer depth of five hundred yards in a bucket dangling
at the end of a makeshift rope was not in his line. “No, thank you,” he
said, “I could not do it.”
“Come, doctor,” the man persisted—he was the manager of a neighboring
colliery—“you will be there in no time.”
“Just so,” said the surgeon drily. “It is the coming back is the rub,
you see, Mr. Peat. No, thank you, I could not.”
The other still urged him. “These poor fellows are about as bad as they
can be, and you know if the mountain will not go to Mahomet, Mahomet
must go to the mountain.”
“I know; and if it were a mountain, well and good,” Mr. Keogh answered,
smiling in sickly fashion as his eye strayed to a black well-like hole
close at hand—a mere hole in some loose planks surmounted by a windlass
and fringed with ugly wreckage. “But it is not. It is quite the other
thing, you see.”
Mr. Peat, the manager, shrugged his shoulders, and glanced at his
companions rather in sorrow than surprise. Lindo, standing behind the
doctor, saw the look. Till then he had stood silent. Now he pressed
forward. “Did I hear you say that one of the injured men died after he
was found?” he asked.
“Yes, that is so,” the manager answered, looking keenly at him, and
wondering who he was.
“The others that are hurt—are their lives in danger?”
“I am afraid so,” the man replied.
“Then I have a right to be with them,” the rector answered quickly. “I
am a clergyman, and I have hastened here, fearing this might be the
case. But I have also attended an ambulance class, and I can dress a
burn. Besides, I am a younger man than our friend here, and, if you
will let me down, I will go.”
“By George, sir!” exclaimed the manager, looking round for approval and
smiting his thigh heavily, “you are a man as well as a parson, and down
you shall go, and thank you! You may make the men more comfortable, and
any way you will put heart into them, for you have some to spare
yourself. As for danger, there is none!—Jack!”—this in a louder voice
to some one in the background—“just twitch that rope! And get that tub
up, will you? Look slippery now.”
Lindo felt a hand on his arm and, obeying the silent gesture of the
nearest gaunt figure, stepped aside. In a twinkling the man stripped
off the parson’s long coat and put on him the pilot jacket from his own
shoulders; a second man gave Lindo a peaked cap of stiff leather in
place of his soft hat and a third fastened a pit lamp round his neck,
explaining to him how to raise the wick without unlocking the lamp, and
also showing him that, if it hung too much on one side or were upset,
its flame would expire of itself. And upon one thing Lindo was never
tired of dwelling afterward—the kindly tact of these rough men, and how
by seemingly casual words, and even touches, the roughest sought to
encourage him, while ignoring the possibility of his feeling alarm.
Meanwhile Mr. Keogh, standing in a state of considerable perplexity and
discomfiture where the rector had left him, heard a well-known voice at
his elbow, and turned to find that Gregg had arrived. The younger
doctor was not the man to be awed into silence, and, as he came up, was
speaking loudly. “Hallo, Mr. Keogh!” he said. “Heard you were before
me. Have you got them all in hand? Cuts or burns mostly, eh?”
“They are not above ground yet,” Mr. Keogh answered. He and Gregg were
not on speaking terms, but such an emergency as this was allowed to
override their estrangement.
“Oh, then we shall have to wait,” Gregg answered, looking round on the
scene with a mixture of curiosity and professional _aplomb_. “I wish I
had spared my horse. Any other medical man here?”
“No; and they want one of us to go down in the bucket,” Keogh
explained. “There are some injured men at the foot of the shaft. I have
a wife and children, and I thought that perhaps you——”
“Would not mind breaking my neck!” Gregg retorted with decision. “No,
thank you, not for me I hope to have a wife and children some day, and
I will keep my neck for them. Go down!” he repeated, looking round with
extreme scorn. “Pooh! No one can expect us to do it! It is these
people’s business, and they are used to it; but there is not a sane man
in the kingdom, besides, would go down that place after what has just
happened. It is a quarter of a mile as a stone falls, if it is an
inch!”
“It is all that,” assented the other, much relieved.
“And a height makes me giddy,” Dr. Gregg added.
“I feel the same now,” said his elder.
“No; every man to his trade,” Gregg concluded, settling the matter to
his satisfaction. “Let them bring them up, and we will doctor them. But
while they are below ground—— Hallo!”
His last word was an oath of surprise and anger. Happening to glance
round, the doctor saw Lindo coming forward to the shaft, and recognized
him in spite of his disguise. One look, and Gregg would cheerfully have
given ten pounds either to have had the rector away, or to have arrived
a little later himself. He had reckoned already in his own mind that,
if no outsider went down, he could scarcely be blamed for taking care
of himself. But, if the rector went down, the matter would wear a
different aspect. And Dr. Gregg saw this so clearly that he turned pale
with rage and chagrin, and swore more loudly than before.