But just at that moment there stepped out from the anguished crowd a girl, whose face was set and deathly, though there was no touch of fear upon it.
"I ax yo"," she said, "to let me go wi" yo" and do what I con. La.s.ses, some on yo" speak a word fur Joan Lowrie!"
There was a breathless start. The women even stopped their outcry to look at her as she stood apart from them,--a desperate appeal in the very quiet of her gesture as she turned to look about her for some one to speak.
"La.s.ses," she said again. "Some on yo" speak a word fur Joan Lowrie!"
There rose a murmur among them then, and the next instant this murmur was a cry.
"Ay," they answered, "we con aw speak fur yo". Let her go, lads! She"s worth two o" th" best on yo". Nowt fears her. Ay, she mun go, if she will, mun Joan Lowrie! Go, Joan, la.s.s, and we"n not forget thee!"
But the men demurred. The finer instinct of some of them shrank from giving a woman a place in such a perilous undertaking--the coa.r.s.er element in others rebelled against it.
"We"n ha" no wenches," these said, surlily.
Grace stepped forward. He went to Joan Lowrie and touched her gently on the shoulder.
"We cannot think of it," he said. "It is very brave and generous, and--G.o.d bless you!--but it cannot be. I could not think of allowing it myself, if the rest would."
"Parson," said Joan coolly, but not roughly, "tha"d ha" hard work to help thysen, if so be as th" lads wur willin"."
"But," he protested, "it may be death. I could not bear the thought of it. You are a woman. We cannot let you risk your life."
She turned to the volunteers.
"Lads," she cried, pa.s.sionately, "yo" munnot turn me back. I--sin I mun tell yo"----" and she faced them like a queen,--"theer"s a mon down theer as I"d gi" my heart"s blood to save."
They did not know whom she meant, but they demurred no longer.
"Tak" thy place, wench," said the oldest of them. "If tha mun, tha mun."
She took her seat in the cage by Grace, and when she took it she half turned her face away. But when those above began to lower them, and they found themselves swinging downward into what might be to them a pit of death, she spoke to him.
"Theer"s a prayer I"d loike yo" to pray," she said. "Pray that if we mun dee, we may na dee until we ha" done our work."
It was a dreadful work indeed that the rescuers had to do in those black galleries. And Joan was the bravest, quickest, most persistent of all.
Paul Grace, following in her wake, found himself obeying her slightest word or gesture. He worked constantly at her side, for he, at least, had guessed the truth. He knew that they were both engaged in the same quest. When at last they had worked their way--lifting, helping, comforting--to the end of the pa.s.sage where the collier had said he last saw the master then, for one moment, she paused, and her companion, with a thrill of pity, touched her to attract her attention.
"Let me go first," he said.
"Nay," she answered, "we"n go together."
The gallery was a long and low one, and had been terribly shaken. In some places the props had been torn away, in others they were borne down by the loosened blocks of coal. The dim light of the "Davy" Joan held up showed such a wreck that Grace spoke to her again.
"You must let me go first," he said, with gentle firmness. "If one of these blocks should fall----"
Joan interrupted him,--
"If one on "em should fall I"m th" one as it had better fall on. There is na mony foak as ud miss Joan Lowrie. Yo" ha" work o" yo"re own to do."
She stepped into the gallery before he could protest, and he could only follow her. She went before, holding the Davy high, so that its light might be thrown as far forward as possible. Now and then she was forced to stoop to make her way around a bending prop; sometimes there was a fallen ma.s.s to be surmounted, but she was at the front still when they reached the other end without finding the object of their search.
"It--he is na there," she said. "Let us try th" next pa.s.sage," and she turned into it.
It was she who first came upon what they were looking for; but they did not find it in the next pa.s.sage, or the next, or even the next. It was farther away from the scene of the explosion than they had dared to hope. As they entered a narrow side gallery, Grace heard her utter a low sound, and the next minute she was down upon her knees.
"Theer"s a mon here," she said, "It"s him as we"re lookin" fur."
She held the dim little lantern close to the face,--a still face with closed eyes, and blood upon it Grace knelt down too, his heart aching with dread.
"Is he------" he began, but could not finish.
Joan Lowrie laid her hand upon the apparently motionless breast and waited almost a minute, and then she lifted her own face, white as the wounded man"s--white and solemn, and wet with a sudden rain of tears.
"He is na dead," she said. "We ha" saved him."
She sat down upon the floor of the gallery and lifting his head laid it upon her bosom, holding it close as a mother might hold the head of her child.
"Mester," she said, "gi" me th" brandy flask, and tak" thou thy Davy an"
go fur some o" th" men to help us get him to th" leet o" day. I"m gone weak at last. I conna do no more. I"ll go wi" him to th" top."
When the cage ascended to the mouth again with its last load of sufferers, Joan Lowrie came with it, blinded and dazzled by the golden winter"s sunlight as it fell upon her haggard face.
She was holding the head of what seemed to be a dead man upon her knee.
A great shout of welcome rose up from the bystanders.
She helped them to lay her charge upon a pile of coats and blankets prepared for him, and then she turned to the doctor who had hurried to the spot to see what could be done.
"He is na dead," she said. "Lay yo"re hond on his heart. It beats yet, Mester,--on"y a little, but it beats."
"No," said the doctor, "he is not dead--yet," with a breath"s pause between the two last words. "If some of you will help me to put him on a stretcher, he may be carried home, and I will go with him. There is just a chance for him, poor fellow, and he must have immediate attention.
Where does he live?"
"He must go with me," said Grace. "He is my friend."
So they took him up, and Joan stood a little apart and watched them carry him away,--watched the bearers until they were out of sight, and then turned again and joined the women in their work among the sufferers.
CHAPTER x.x.xVI - Alive Yet
In the bedroom above the small parlor a fire was burning at midnight, and by this fire Grace was watching. The lamp was turned low and the room was very quiet; a dropping cinder made quite a startling sound.
When a moan or a movement of the patient broke the stillness--which was only at rare intervals--the Curate rose and went to the bedside. But it was only to look at the sufferer lying upon it, bandaged and unconscious. There was very little he could do. He could follow the instructions given by the medical man before he went away, but these had been few and hurried, and he could only watch with grief in his heart.
There was but a chance that his friend"s life might be saved. Close attention and unremitting care might rescue him, and to the best of his ability the Curate meant to give him both. But he could not help feeling a deep anxiety. His faith in his own skill was not very great, and there were no professional nurses in Riggan.
"It is the care women give that he needs," he said once, standing near the pillow and speaking to himself. "Men cannot do these things well. A mother or sister might save him."
He went to the window and drew back the curtain to look out upon the night. As he did so, he saw the figure of a woman nearing the house. As she approached, she began to walk more slowly, and when she reached the gates she hesitated, stopped and looked up. In a moment it became evident that she saw him, and was conscious that he saw her. The dim light in the chamber threw his form into strong relief. She raised her hand and made a gesture. He turned away from the window, left the room quietly, and went down-stairs. She had not moved, but stood at the gate awaiting him. She spoke to him in a low tone, and he distinguished in its sound a degree of physical exhaustion.