THAT LASS 0' LOWRIE'S.

Otago Witness, Issue 1880, 2 December 1887, Page 30

THAT LASS 0' LOWRIE'S.

1 By Frances Hodgson Burnett. Ghaptee XXXIV. The Explosion at the Pit.— Grace and Joan's Heroism. HE next morning Derrick went down to the mine as usual. There were several things he wished to do in these last two days. He had heard that the managers had entered into negotiations with a new engineer, and he wished the man to find no half-done work. The day was bright and frosty, and the sharp, bracing air seemed to clear his brain. He felt more hopeful, and less inclined to view matters darkly. He remembered afterward that, as he stepped into the cage, he turned to look at the unpicturesque little town, brightened by the winter's sun, atid that, as he went down, ho glanced up at the sky and marked how intense appeared the bit of blue which was framed in by the mouth of the shaft. Even in the few hours that had elapsed since the meeting, the rumour of what he had said and done had been bruited about. Some collier had heard it and had told it to his comrades, and so it had gone from one to the other. It had been talked over at the evening and morning meal in divers cottages, and many an anxious woman had warmed into praise of the man who " had a thowt for th' men." In the first gallery he entered he found a deputation of men awaiting him — a group of burly miners with picks and shovels over their shoulders,— and the head of this deputation, a spokesman burlier and generally gruffer than the rest, stopped him. " Mester," he said, "we chaps 'ud loike to ha' a word wi' yo'." " All right," wag Derrick's reply ; "I am ready to listen." The rest crowded nearer, as if anxious to participate as much as possible and give their spokesman the support of their presence. " It is na mich as we ha' getten to say," said the man, " but we're fain to say it. Are na we, mates ? " '' A) 7 , we are, lad," in chorus. " It's about summat as wen heerd. Theer wur a chap as towd some on us last neet as yo'd gelten th' sack fro' th' managers— or leastways as yo'd turned th' tables on 'em an' gi'en them th' sack yo'rsen. An' wen heerd as it begun wi' yore standin' up for us chaps— axin fur things as wur wanted i' th' pit to save ns fro' running more risk than we need. An' we heerd as yo' spoke up bold, an' argied fur us, an' stood to what yo' thowt war th' reet thing, an' we set our moinds on tellin' yo' as we'd heerd it an 1 talked it over, an' we'd loike to say a word o1o 1 thanks i' common fur th' pluck yo' show Vl. Is na that it, mates ? " 41 Ay, thai it is, lad, " responded the chorus. Suddenly one of the group stepped out threw down his pick. 41 An' I'm dom'd, mates," he said, "if here is na a chap as ud loike to shake hands wi 1 him." It was a signal for the rest to follow his example. They crowded about their champion, thrusting grimy paws into his hand, grasping it almost enthusiastically. 44 Good luck to yo', lad ! " said one. " Wen noan smooth sort o' chaps, but wen stand by what's fair and plucky. We shall ha' a good word fur thee when tha hast made thy flittin'." 44 I'm glad of that, lads, responded Derrick heartily, by no means unmoved by the rough-and-ready spirit of the scene. " I only wish I had had better luck, that's all." A few hours later the whole of the little town was shaken to its very foundation by something like an earthquake, accompanied by an ominous booming sound, which brought people flocking out of their houses with white faces. Some of them had heard it before — a}l knew what it 'meant. From the colliers' cottages poured forth women, shrieking and wailing— women who bore children in their | arms and had older ones dragging at their j skirts, and who made their desperate way to the pit with one accord. From houses and workshops there rushed men, who, coming out in twos and threes, joined each other, and, forming a breathless crowd, ran' through the streets, scarcely daring to speak a word — ! and all ran toward the pit. There were scores at its mouth in five minutes ; in ten minutes there were hundreds, and above all the clamour rose the cry of woman : 44 My mester's down I " " An' mine ! " 44 An' mine ! " 44 Four lads o' mine is down ! " 41 Three o' mine ! " 44 My little uns theer — th' youngest — nobbut ten year owd — nobbut ten year owd, poor little chap ! an' ony been at work a week 1 "' 41 Ay, wenches, God ha' mercy on us aw'— God ha' mercy I " And then more shrieks and wails, in which the terror-stricken children joined. It was a fearful sight. How many lay dead and dying in the noisome darkness below, God only knew! How many lay mangled and crashed, waiting for their death, Heaven only could tell ! In five minutes after the explosion occurred, a slight figure in clerical garb made its way through the crowd with an air of ex- i oited determination. " Th' parson's feart," was the general comment. 14 My men," he said, raising his voice so that all could hear him, 44 can any of you tell me who last saw Fergus Derrick ? " There was a little pause, and then came a reply from a collier who stood near. 44 1 coom up out o' th' pit an hour ago," he said. l( I wur th' last as coom up, an' it wur on'y chance as browt me. Derrick wur wi' his men f th' new part o' th' mine. I seed him as I passed through." Grace's' face became a shade or so paler, but he made no more inquiries. His friend either lay dead below or was waiting for his doom at that very moment. He stepped a little farther forward. " Unfortunately for myself at present," he ' said, 44 1 have no practical knowledge of the ! nature of these accidents. Will some of you

tell me how long it will be before we can make our first effort to rescue the men who are below 1 " Did he mean to volunteer — this young whipper-snapper of a parson? And if he did, could he know what he was doing 7 " I ask you," he said, " because I wish to ' offer myself as a volunteer at once. I think I am stronger than you imagine, and at least my heart will be in the work. I have a friend below— myself," his voice altering its tone and losing its firmness— -" a friend who is worthy the sacrifice of ten such lives aa mine, if such a sacrifice could save him;" One or two of the older and more e&« perienced spoke up. Under ah hotit it would be impossible to make the attempt — it might even be a longer time, but in an hour they might, at least, make their first effort. If such was the case, the parson said, the intervening period must be turned to the best account. In that time much could be thought of and done which -would assist j themselves and benefit the sufferers. He called upon the strongest and most experiencedj and almost without their re* cognising, the prominence of his positioDj led them on in the work. He even rallied the weeping women, and gave them something to do. One was sent for this necessary article, and another for that. A couple of boys were despatched to the next village for extra medical assistance, so that there need be no lack of attention when it was required. He took off his broadcloth, and worked with the rest of them until all the necessary preparations were made, and it was considered possible to descend into the mine. When all was ready he went to the mouth of the shaft and took his place quietly. It was a hazardous task they had before them. Death would stare them in the face all through its performance. There was choking after-damp below, deadly noxious vapours, to breathe which was to die ; there was the chance of crushing masses falling from the shaken galleries — and yet these men left their companions one by one and ranged themselves, without saying a word, at the curate's side. " My friends," said Grace, baring his head, and raising a feminine hand. "My friends, we will say a short prayer." It was only a few short words. Then the curate spoke again. " Ready ! " he said. But just at that moment there stepped oufc 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. Lasses, some on yo' speak a word fur Joan Lowrie I " 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. " Lasses," 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 for yo'. Let her go, lads ! She's worth two o' th' best o' yo'. Nowt fears her. Ay, she mun go, if she will, mun Joan Lowrie ! Go, Joan, lass, and wen not forget thee." But the men demurred. The finer instinct in some of them shrank from giving a woman a place in such a perilous undertaking — the coarser element in others rebelled against it. " Wen 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 — God 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 thy. sen, 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, passionately, "yo' munnot turn me back. I — sin I mun tell yo' — " and she faced them like a queen — " theer's a nion 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, the 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 passage 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, "wen 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 losened 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 xid miss Joan Lowrie. Yo' ha' work o' yore 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 for* ward as possible. Now and then she was

forced to stoop to make her way* round a bending prop ; sometimes there was a fallen mass 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 passage," and she turned into it. 'it was she who first came upon what they ,vere looking for ; but they did not find it in •he next passage, or the next, or even the nest. It was farther away from the scene o f 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' for." She held the dim little lantern close to the j- ace — a still face with closed eyes and blood upon it. Grace knelt down too, his heart jcbing with dread. «I S h e " he began, but could not jnish. Joan Lowrie laid her hand upon the apparently motionless breast, and waited almost a minute, and then she lifted her own {ace, 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' :a ved 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 the brandy flask, and tak' thou thy " Davy," and go fur some o' th' men to help us get him to the 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 strain with its last load of sufferers, Joan Lowrie came with it, blinded and dazzled 3 y the golden winter's sunlight as it fell upon ■er haggard, beautiful face. She was holdje the head of what seemed to be a dead 3 an upon her knee. A groat shout of welcome rose up from the bystanders. She helped them to lay her charge upon a -ilc of coats and blankets prepared for him, ;nd then she turned to the doctor who had lurried to the spot to see what could be done "Pic is na dead," she paid. "Lay yore hond on his heart. It beats yet, mester— on'v a little, but it beats." « No," said the doctor, "he is not deadvet " with a breath's pause between the last Ito 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 i chance for him, poor fellow, and he must have immediate attention. Where does he live ? " " lie must go with me," said Grace. "He Is my friend." So they took him up, and Joan Lowrie ; to ocl a little apart, and watched them carry him away,— watched the bearers until they ■•ere out of sight, and then turned again and oir,cd the women in their work among the •uJlcrers. Chapter XXXV. What Joan Came For. In the bedroom above the small parlour a ■re was burning at midnight, and by this ■re Grace was watching. The lamp was jrned low, and the room was very quiet; i dropping cinder made quite a startling Miind. When a moan or a movement of the atient broke the stillness— which was only it rare intervals— the Curate rose and went o the bedside. But it was only to look at he sufferer lying upon it, bandaged and .nconscious. There was very little he could io. He could follow the instructions given iv the medical man before he went away, at these had been few and hurried, and he ould only watch with grief in his heart. jiere was but a chance that his friend's life :ight be saved. Close attention and unfitting care might rescue him, and to the tst of his ability the Curate meant to give im both. But he could not help feeling a .-en anxiety. His faith in his own skill was :a very great, and there were no professional I Lrses in Riggan. # ; A " It is the care women give that he needs, f J baid once, standing near the pillow and , pairing to himself. " Men cannot do these i, tings well. A mother or a sister might save I He went to the window and drew back i -i enrtain to look out upon the night. As [ i >. did so, he saw the figure of a woman f faring the house. As she approached, she [*: 'gan to walk more slowly, and when she <- ■ -ujhed the gate she hesitated, stopped, and --, jkeri up. In a moment it became evident ''" it she saw him, and was conscious that he -ny her. The dim light in the chamber [ .rcw his form into strong relief. She raised f r hand and made a gesture. He turned f Tay from the window, left the room quietly :l\vent downstairs. She had not moved, I :t stood at the gate awaiting him. She \ 'okc to him in a low tone, and he distin- |! .'.shed in its sound a degree of physical f , ihaustion. : ■ " Yo' saw me," she said, " I thowt yo' did, ! ->ugh I did na think o' yo' bein' at th' win- ' c when I stopped— to— to see th' leet." In "I am glad I saw you," said Grace. " You |*i we been at work among the men who were ff n ?" C ''Ay," pulling at a bush of evergreen I -rvoiisly, and scattering the leaves as she f >oke. " Thcer's scarce a house o' th' com- ] 'on soart i' Riggan as has na trouble in si, "God help them all!" exclaimed Grace, ; Hvently. I "Have you seen Miss Barholm ?" he asked : :«t.: «t. "She wur on th' ground i' 10 minmts *er th' explosion. She wur in th' village ? Dfn it happent, an' she drove to th' pit. 'he's been workin' as hard as ony woman i' %an. She saw us go down th' mine, but '^"did not see us come up. She wur away 'tier wi' a woman as had a lad to be carried "OEce dead. She would ha' come to him, D '« she knowed yo' were wi' him, an' theer them as needed her. When th' cages • JJ tt. up theer wur women as screamed an' to her, and throwed theirsens on their bees an' hid their faces i' her dress, an' i' kr ionds, as if they thowt she could keep !l ' ttuth fro' 'em." Grace trembled' in his excitement. "C-od bless her ! God bless her!" he said, &ie and again. " Where is she now Vhe '&ed at length.

" Theer wur a little chap as coom up i' th' last cageful— he wur hurt bad, an' he wur sich a little chap as it went hard wi' him. When th' doctor touched him he screamed an' begged to be let alone, an' she heerd an' went to him, an' knelt down an' quieted him a bit. Th' poor little lad would na let go o' her dress ; he held to it fur dear life, an' sobbed an' shivered an' begged her to go wi' him an' howd his head on her lap while th' Jdoctor did what mun be done. An' so she went, an' she's wi' him now. He will na live till dayleet, an' he keeps cryin' out for th' lady to stay wi' him." There was another silence, and then Joan spoke : " Canna yo' guess what I coom to say ?" He thought he could, and perhaps his glance told her so. " If I wur a lady," she said, her lips, her hands trembling, " I could na ax yo' what I've made up my mind to ; but I'm noan a a lady, an' it does na matter. If yo' need some one to help yo' wi' him, will yo' let me ha' th' place ? I dunnot ax nowt else but— but to be let do th' hard work." She ended with a sob. . Suddenly she covered her face with her hands, weeping wildly. " Don't do that," he said, gentle. " Come with me. It is you he needs." He led the way into the house and up the stairs, Joan following him. When they entered the room they went to the bedside. The injured man lay motionless. "Is theer loife i' him yet 1 " asked Joan. " lie looks as if there might na be." " There is life in him," Grace answered, j " and he has been a strong man ; so I think i we may feel some hope." Chapter XXXVI. Waiting and Watching. The next morning the pony-carriage stopped before the door of the Curate's lodgings. When Grace went downstairs to the parlour, Anice Barhohn turned from the window to greet him. The appearance of phyiscal exhaustion he had observed the night before in Joan Lowrie he saw again in her, but he had never before seen the face which Anice turned toward him. " I was on the ground yesteiday, and saw yo go down into the mine," she said. " I had never thought of such courage before." That was all ; but in a second he comprehended that this morning they stood nearer together than they had ever stood before. " How is the child you were with ? " he asked. " He died an hour ago." When they went up stairs Joan was standing by the sick man. " He's worse than he wur last neet," she said. '• An' he'll be worse still. I ha' nursed hurts like these afore. It'll be many a day afore he'll be better— if th' toime ivver comes." The Kector and Mrs Barholm, hearing of the accident, and leaving Browton hurriedly to return home, were met by half a dozen di JTerent versions on their way to Riggan, ,and each one was so enthusiastically related that Wrßarholm's rather dampened interest in his daughter's protege was fanned into a brisk flame. "There must be something in the girl, 1 after all," he said, "if one could only get at it. Something ought to be done for her, really." Hearing of Grace's share in the transaction, he was simply amazed. " I think there must be some mistake," he said to his wife. " Grace is not the man— nor the man <phjmalhj? straightening his broad shoulders, "to be equal to such a thing." But the truth of the report forced itself upon him, after hearing the story repeated several times before they reached Riggan, and, arriving at home, they heard the whole story from Anice. While Anice was talking, Mr Barholm began to pace the floor of the room restlessly. " I wish I had been there," he said. " I would have gone down myself." " You are a braver man than I took you for," he said to his curate when he saw him, and he felt sure that he was saying exactly the right thing. "I should scarcely have expected such dashing heroism from you, Grace." " I hardly regarded it in that light," said the little gentleman, colouring sensitively. " If I had, 1 should scarcely have expected it of myself." The fact that Joan Lowrie had engaged herself as nurse to.the injured engineer made some gossip among her acquaintances at first, but this soon died out. Thwaite's wife had a practical enough explanation of the case. " Th' lass wur tired o' pit-work ; and no wonder. She's made up her moindto ha' done wi' it ; and she's a first-rate one to nursestrong i' th' arms, and noan sleepy-headed. Happen she'll tak' up wi' it fur a trade. As to it bein' him as she meant when she said theer wur a mon as she meant tc save, it wur no such thing. Joan Lowrie's noan the kind o' wench to be runnin' after gentlefolk— yo' know that yoresens. It's noan o' our business who the mon wur. Happen he's dead ; and whether he's dead or alive, yo'd better leave him a-be, an' her too." In the sick man's room the time passed monotonously. There were days andnights of heavy slumber and unconsciousness — restless mutterings and weary tossings to and fro. The face on the pillow was sometimes white, sometimes flushed with fever ; but whatever change came to pass, death never seemed far away. Grace lost appetite, and grew thin with protracted anxiety and watching. He would not give up his place even to Anice or Mrs Barholm, who spent much of their time in the house. He would barely consent to snatch a few minutes' rest in the daytime ; in truth he could not have slept if he would. Joan held her post unflinchingly. She took even less respite than Grace. Having almost forced her to leave the room one morning, Anice went downstairs to find her lying upon the sofa, her hands elapsed under her head, her eyes wide open. " I conno sleep yet a awhile," she said. "Dunnot let it trouble yo'. I'm used to it." Sometimes during the long night Joan felt his hollow eyes following he as she moved about the room, and fixed hungrily upon her when she stood near him. " Who are you ?" he would say. " I have seen you before, and I know your face ; but

—but I have lost your name. Who are you ? " One night, as she stood upon the hearth, alone in the room — Grace having gone downstairs "for something— she was startled "by the sound of Derrick's voice falling witti a singular distinctness upon the silence. "Who is it that is standing there?" he said. "Do I know you ? Yes — it is " but before he he could finish the momentary gleam of recognition had passed away, and he had wandered off again into low, disjointed murmurings. It was always of the mine, or one other anxiety, that he spoke. There was something he must do or say — some decision he must reach. Must he give up ? Could he give up? Perhaps he had better go away— for away. Yes ; he had better go. No— he could not— he must wait and think again. He was tired of thinking — tired of reasoning and arguing with himself. Let it go for a few minutes. Give him just an hour of re3t. He was full of pain; he was losing himself, somehow. And then, after a brief silence, he would begin again and go the weary round once more. "He has had a great deal of mental anxiety of late— too much responsibility," said the medical man, "and it is going rather against him." Chapter XXXVII. Joan's Heroism. The turning-point was reached at last. One evening, at the close of his usual visit, the doctor said to Grace, "To-morrow, I think, you will see a marked alteration. I should not be surprised to find on my next visit that his mind had become permanently cleared. The intervals of half consciousnesshave become lengthened. Unless some entirely unlooked-for change occurs, I feel sure that the worst is over. Give him close attention to-night. Don't let the young woman leave the room." That night Anice watched with Joan. It was a strange experience through which these two passed together. If Anice had not known the truth before, she would have learned it then. Again and again Derrick went the endless round of his [miseries. How must it end? How could it end? What must he do 1 How black and narrow the passages were 1 There she was, comingtoward him from the other end— and if the props gave way 1 They mere giving way I —Good God ! the light was out, and he was held fast by the mass which had fallen upon him. What must he do about her whom be loved, and who was separated from him by this horrible wall ? He was dying, and she would never know what he wanted to tell her. What was it that he wanted to say — That he loved her— loved her— loved her ! Could she hear him ? He must make her hear him before he died — Joan I Joan I Thus he raved hour after hour ; and the two sat and listened, often in dead silence ; but at last there rose in Joan Lowrie's face a look of such intense and hopeless pain, that Anice spoke. "Joan ! my poor Joan 1 " she said. Joan's head sank down upon her hands. " I mun go away fro' Eiggan," she whispered. " I mun go away afore he knows. There's no help fur me." "No help ? " repeated Anice, after her. She did not understand. " Theer's none," said Joan. " Dunnot yo' see aa ony place wheer he is con be no place fur me ? I thowt— l thowt the trouble were aw on my side, but it is na. Do yo' think I'd stay an' let him do hissen a wrong 1" Anice wrung her hands together. "A wrong?" she cried. "Not a wrong, Joan ; I cannot let you call it that." "It would na be nowt else. Am I fit wife fur a gentlemon ? Nay, my work's done when the danger's ower. If he wakes to know th' leet o' day to-morrow morning, it's dune then." " You do not mean," said Anice, " that you will leave us 1" " I canna stay i ! Riggan ; I mun go away." Toward morning Derrick became quieter. He muttered less and less, until his voice died away altogether, and he sank into a profound slumber. Grace coming in and finding him sleeping, turned to Joan with a look of intense relief. "The worst is over," he said; "now we may hope for the best." ""Ay," Joan answered, quietly, " th' worst is ower — for him. At last darkness gave way to a faint grey light, and then the grey sky showed long streaks of wintry red, gradually widening and deepening until all the east seemed flushed. "It's roornin'," said Joan, turning from the window to the bed. " I mun gi' him th' drops again." She was standing near the pillow when the first flood of the sunlight poured in at the window. At this moment Derrick awoke from his sleep to a full recognition of all around him. But the strength of his delirium had died out ; his prostration was so utter that for the moment he had no power to speak, and could only look up at the pale face hopelessly. It seemed as if the golden glow of the morning light transfigured it. "He's awake," Joan said, moving away and speaking to those on tne other side of the room. " Will one o' yo' pour out th 1 medicine ? My hand's noan steady." Grace went to the bedside hurriedly. "Derrick," he said, bending down, "do you know me ?" "Yes," Derrick answered, in a faltering whisper, and as he said it the bedroom door closed. Both of them heard it. A shadow fell upon the sick man's face. His eyes met his- friend's with a question in them, and the next instant the question put itself into words : "Who went out?" Grace bent lower. " It was Joan Lowrie." He closed his eyes and waited a little, as if to gain fresh strength. There rose a faint flush upon his hollow cheeks, and his mouth trembled. " How "—he said next—" how— long ?" " You mean to ask me," said Grace, " how long she has been here 1" A motion of assent. " She has been here from the first." He asked no further questions. His eyes closed once more and he lay silent. {To be continued.)