THE WAY BACK
"She is coming, my life, my sweet,
Were it never so airy a tread,
My heart would hear it and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed.
My dust would hear it and beat
Had I lain for a century dead,
Would start and tremble under her feet
And blossom in purple and red!"—Tennyson.
The entrance to the lead mine cave had now been artificially widened to allow of free entrance. From the valley below a light wooden stair had been erected, up which the visitors passed. Some good workmen from a similar mine elsewhere were now busy on the premises, making the final tests before the experts would pronounce that there was really money in the scheme.
The party came presently upon a spot where a big underground stream gushed from a tunnel, crossed a space about twenty feet wide, and disappeared in another tunnel on the opposite side of the cavern. It emerged three miles away, far down Branterdale. Nobody knew whence it came.
Since first the caves were discovered, great progress had been made; and only the previous day the men had chipped open a crack in the rock wall, discovering within another big space with a very dangerous floor.
"We've all got to be careful in here," remarked Percy, as he marshalled his party. "Perhaps, Joey, you and Mrs. Gaunt would be happier outside, for it's a case of crawling in."
Virgie and Joey, however, were not going to be left behind. They neither of them had any objection to crawling. With the help of their escort, they both got through quite easily, and found themselves in a curious place. Under their feet were spikes of rock, with deep inequalities between. The men had laid down planks, and warned the visitors to be careful not to step off them. On the further side of this cavern was a very deep cleft which had not yet been explored, as the men had found the air down there too foul for them to venture to descend.
"Like an old well—they don't know how deep," said Percy, indicating a black hole, or chasm, on the further side of the irregular-shaped space in which they stood. "They got a big bundle of hay, set it alight, and pitched it in, burning fiercely. The air down there put it out in no time."
"Not much chance for anybody who went over," remarked Gaunt, moving nearer.
"Not much. Don't stand too close," replied Percy. "You see, the men put in a stake, and rigged up a rope, meaning to go down and explore; but they will have to wait till something has been done before they can make use of it."
"What will they do?" asked Virgie, with interest.
"Pump air down, I think, and force the bad gas upwards," replied Percy, who was in his element, showing and explaining.
Gaunt stood on the plank near the hole, gazing at it as if it fascinated him. His hands were in his pockets. Virgie had made a little movement when he first approached it, putting out her hand as if to grasp his arm. She checked herself, for since his rebuff she had never touched him. But as he still stood there, seeming lost in his own thoughts, some kind of dread fell upon her. "Osbert," she said.
He turned sharply at the sound of her voice, and moved towards her.
"I believe my—my shoe-lace has come untied," said she.
It was the first thing that occurred to her to say, and she knew it was a lame excuse. He looked so intently at her that she almost thought he was aware that it was a pretext merely. Never before had she asked him to render her any such small personal service.
"Lean against the wall, and give me your foot," said he. "I'll do it up."
"Thanks. The—the air is rather close in here, isn't it?" she faltered, as she went to stand against the cave side. "Will you take me out? I feel a bit faint."
"We shall all go out in a minute or two," was his reply, as he knelt upon the plank at her feet.
He tried to steady himself as he bent over his task. He had seen something in her eyes which shook his purpose—a dawning anxiety, or fear, or.... Was that all? Was there not more? He could not be sure.
But, if her suspicions were awake, he might have to let this chance go.
The cave echoed to Joey's loud, jolly laugh. She and Gerald were standing upon a plank which see-sawed slightly, and it amused her to make it move up and down.
"Don't play the fool there, Joe," said Ferris sharply. "This place is really not safe, you know. You and Mrs. Gaunt had better creep out again. Come along, there's nothing to see."
He took her somewhat roughly by the arm. Her weight, suddenly removed from the plank, caused Gerald, who was at the further end, to stumble. He had been balanced upon one foot, and the uneven nature of the rocky floor gave him no place upon which to put the other foot down. It went into a hollow, quite a foot in depth. He gave a lurch, in the effort to reach the next plank, which was not quite near, and came down with all his weight upon one edge of it. It turned over, throwing him completely off his balance. He staggered, slipped, and before Joey had time to shriek, was over the edge of the poisonous gulf and had disappeared.
It all took place in a single instant. At one moment Joey and he were balancing one each end of the board, at the next Ferris had pulled her away, Gerald was crashing and stamping in the vain effort to regain his lost poise; and even as Ferris, hampered by the displaced planks, sprang to help him he was gone, and the place echoed to Joey's screams.
Gaunt, whose back had been turned to the scene, sprang up and realised instantly what had happened. In that same instant, like a flash, he saw what he must do. His chance had come to him, one in a thousand. In that same heart-beat he knew that he did not want to go—that never in all his existence had he loved life as he loved it now.
There was, however, not a moment for delay. None of the workmen were with them in the small cave; they were alone. A few minutes' hesitation might be fatal to the victim. Gaunt turned away from Virginia without looking at her, moved rapidly along a plank, took the rope which the workmen had left ready for a descent, and began to fasten it to his own body.
"Gaunt—no!" Ferris, who had stood for a moment paralysed like a man distraught, without moving or speaking, leapt at him.
"He is dead; he must be. Don't fling away your life. It's not only the bad air, it's the depth; these places go down nobody knows how deep!"
"One can but try," was the reply, as Gaunt completed the swift knotting of the rope.
"Listen to me!" he said, laying his hand upon the shaking Percy's nerveless arm, and speaking quietly and naturally with the intention of calming the other's hysteria. "Summon the men—get another rope. If I find him, I will signal by three tugs for you to pull him up. Do you understand?"
"Let—let one of the men go down," shrieked Ferris wildly.
"There isn't time. Virginia!" He raised his voice a little, and the white, still girl started.
"Crawl out at once and summon the men—as many as you can. Then send Ransom with the car for Dr. Dymock. Can you hear me?"
"Yes, I am going."
That was all. So he dismissed her, so he flung love and life away from him out of the struggle. He sat upon the edge of the hole, his electric torch fixed upon his chest, the rope about his middle, and began to tie a handkerchief over his mouth.
"Don't go—don't go; he's dead by now. Oh, can't somebody come? Help! Help!" cried Ferris distractedly. "Your fault, confound you!" he shrieked to the trembling, ashy Joey.
"Silence, Ferris; I think he is calling!"...
Percy's cries ceased abruptly, and in the sudden pause a moan came up to them from the echoing depths.
In another instant Gaunt had disappeared.
The die was cast, and a curious peace descended upon him. The pressure of the emergency held his brain to the exclusion of all else. For the moment he had no regrets; consciousness was bounded by the difficulties of his descent. This was not nearly as awful as he had expected. There was plenty of foothold, and he went down rapidly, coming upon Gerald's body some time before he thought it possible.
Most providentially the victim had fallen upon the bundle of hay which the workmen on the previous day had set alight and thrown in to dispel the noxious gas. The hole, at this point, was not very deep—not deeper than a well, though further along the cleft he saw a yawning gulf of unexplored horror and blackness. He stooped over Rosenberg, who was still groaning and not completely unconscious, though evidently much hurt.
"If you can hear what I say, try to do as I tell you," said he, speaking with great distinctness close to his ear. "Can you sit up?"
Gerald moved slightly, muttering something that sounded like "Let me alone!"
On that Gaunt saw that he had but one course. He must not attempt to reach the surface with him. He must transfer the rope from his own waist, and send up the injured man first.
He was still just capable of doing this, but he was growing deadly sick and faint. With the feeling that it was a race—a grim race between his failing faculties and time—he detached the cord. He succeeded, after what seemed to him like a protracted struggle, in fastening the knots round Gerald securely. Now what must he do? His brain was swimming, his breath came short, but he knew there was something else. Yes, of course! He must jerk the rope. Once—twice—thrice! He did it and waited.
Something was about to happen. He had forgotten what it was. His mind was swimming aimlessly round, like a fish in warm water, as he said to himself. He lay down. Then the thing upon which he was leaning his heavy head began to move; it was lifted; he tried to sit up, grasping in his hands the hay upon which he was crouched. The space was very narrow. Was it wide enough to serve him for a—for a—one of those things they use to bury the dead?
It was his last thought. Immediately upon thinking it he was asleep.
*****
"Fifty pounds to the man who brings him up!" cried Virgie, kneeling upon the very brink.
Gerald had been hauled up, dragged forth from the cave, through the hole, hurried into the open air. He was alive, and they thought he would recover. But the man who had risked his life to save him lay still in the deadly abyss.
One of the workmen, however, speedily upon her appeal, roped himself up.
"Can't be very deep, 'm," he said consolingly. "If I take two ropes with me, that'll be all right. We've got a plenty hands now, and my mates can pull."
He disappeared, and Virgie crouched there on the brink, huddled and shivering, counting the terrible moments.
As she knelt in the dark, dreadful place, full of booming, terrifying noises, all life changed its values before her eyes.
This was a man who had a touch of greatness in him. He made big mistakes; he was also capable of big heroism. She knew in her heart that, if Gaunt had not been there, if the accident had happened with only the Ferrises and herself in the cave, the delay—while men were fetched to do what her husband had immediately and simply done himself—might have been, would have been, fatal. The contrast between Percy, helplessly unnerved, and Gaunt, ready to rise at once to the height of the moment, had flashed itself upon her like an instantaneous photograph. She had herself risen with Osbert. He had called her, given her something to do—quiet, definite orders to carry out. Without a question, she went and did his bidding, though she was longing to break into cowardly pleading, to cry out to him not to throw away his life.
And she returned to find them all busy with Gerald, and nobody apparently giving a thought to the man still in the pit.
She soon changed that. Her beauty, her distress, her urgency, made stronger appeals to the men than her promise of liberal reward. And now everything, everything, hung upon the result—whether the man they brought to the surface would be still alive or not.
When the signal to draw up was given, she felt as if each passing clock-tick were a year. The dread which had sprung up in her, when she saw Gaunt hang brooding over the chasm, could never be dispersed, if he were dead. She would never know whether he truly wished to die or whether life was sweet to him.
How slowly they were hauling in the rope! How endlessly long it seemed.
Then, at last, she saw him drawn from the living tomb—limp, inert, ghastly. She rose, though her knees would hardly support her, and crawled to him as they undid the rope from about him.
The man who had gone down stood near, wiping the sweat from his eyes, and reeling slightly on his feet. He coughed, and spat, and seemed as if he would be sick. "Just hell down there, 'm," he told her, apologetically. "I'm afraid it's all over with him, God help you!"
*****
Gaunt was adrift upon a summer sea. The waves rose and fell, with a lulling cadence. He felt only one desire—the desire for sleep; but a perpetual calling kept him perversely awake. When he reached the land he would, he knew, attain perfect repose. He made an inquiry of some unseen companion as to what was the name of the land which they would reach. The answer to this was: "They call it Virginia."
This answer delighted him. Virginia! Country of all joy and beauty. He was going to Virginia, if only this summons would cease—if only some far away, disturbing voice was not calling to him from infinite distance, begging him to make some response. He tried to plead that this voice might be silenced. But it grew more and more insistent. He could not hear what it said, but he knew that he was wanted. He might not drift out into the peace he craved. He must stop, and answer, and find out what was expected of him. He tried as hard as he could to turn a deaf ear to the calling. He almost succeeded, several times, in dropping off into real, sound sleep. But just as he was sure that now he would be let alone, something shook him, something interfered with him; and there was a pulsing in his ear, terribly loud, like the voice of a drum, so that one could not escape it.
The calling went on. "Osbert! Osbert! I want you! Do you hear me?"
Quite suddenly his mind changed, and he knew that it was of supreme importance that he should answer. The difficulty lay in the manner of so doing. How can one communicate with the beating of a drum? He wished that he could explain how unreasonable it was to expect any response from him. He heard right enough, but how could he let anybody know that he heard, with the sea lapping all about and the drum beating in his ears?...
Then came a curious sensation, touching a chord which vibrated throughout his entire being. He remembered quite long ago that he had been carrying a girl upstairs. Her arms were round his neck, and her heart beat, beat, against his ear. Was that noise the sound of a drum after all, or was it the quick throbbing of a girl's heart?
The moment this idea occurred, it was as though a door had been unclosed, releasing him into the world of which hitherto he had been unconscious. He heard somebody saying:
"Lay him down, Mrs. Gaunt, you had much better. He will come round sooner if his head is quite flat."
Another voice replied, very, very near him: "I tell you I saw his lips move. All the time he was lying flat he never moved, and directly I lifted him up he sighed. There! Look! I tell you he is alive! I said he was! I knew he would come back if I called!—Osbert! Osbert! Can you hear?"
Ah, now, indeed, it would be a grand thing had one the means of letting other people, in other universes, know one's thoughts! He knew he must obey the voice that spoke, yet he was dumb, deaf, blind, because he was so far off. He was sinking away again into the tempting slumber that invited him, in spite of his ardent desire to remain here, where he could be sensible to the beating that was like the beating of a girl's heart.
"Well, lift him again then," said a doubtful voice; and once more he heard the drum, close to his ear. Now it was urgent that he should let it be understood that he knew what was going on. He must step over the edge of the plane on which he moved, and come into that upon which these others were moving; since it was clear that they would not come to him.
"There! I tell you it isn't fancy! He took quite a long breath! Osbert, can you hear me? Open your eyes, and then I shall know."
"By Jove," said another voice, "his eyelids flickered then. I saw it."
"Go on calling him, Mrs. Gaunt. You're right, I believe, it is the only way."
"Another whiff of that oxygen!"
Something like the wind of life swept through him. With an immense effort he opened his eyes.
All that he could see was Virgie's face as she stooped over him.
He knew—though how he could hardly say—that he was lying in her arms. A keen air blew upon him, his hand, which lay at his side, could feel short turf beneath it. He was coming back—beginning to make use once more of his outward senses.
"Do you know me?" she asked, bending over him. Her eyes were full of an intense purpose; there was no shyness, no consciousness—only a vehement desire.
He took a long breath, gathered all his force, and whispered huskily:
"My—wife!"
He saw the sweet face into which he gazed contract pitifully, and the shoulders shake with sobbing.
"There, there, that will do, Mrs. Gaunt," ordered Dr. Dymock peremptorily. "He will be all right now. You're utterly worn out. Lay him down and come away."
"Try—try first, if he will drink," she gasped, while the heart against his ear functioned violently.
He drank, for she told him that he must do so. Obviously she had to be obeyed. Then they laid him down, and raised her up, and took her away, out of his sight. This was too much. He felt it to be an outrage, when he had come back such a tremendous distance, just to be with her. "Virginia," he said, quite clearly.
Dymock bent towards him. "All right, old man, she is close by. You shall go home with her quite soon. She is a bit tired, that's all. You must try not to be inconsiderate."
A vague smile dawned on Gaunt's face. He made an effort or two, and finally achieved the repetition of the doctor's term. "In-con-sid-erate," he murmured. "That's—that's a word, isn't it?"
"Yes, a word. What did you expect?" asked the doctor gently.
"I thought I had done with words," sighed the patient, lifting his eyes to the grey autumnal sky.
"So did we all—all except your wife," was the reply. "She was certain that you would revive, if she went on calling you."
Gaunt filled his lungs with the sharp air. The brandy they had given him began to course in his veins. "Lift me up," he said.
Dr. Dymock raised him against his knee, and slowly, as though it were something of a feat, he lifted his hand and touched his forehead. Around him was the grassy sloping of the Dale. Workmen's tools and sheds were close by. At a distance were the two cars, in one of which Joey Ferris was bending over some one. Memory returned in a rolling flood.
"Rosenberg. Is he alive?"
"Oh, yes. Broken collar-bone, and I think a rib as well, but I am not sure yet. A good many cuts and bruises, but he'll do."
"You ought to—set his bones?"
"Yes, the delay is bad, but it was inevitable. With you it was a matter of life and death. However, you are all right now. Drink some more of this stuff, and then you had better get home as fast as you can."
Gaunt's eyes were fixed upon the figure of his wife, sitting on a heap of stones not far off. Ferris was standing awkwardly by, evidently trying to comfort her. Her face was hidden and her handkerchief was held to her eyes.
"Virginia—Virginia's crying," he said in slow surprise. "What for?"
The doctor laughed. "Women are like that when it's all over," was his reply. "Those are tears of joy. She has been strung up to a high point, for I tell you candidly that I think, had it not been for her persistence I should have given you up about a quarter of an hour ago, and gone to attend upon the man who is alive. But she held on. Everybody else thought you were gone."
"She mustn't cry," said Gaunt anxiously.
"She won't, now that she has got you back," was the reply; and the doctor, after administering another drink, smiled kindly and with meaning. "You are a lucky fellow, Gaunt—you have your reward for your forbearance with her last month. Do you remember I told you then that if you had patience you would win her in the end? Well, you did as I asked, and I was a true prophet, was I not?"