There are some natures that seem to require some extraordinary circumstance or moral earthquake to "draw them out." Geo's was evidently one of these. He was being distinctly drawn out now—the real Geo was bursting out of his chrysalis. Corkam and "all his works" receded very far as he felt himself swing down into the well.
CHAPTER XVI.
AN ANXIOUS SUNDAY.
At last it was Sunday morning, and the men had now been forty-eight hours in the well. A rumour had got about that they were still alive. The bells rang out for service as usual, and Milly brushed her grandfather's well-worn beaver hat, settled his necktie, and pulled down his coat, just as she had done for the last eight years, and they went off to church together. Somehow it seemed wonderful to Milly that anything should go on as it had done last week, for every one in the village was felling the strain of the anxiety caused by the prolonging of the terrible situation of the entombed men.
Geo Lummis and Martin and two other men had been working all night, and just as the "tolling in" began a relief gang arrived, and the four tired men came trooping through the churchyard, as being the shortest cut to their homes. Milly, with several other people, stood aside to let them pass. They looked worn out and weary, toil-stained and depressed. Nobody spoke, and they none of them lifted their eyes as they passed; they were too dead beat for greeting of any sort. Milly cast a glance at Geo. She was beginning to take a very lively interest in that young man, for Geo, seen through his weak but loving mother's spectacles, was a very different person from Geo seen through her grandfather's somewhat prejudiced glasses. Anyway, he was behaving well now, and there was no need to look back.
The doctor, who accompanied them as far as the gate, now returned, and affirmed the rumour that it had been satisfactorily ascertained that one of the unfortunate men, at least, was alive—that shouts and knocking had been distinctly heard, but that as yet no means of communication had been effected. This, however, he hoped would be done in the course of an hour or two, and he expected to have really good news for them when they came out of church.
Nobody ever quite knew how that service was got through. Most people tried their best to follow, but each one was conscious of a divided attention. Every one was listening with at least one ear for the shout that they knew would go up when the expected communication was affected.
It came at last! The vicar had just gone up to the pulpit and given out his text when though the open doors came the distant shout "Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah-h-h!" Many among the congregation started to their feet, some fell to their knees, and others sobbed audibly. The vicar paused with uplifted hand to secure silence till the shouts ceased, and then addressed the people.
"There will be no sermon this morning," he said. "I think your own thankful thoughts will be more appropriate than any words of mine;" and after a short prayer of thanksgiving, he gave the blessing and dismissed the congregation.
"Not, I beg and pray of you," he said, "to rush off to the scene of action, where your presence can be of no service to the unfortunate men, and for the moment will only hinder the efforts of their rescuers. Leave them a little while, is my advice, till the excitement has cooled down, and then take your places quietly beyond the barrier if you will; but I implore you to remember that the men who are working at the relief want cool heads and steady nerves, and they have come fresh to the work, and at present want no encouraging shouts or chaff to keep them going, as our brave fellows did last night when they hardly knew how to go on."