Looking out, I saw the under-viewer’s wife, gazing up with clasped hands and a white face.
“For the love of God, come down to me quietly, Miss Morgan.”
The pain and anguish in the woman’s face communicated part of her intelligence to me. I knew there was great and urgent need for me to go downstairs without anybody hearing. The immediate action which this required, prevented my feeling any pain. I stood by the woman, looked hard into her eyes, and said, “Well?”
“Dear heart, you must know it,” she said, taking my hand. “Come with me.”
She almost pushed me before her through the little gate; when we got on the high road, she began to run. I knew that she was going in the direction of Pride’s Pit. My strangely vivid dream returned to me. Here was a solution of the mystery. I believed in dreams—this dream was not accidental. It had been sent to me as a warning—it was true. Owen had neglected to have the shaft, leading into Pride’s Pit, filled up, and the under-viewer’s child had fallen a victim to this neglect. The child had fallen down the old shaft. He was dead, and the mother was bringing me now to show me face to face what my brother’s carelessness had effected. The life of a little child was sacrificed. I was to see for myself what Owen had done. I felt sure of this. The woman ran very fast, and I kept pace by her side. The distance was over half a mile, and partly up-hill. When we came to the ascent, which was rather steep, we could not go quite so quickly, and I had time to look in the woman’s face. It was hard and set, the lips very white, the eyes very staring. She neither looked at me nor spoke. It came into my heart that she was cruel, even though her child was dead, to hurry me forward without one word of warning: to show me, without any preparation, what my brother had done. I would not be treated so. I would not face this deed without knowing what I was to see. The instant I made this resolution, I stood still.
“Stop!” I said. “I will know all. Is the baby dead?”
The woman stood still also, pressing her hand on her labouring breast. “Dear heart! she knows,” she gasped. “Yes, yes, my dear—the baby’s dead.”
I did not say I was sorry, nor a single word. I simply, after my momentary pause, began to run harder than ever. We had now got in sight of the pit, and I saw a little crowd of people about it. Some men in their miners’ dresses, a boy or two, a larger proportion of women. I half expected the men, women, and children to curse me as I drew near. We ran a little faster, and the woman’s panting breath might have been heard at some distance. Suddenly a boy caught sight of us, and detaching himself from the group, ran to the woman’s side.
“Does she know?” he exclaimed, catching her hand almost frantically. “She must not see without knowing.”
The boy, who spoke in a voice of agony, was Miles Thomas.