by L. T. Meade
ever. We had now got in sightof the pit, and I saw a little crowd of people about it. Some men intheir miners' dresses, a boy or two, a larger proportion of women. Ihalf 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 beenheard at some distance. Suddenly a boy caught sight of us, anddetaching 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.
"Yes," replied the woman; "she guessed it herself. She knows that thebaby's dead."
"Thank God!" said the boy. I looked from one face to the other. Icould not help pitying myself, as though it were _my_ sorrow. I thoughtthe boy's tone the kindest--he should take me to see the murdered child.Suddenly I changed my mind. Why should I need or look for compassion.The mother had come all this way to punish me and mine--the mother'sjust revenge should not be foiled. When we got into the group, I tookher hand.
"You shall show him to me," I said. "You shall show me your little deadbaby."
There was a pause on all sides--one or two people turned aside. I saw awoman put her apron to her face, and heard a man groan. Every eye wasfixed on me, and, at the same moment, the under-viewer's wife and Mileswent on their knees, and began to sob.
"Oh! my darling; you are wrong--you have made a mistake," began thewoman.
"I _felt_ she did not, could not know," sobbed Miles.
The crowd opened a little more, and I went forward. Very near the mouthof the old shaft, lying on a soft bed of grass and undergrowth, was awoman--a woman with a face as white as death. I went up close to her,and gazed at her steadily. Her face looked like death, but she was notdead--a moan or two came through white lips. By the side of the woman,stretched also flat, lay a child; his hat was thrown by his side, andone little leg was bare of shoe and stocking. A white frock was alsoconsiderably soiled, and even torn. I took in all these minor detailsfirst--then my eyes rested on the face. I went down on my knees toexamine the face, to note its expression more attentively. On the brow,but partly concealed by the hair, was a dark mark, like a bruise,otherwise the face was quiet, natural, life-like. A faint colourlingered in the cheeks; the lips were parted and smiling.
The woman was groaning in agony. The child was quiet--looking as achild will look when he has met with a new delight. I laid my hand onthe little heart--it never stirred. I felt the tiny pulse--it wasstill. The injured and suffering woman was Gwen. The dead baby was notthe under-viewer's child, but David's little lad.
I took no further notice of Gwen, but I kept on kneeling by the side ofthe dead child. I have not the least idea whether I was suffering atthis moment; my impression is that I was not. Mind, body, spirit, wereall quiet under the influence of a great shock. I knew and realisedperfectly that little David was dead; but I took in, as yet, nosurrounding circumstances. Finding that I was so still, that I neithersobbed nor groaned--in fact, that I did nothing but gaze steadily at thedead child, the under-viewer's wife knelt down by my side, and began topour out her tale. She did this with considerable relief in her tone.When she began to speak, Miles also knelt very close to me, and laid hishand with a caressing movement on my dress. I was pleased with Miles'affection--glad to receive it--and found that I could follow the taletold by the under-viewer's wife, without any effort.
I mention all this just to show how very quiet I not only was in body,but in mind.
"No, the shaft was never filled in," began the woman. "I waited dayafter day, but it was never done; and little Ellen, and Gwenllynn, andthe baby, they seemed just from contrariness to h'always want to go andlook over the brink. And what made it more danger, was the brambles andgrass, and growth of h'all kinds, which from never being cut away, hasgot thicker year by year; so that coming from that side," pointing westwith her finger, "you might never see the old shaft at all, but tumbleright in, and know nothing till you reach the bottom. Well, I was sofrighted with this, and the contrariness of the children, that findingMr Morgan had forgot again to have the shaft filled in, or closedround, only last night I spoke to my husband, and begged him to cut awaysome of the rankest of the growth, as it war, what it is, a sin and ashame to have the shaft like a trap, unknown to folks; but my husband,he war dead tired, and he knowed that I'm timmersome, so he only said,`Let be, woman--let be.' And this morning he was away early--down tothe mine. Well," after a long pause, "I had done my bit o' work. I haddressed the baby--bless him--and given Ellen and Gwenllynn theirbreakfast, and I was standing by the house door, my eye on the oldshaft, and my mind set on the thought that I might put up a fence roundit myself, so as to ward off the children, when sudden and sharp--almostnigh to me--I heard a woman scream, and looking, I saw a woman runningfor her bare life, and screaming and making for my cottage; and she hada child in her arms; and sudden, when I saw her, I knew who she was, andwhy she was running. I knew she was the nurse of Squire Morgan's littleson, and that she had the child with her. I knew she had been to theeye-well, for the cure of the sight of the baby, and that she was comingby this short cut home. And she never knew that she'd have to passthrough the field with Mr Daniels' bull. Well, I saw her running, andthe bull after her, but he was a good way behind; and I thought she'dreach the cottage. And I shouted out to encourage her; when all on aheap, it flashed on me, that she was making straight for the shaft, andthat she'd be right down in the pit, if I couldn't stop her. Just then,two men came up, and turned the bull aside, but she didn't know it, andkept on running harder and harder. `Stop!' I shouted. `Stop! you'llbe down in the mine'; but she neither heeded nor heard me, and she wentright through the thicket and the underwood. I heard it cracking underher feet. I saw her fall, and scream more piercing than h'ever."Another pause from the narrator--then in a breathless kind of way, "Iwar at the other side o' the pit in a twinkling. She had not gonedown--not quite. Her head was above the ground, and she was holding onfor bare life to a bit of underwood. She could only hold with one hand;the other was round the child. In one second she'd have been down, forthe weight was too much, when I threw myself on my face and hands, andgrasped the baby's frock. `Hold the tree with both hands,' I said, `andI'll keep the baby.' Poor soul! she looked up at me so anguish-like;but she did what I bid her, or they'd both have gone down. I wasdrawing up the baby, when a loose stone came tumbling--it was not much,it but hit him sharp on the temple. He never cried out, but his headdropped all on a sudden. When I got him to the top, he was dead. Ilaid him on the bank, and just then the men who had turned away thebull, came up, and they lifted the woman out of the shaft--one of herlegs was broke!"
The under-viewer's wife paused to wipe the moisture from her brow. Justthen little feet came pattering, and the living child of theunder-viewer, about whom I had grieved and dreamt, came up and lookeddown at the dead child of my brother. The face of the living baby gazedsolemnly at the face of the dead baby. Nobody interrupted him, and hesat down and put, half in play, as though expecting an answering touch,his plump hand on the little hand that was still. At this moment therewas a commotion in the crowd, then profound stillness, then a giving wayon all sides, and a man's hasty footsteps passed rapidly through ourmidst. Up straight to where the dead child was lying, the man came. Hebent his head a little--he saw no other creature. This man was Owen.For about half a minute he was still. Then from his lips came one sharpcry--the sharpest cry of anguish I ever heard from mortal lips--then herushed away.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN.
THE LITTLE LAD.
"Mother," I said, "I will go to Tynycymmer, and tell David."
"No, no, my dear child; you are not able."
"Mother, some one must tell him; you have to stay here to take care ofpoor Gwen when they bring her home, and perhaps Owen will come back.Mother, I will tell David, only I may tell him in my own way, may Inot?"
"As you please, my child, my ch
ild!"
Mother put her head down on the table and began to sob.
I kissed her. I was not crying. From the first I had never shed atear. I kissed mother two or three times, then I went out and askedMiles, who had followed me home, to get the horse put to Owen'sdog-cart; when the dog-cart was ready, I kissed mother again and gotinto it.
"Come with me, Miles," I said to the boy.
The bright colour mounted to his cheeks, he was preparing to jump intothe vacant seat by my side, when suddenly he stopped, his face grewpale, and words came out hurriedly--
"No, I mustn't, I'd give the world to, but I mustn't."
"Why not, when
