But maybe—she fluttered away from that quickly—there was nothing. Nothing at all. Think of the woman's reputation—flies to honey—and Celestina's anger and wish to hurt, seizing on the accident of the woman's coming here the other night.
Accident?
She wrenched herself up from the edge of her bed and paced again.
"Anything doin'?" inquired Mrs. Trestrial.
"No. Only that funny feeling, now and then."
"Walk about, do," said Mrs. Trestrial. " Twon't be h'alto-gether funny, before it's over."
Someone tapped on the bedroom door.
Celestina said, mush-mouthed, "Mrs. Gilchrist is calling."
"On the phone?"
"No, dear. I'm right here!" trilled the Gilchrist voice, as if this were a plum for some deserving little one.
Libby hfted her head. Mrs. Trestrial's rocker had paused. Libby's eyes turned to that long comical countenance above which the purple toque still rode, forgotten.
"I'm so sorry," trilled she, "but I am not receiving, Marianne."
"My dear, you are not alone in there?" The voice was flustered. "I came just as soon—'
"I do thank you for coming," said Libby sweetly. "But I am not alone. I have a friend with me."
"But I—I—I can't go without seeing you, if only for a moment ... I did hurry . . . Please, mayn't I just . . . ?"
Mrs. Gilchrist was anguished with offense and curiosity.
Mrs. Trestrial was rocking gleefully, a grin on her long face. Libby winked at her.
"Celestina," she called so sweetly, "thank Mrs. Gilchrist for me, won't you? And show her to the door, please."
She heard Celestina say, in blunt obedience, "Miz Dun-cane says 'thanks.' The door's this way."
They listened to soprano babble, and a retreat in confusion.
"Celestina?"
"Yeh."
"Is she gone?"
"She went."
"Good. Thank you."
The girl said with surprising vigor, "You're welcome."
Libby sat down. "My, that was naught)'!" she admitted.
"Did you a lot of good," said Mrs. Trestrial promptly.
"I don't trust her. I don't even like her."
"No need pretend you do." Mrs. Trestrial rocked. "You'll be fine," she said suddenly. "I've a mind to use the phone, eh?"
"Why, of course." Libby was startled. "I haven't even tried to thank you for giving up your day—"
"No need," said Mrs. Trestrial severely. "H'i know when the old woman is wanted. Don't h'i?" She tossed her head, became aware of the toque and took it off.
Libby sat with her face burning, staring at that ridiculous hat. She thought, I love that hat. I don't know where I've been. I certainly haven't been here.
Through the open door she could now hear Mrs. Trestrial on the telephone.
"Eedie? 'Eard a bit of news. Not good news, eyther.
"Oh, 'e did? 'E told you, eh? Bless the little chap, 'e's a stout one. 'E's a Trezona, eh?"
Libby thought, Trezona! Oh, she's talking to Mrs. Trezona, that boy's poor mother."
"Well, all there is to do," said Mrs. Trestrial, "is 'ang on, 'old on, pray, yes. Is anyone with you, Eedie? Oh, good, h'i see."
Libby thought, I called her away from there and I'm keeping her away. I ought to tell her to go. Her face burned.
Then Mrs. Trestrial said, "Oh, Miz Duncane's getting along fine. Be a while."
Then lower, "She's younger than her years, Eedie, and this 'ere is 'er first-born."
Libby clutched at her own throat.
"Yes, yes," said Mrs. Trestrial with infinite sadness. "Yes, Eedie. Well, God bless . . . Yes, bound to 'ear soon."
When she turned, Libby cried out at her, "That was cruel!"
"Eh?"
"The boy in the mine! How could you say that? He is her first-born! Isn't he? Oh, you shouldn't have—"
Mrs. Trestrial bridled. "I should 'ope Eedie Trezona knows 'oo's 'er first-born," she said sharply. "And she knows where 'e is now. Don't she? None better."
Libby stepped back. In a vision she seemed to see a different world, one in which the brute fact lay still and immovable and there. And since you knew you could not alter it by failing to mention it or by saying "Dark before dav^Ti," or "Showers that clear . . ." you did not bother.
Into Libby's opening mind, into the middle of the vision, there was inserted a small clean-cut conviction, cold and solid. Celestina had known what she was talking about. There was sometliing going on between Henry and Madeline Cole.
There it lay.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Company store was very quiet that day. Not an item was sold except at the grocery counter. The girls in the dry goods side had nothing to do but fidget and dust. Not a woman in town bought a dress to wear or a yard of cloth or a ribbon.
The Company office functioned but under a weight. Faces were solemn. There were no quips exchanged. No one showed temper either. A frozen courtesy prevailed as if all quailed before God the Father, being good children, fearing punishment. Mr. McKeever emerged from his private room late in the morning when the state man came. He returned alone about two o'clock and announced quietly that progress was steady.
Cyril Varker had not been at his desk all day.
Children grew tired early that Friday from doing nothing, for tension, whether they knew it or not, had kept them from running free all day. During the afternoon people avoided being alone. In knots they talked, but they did not talk much about what they were thinking. So, in knots, they were solitary.
The group near the shafthouse at West Thor lost and gained by people coming and going. So all day it slowly revised and renewed itself. But the five points of the pattern were yet constant. And toward the end of the afternoon the crowd was perceptibly larger.
E'eryone knew the rescuers must be getting near the lost men. It could not be borne to think one might leave here just before the final news came.
Madeline Cole, like all the rest, refused to go. Cyril was alternately furious and resigned. He threatened to leave her
and once he did, and returned with food which she would not touch.
The sad news of one man forever lost had, hours ago, come spiraling up to burst with a soft but explosive penetration here, and then mushroom over the whole town behind them.
(Taps on that pipe. Numbers, only. You could count them and that was all. Four taps and then silence.)
In the afternoon the priest came. There was something like an outdoor mass across the road, and quiet fell upon those people and something serene. Cyril observed this and was briefly envious.
He noticed that the Methodist women did not know what to do when the priest spoke to them. Mrs. Marcom stared straight before her and must have thanked him tartly, as if she conceded that he might mean well. Alice Beard simply shrank and looked terrified. Little Dick Trezona stood up as best he could to the alien and the strange, and so looked right past the odd clothing into the brown eyes of Father Martin. From far away Cyril guessed that those eyes must soften with tender amusement as the boy's lips would part with his surprise. And he thought he could tell that the priest would have touched the boy but wisely refrained.
Madeline Cole turned her wan face to Father Martin and said, "Will you pray. Father? I can't pray."
The priest prayed for men's souls.
But Cyril turned up his eyes and raked over the priest's near face. Very well-fed and complacent on the whole, thought Cyril, now that the eyes were shut and a certain skilled and professional look of peaceful trust lay on it.
But the brown eyes, when they opened, were not compla cent, for the man thought he understood the dilemma of prayer now, and the fearful conscience.
(No one knew which four were alive. Did you ask for mercy for your own? That he might not be the unlucky one? Did you dare?)
"I can't pray," she murmured distressed. 'Tray for me." The priest's glance caught Cyril's and Cyril was not sure that the brown eyes saw or the ea
rs heard the weight of Madeline's "me."
When Father Martin was gone, Cyril squirmed and puffed air out of his nostrils contemptuously.
"You remind me in reverse of the man who said he didn't know whether he could play the piano. He'd never tried."
She put her arm on the back of the seat and turned and hid her face on it.
"Now listen," said Cyril, with mock patience. "Have sense. Henry Duncane has gone by three times already and not once looked this way. So you might as well go home."
"I'm not thinking of that."
"No."
"I'm not so mean as you think I am. You don't know what I feel."
"You're making a nervous wreck out of yourself because you can't feel anything," he snarled, "although now you know you'd better."
"No," she moaned.
"Oh, yes. Duncane expected it. Didn't he? That enlightened you."
She rolled her head.
"And maybe he caught on although he's not too bright."
She sat up. "I'll scream. I'll run."
"All right," he said grudgingly. "All right. But you're such a fool. And I'm tired and I want to go home."
Cyril put his head on his arms on the wheel. Tliey'd guess it was exhaustion. And guess right. Something was exhausting him.
I see too much, he thought. Why can't I sit like a bump on a log and look at the scenery? Why do I always have to see so much? She's not a fool, Madeline, nor stupid. I wish I couldn't see it, but she has no quality."
The rescue tunnel collapsed at ten minutes after four o'clock. The news rolled up like dust rising, and caused a sound, a soughing, a keening, that blew back rapidly over all the town.
Underground, no man had been caught in the squeeze and rattle of the tunnel's closing because Captain Trezona had ordered them out of it, suddenly, with no visible or audible reason whatever. The evil memory of that rumbling
roar still bore on the eardrums. The shouts of the men, shocked and confused, had ceased. In the uncertain, diminished, inadequate flicker of a few lights, and the comparative silence filled with men's murmuring, the captain lay on the rock floor, braced on one elbow.
Fred Davies crouched over him with a flask of whiskey in his hand.
"Don't be a fool. Captain. You need it. It's medicine, that's all. Doctor would tell you the same thing." Davies kept pleading. "Nothing bad about medicine. You've got to have it, Captain. Take it. Please."
The captain's eyes were narrowed to slits but not altogether closed. He was motionless.
Now Gilchrist's voice carried to the young man's ears, not loud but high and nervous.
"Must be all over," he was saying. "No need to push on. Not now. When they've rested they can clean the mess up. But it's all over. Too bad. Good try and too bad."
Davies hoped it was his ear alone which picked out among the voices that one so familiar to him, and heard in it the defeat and despair.
Captain Trezona's head lifted and he stined. Slowly but smoothly he sat up; he got to his feet.
Davies rose with him.
"Believe me. Good for you. Give you a lift. Don't tell me you call it a sin to take a little whiskey, under the circumstances." Davies was young and he felt like crying. "Medicine, can't you see that?"
The captain's eyes were hidden by the hat's shadows. "H'if you'll excuse me," he said courteously.
And Gilchrist said, far away, protesting to someone, "I'm not placing blame. Nothing like that. It was impossible, but they tried."
Now Captain Jacka materialized at Davies' elbow.
"Well, sir?" said he to his superior.
" 'Ave to go in to the left," said Captain Trezona. "Eh?"
Jacka nodded.
"Medicine," begged Davies. "Tonic. Help you."
The captain put his hand against the dancing flask.
"No, thankee, Mr. Davies. I know you mean it well."
"But you're sick."
"H'i'm not aware of it," said the captain. "Boys, while us are waiting on 'er to quiet down . . ," He took a long stride into the thick of the confusion.
Davies walked away. When he came to where Gilchrist stood, he said, "Come on out of here."
"What?"
"It happened," said Davies and jerked his head. "Let them alone."
The older man wavered and stumbled. "Can't ask for miracles."
Davies put a hand under his arm. "Might. You can ask."
"I'm sick," said Gilchrist.
"Care for some whiskey?" The young man's voice was aloof and fiat.
Now a man was pelting towards them. "Alive!" he shouted.
"What?"
"Two of 'em! Two alive!"
"What?"
The man rushed by.
"Come on," snapped Davies. "Let him alone. It's only a miracle."
"Trezona shouldn't . . . can't . . ."
"Will," said Davies.
"That boy's not alive. That boy's gone. The chances are—"
"Makes no difference what the chances are," said Davies. He strode on. Suddenly he turned his face back. "Listen, I've seen something! I've seen something! That damned, unbeatable old man! He's never going to quit. Don't you know that?"
"He'll kill himself," said Gilchrist whitely.
And Davies shouted, "He won't care. He believes in God."
"Don't get hysterical," said the older man mildly, in a minute, as if he had been restored to equilibrium by the other's outburst.
Davies didn't answer. He had a strange feeling that from this moment he, Fred Davies, would not be the same. Would
not be so sure, would doubt the usefulness of his doubt, be unable to believe in the advantage of his disbelief.
Arthur said, "Marcom?"
"He said he couldn't wait."
"Charley?"
"Long gone."
"Trezona?"
"You and me," said Wesley. "They were close, though. They nearly had us."
"Who's that banging with the rock on the pipe?"
"That's me."
"I thought it was my ghost," said Arthur light-headedly.
Something rose up in Wesley Trezona. "There's no such thing," he said calmly. He lost his aitches. He said, as his father might, " 'Old on now. Us'll 'ave to wait awhile."
Arthur said, "I'm proud to be in the same grave with you."
Wesley said politely, "Likewise."
And they laughed.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Dick Trezona climbed along the path that ran to the dry. He climbed slowly. The sun was fierce enough to burn although the air was so thick that he had to push through it as if he were climbing through hot velvet hangings. He seemed to creep past that long building, honeycombed inside with lockers and showers, where the miners changed their clothes and he almost fell on all fours to make the grade the path took now, a short cut to the upper road.
The boy had it in his head that he must be a kind of link in the middle between his father and brother down underground, and his mother and sister at home. But just to stay watching at the shafthouse meant nothing. When there was any news he must carry it, or he was no real link at all. But this news—that the rescue tunnel had caved in too—was so heavy it pulled him back and down. It was like trying to carry something he wasn't strong enough to lift.
As he gained the road, a car came up behind him. It stopped.
"Want a ride?"
Dickie hesitated. He'd rather trudge it alone the remaining hot and dusty way. It would feel better. But something told him he must accept. He wasn't getting there fast enough afoot, weighted as he seemed to be.
So he got into the back because Mrs. Cole was sitting in the front seat next to her brother. She did not say anything.
It seemed to the boy that they whizzed. The hot wind scorched his face for not more than a minute and they were there.
Ma must have seen him in the car, coming, because she was out at the gate.
"Ma—" he spoke first. (If he didn't the man would tell her.)
But she said briskly, "Go in th
e 'ouse, Dick. You're to stay 'ome now. They'll be all night, at least, 'aving to start over as they do."
The air lightened all around him.
" 'Op out, now," she said. "Say your thanks to Mr. Varker."
The boy murmured his manners, tumbled through the gate and flew in at the kitchen door.
Cyril was bending forward to see past Madeline, who had not moved or even opened her eyes.
"Ah, you've heard then, Mrs. Trezona?" he said in accents of condolence.
"Yes."
Cyril wondered how. He thought he had got away from the shafthouse as quickly as anyone. For some paralyzed minutes (who could say how many?) everyone had been suspended there in shocked dismay at the news of the rescue tunnel's falling. But he had been among the first to jerk a car into motion.
"That's enough," he'd said savagely. "That will be all. We go home now."
Madeline had not said a word then or yet. Bucking and bouncing, the car had gone into the road and turned up the hill because people starting to leave on foot were taking the easier way and blocking it.
"I was told on the telephone," Mrs. Trezona said. Her head was high. Something about her was refreshed, he thought. Perhaps she had slept or been able to rest.
"Mr. Davies 'twas, called me," Eedie said with color in her cheeks. "The captain'll 'ave them out if it can be done."
Her cheeks were pink with the pride that had come flowing from her heart when that Mr. Davies had said what he'd said about Pa.
Done her good, it had.
The news was bad. The earth had closed and more men gone. But there was good news too. That, in a man, there was something so stubborn and hard and undefeated she
could almost close her fist around it. Something real as rock, to be proud of forever.
Madeline opened her eyes and sat up.
"Ah, you didn't 'ear that?" said Eedie quickly, "Two taps, still, so they told me. Captain Trezona 'as already begun again. 'Twill take time per'aps, but they'll not rest."
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