The sky was lighter. After a time all the people saw the cables slipping on the spool again, running in the air. Slowly the cage was coming up, more slowly than it had come yet.
On stretchers the lost men lay. On their biers. Cyril saw everything in the gray and yellow light. Everything was sharp and clear to his staring eyes. He saw Mabel Marcom rise to her feet and cast off the dark blanket. It fell away, and she moved from its warm shell and walked, without shivering, to the bier. He saw her touch old Elisha Marcom's brow in a gesture of infinite tenderness, for a moment—as sweet a sight as a Madonna. Then she threw off the tenderness. It fell away. Sternly, she marshaled her strength and pulled herself high.
He saw Alice Beard get out of the tonneau and fling out both hands to keep her parents behind her, saw her walk alone to the bier where her husband was lying with his boots up beneath the long covering coat. Saw her lift up her face to the hill and the sky and turn and walk back again, where caressing hands would have received her had she not, so steadily, climbed by herself into the little car once more. He saw her sitting there, alone, quiet, looking small, but not childish.
He saw the priest praying and the Pilottis wheel with him away from the body of Benevenuto. Saw the peace fall on
them and then fall into the rhythm of their faith and move away in a procession, as if they had music.
And Cyril felt an explosion in his breast. He began to cry. He could not see for the hot gush of his tears.
By God, he cried in his head, they're all licked before they start! All human beings! By God, they'll all die and they know it. By God, how they take it! How they go ahead anyhow. How they live, and when death comes they take it and the rest go and live. Ah, the poor damned sods, the nervy little bastards, the doomed and indomitable! By God, they deserve something! They can be loved! For the gallant lost, they are, who've got the crust to live as if they were not. And take that. Take life, which is lovely and goes, but they have it! They have it!
He licked salt with his tongue. He was sobbing.
After a moment, his astonishment began to prevail and he felt himself mending and drawing together. He could see again and he knew the cage had come up once more.
And they carried off two stretchers. And one was a bier and one was not, for the man who lay on it raised head on neck.
And he saw something fly out of the crowding people. Like thistledown, it flew away. Scarcely touching the hill. Just a boy, running. Dickie Trezona went flying, floating up over the hillside.
Eedie was at the parlor window and when she saw him coming, running as fast as ever he could, her heart leaped and she cried, "Darithy!" And the cry was joyful. For a small boy with very good news has wings to fly home with it.
Cyril said, bluntly, "Madehne, he's dead. I'd better go." Her shoulders shuddered and seemed to cave down. He put her aside, laid her head down on the leather. And he got out of the car and walked toward the place where poor Arthur lay. The skin of Cyril's face felt brittle where the tears had dried.
"Young Trezona says he was O.K. 'till the rescue tunnel fell. Ah, too bad, Mr. Varker. Trezona says he was real brave,"
Cyril kept nodding. Arthur was settled. He was a hero, after all. He would not veer again. Someone drew the coat over the face. Someone now wanted to discuss arrangements. Cyril stood in the pale dawn, hat to his breast, head down, eyes turned up to see, salt in the eye corners.
He saw Captain Trezona coming off the cage, rigid, spare, moving as if he were borne by the crowd around him. They were putting Wesley into an ambulance there, yards away. The doctor was with him. The captain did not look toward his living son.
He was surrounded by miners. Young Davies was there, and a man, not in oilskins, but a suit. Yes, Henry Duncane. All these bent their heads. The surge of people towards this group was stilled, for the captain dragged the miner's hat off his head, looked fiercely at the sky and the first tendrils of morning, and began to speak aloud, as was his habit, to the Lord.
Cyril could hear as well as anyone the melody of faith and sorrow. A lament for the brave dead, a recommendation of souls.
But he did not pray, not he. He was thinking furiously and his eyes were dry. This damned indomitable old man, this towering hero . . . Oh no, if he is told, I'm done! I'm beaten! Little he'll care what people would say, nor will he spare himself anything. He'll never keep it quiet. No, no. He'll ask God and what will his God tell him? Your son, Wesley, is a sinner. And so is Cyril Varker, the wicked usurer! He'll run me out of town.
Cyril flung up his head and slipped behind the praying undertaker's man and around the praying people toward that ambulance. The boy lay on the stretcher, pale, young, bubbling, glad to be alive.
"Glad to see you," said Cyril huskily.
'Thanks. Thanks." Every breath was thanks, Cyril could see.
Cyril bent down, achieving privacy. "I don't want you to think about that debt to me," he said in a low voice in the boy's ear. "Forget it, please."
"Pa will pay," said Wesley Trezona.
"No. He doesn't need to know about it."
Wesley looked at him from a place far, far away. "Ma would have told him already, Mr. Varker." The boy smiled. "You'll have it by Saturday, Mr. Varker." The boy tried to be solemn. "Sorry about Cole. He . . . maybe you'd like to tell his wife ... he was fine."
"Was he?" said Cyril dully. "I'll tell her. Thanks, Tre-zona." Cyril turned on his heel. It was odd and pathetic that the boy didn't know this was Saturday. It was odd and pathetic that Arthur Cole, in the legend, would be forever fine. It was odd and pathetic, in a way, that he, Cyril, could give no mercy.
He ground his teeth. "She beat me. That woman. Now how did she do it? She'd give me my due. Well, at least I'm bright enough to see it. Made a mistake. Shouldn't have got mixed up with these . . ." He heard the captain's deep Amen.
A woman said sharply, "Look out! He'll fall!"
Cyril turned. The captain was twenty years older in one fading. " 'Twas hard," someone murmured. "Hard, hard."
But Cyril thought: no, not so. How clear and easy everything must be for that old man! It was odd and pathetic, too, that now he prayed ... or he wished, whatever it was . . . that the old hero, in his honorable fatigue, could be spared the cruel and stinging blow that was to come to him. Who could give mercy, now? Not Cyril. Not he.
The captain put his hat on and then they were helping him toward the ambulance. Cyril kept nodding now, finishing the arrangements. They would take Arthur away. Not to the little house, ever again. Better so. The people, released to motion, churned and hesitated, but would soon disperse. Cyril pushed through them, at last, back to the car.
Madeline Cole had not moved at all, but lay where he'd left her. He peered down at her. "Everything's taken care of," he said heavily, "We can go."
"Not yet," she said. She looked as beautiful as he had ever seen her, lying there. Her eyes were open wide, soft and gray, staring at the sky.
Cyril looked back into the milling crowd and saw among them Henry Duncane.
"He'll come," she said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The day was opening, gold on gray. The sun was rising. The whole town of Thor was released to motion, and had not known, until now, how motionless it had been.
Early as it w'as, people were astir. Kitchen fires were kindled. Phones rang. Children crept out to dip their feet in the dew and listen to cock's crow, bird's song.
Arrangements were being made. There must be services for the dead. But this was motion.
According to custom, no mining would be done at West Thor mine until after the funerals had taken place. East Thor, of course, continued. And pumps ran. Shovels would rant and snort and carry all day. Repairs got under way at the Falls.
George McKeever, who had come home to shave, to drop into the routine of another day, made ready to descend for his regular breakfast. From his window he could see Thor Lake, dimpling demurely, pale blue beneath the breaking light, pretty and dangerous.
M
rs. McKeever moved quietly, not to disturb his thoughts. His face, she observed, was still and sad. Oh, he felt this.
"Too bad," he sighed, at last. "Still, might have been worse."
"What we can always say," she murmured. "Was there any negligence, George?"
"No. No, none we can see. No one can say so. These things happen," he murmured sadly. "We haven't done too badly in these mines."
For, just as someone must examine and determine whether there was, here, any hint for the future, anything to be learned or used, someone must also consider the record, the
long past, and balance the achievement against the losses. Although he knew, and everyone knew the Company was operating to get the ore out and, although there had been many improvements through the years, there was not yet, and might never be such a thing as perfect safety in this job.
"Considering the normal risks," he murmured, "in fact, we haven't done too badly. It's bad when it comes. Well, we'll have to get on." Now, in his head ran the losses. Trouble in terms of time, in terms of money, in terms of production. All these, he thought sadly, were facts, too, and someone must consider them and add them up.
He slipped an arm around her shoulders, and they went downstairs.
Sitting at the table, Mrs. McKeever wondered why. Why must they get on? She thought of the ore that would yet be torn out of the earth, and come up, and fall into the cars, and ride the long water, and meet, in the mills, the fires and the manipulations of men, until it was iron. And then steel, which men demanded, men would have it, so they would get it.
She sighed and picked up a pancake turner to slip under the eggs and the bacon. Its thin steel shaft and its supple blade were strong and handy.
At the Gilchrists' Alex was drinking black coffee. "No. No cereal, Marianne. Couldn't touch it. Not a thing. No."
"So sensitive," she murmured. "Alex, must you go off?"
"Better show up." There was an uneasy question in his glance at her.
"You don't look well," she said promptly.
"I'm not." He was grateful. "You know how it hits me."
"I know."
"Some people," he grumbled, ". . . take Captain Tre-zona. Man like that doesn't feel it. No physical effect, I mean. Iron stomach." He wore his smile, now, his pitying smile.
"Oh, well," she said, "unintellectual people are lucky, in a way."
He took a piece of toast, after all.
She said, "I wonder what I could take down to Elizabeth
Duncane for the baby." He grunted. Now her eyes were sly and appeahng. "I'd like to make it something really nice, Alex. Expensive."
"Well/' he said, "why not? Within limits."
Her face cleared and she nodded. Silver, she thought. Maybe gold.
Celestina had been to church, slipping into the holy place before dawn. Now, still very early, she walked slowly around the double corners of the center of Thor and she went up the street to Duncane's.
"My mother said to come," she faltered, as Mrs. Trestrial's long f^ce looked out at the kitchen door, "an'd ask. We don't know if I'm wanted."
"Come you in. You can wash up 'ere. I see no 'arm in that." The old woman looked weary.
"Miz Trestrial . . ."
"Eh?"
"I'm glad about Wesley." Celestina spoke shyly. "If you see him, maybe you would tell him I am?"
"Tell 'im yourself!" Mrs. Trestrial snapped.
"I probably won't see him," Celestina said placidly.
Mrs. Trestrial's shrewd eyes softened. "Like to see baby, eh?"
"Oh, yeh . . ."
"Come along."
Libby Duncane was awake. She was wearing a dainty bed-jacket and a ribbon, to match, pulled her pale hair back cleanly from her face. She was immaculate. The whole bedroom was fragrant with her bath powder. "Oh, Celestina. Good morning."
"Good morning, ma'am."
"Wants to see baby," said Mrs. Trestrial briskly.
"Of course."
All three women made sounds like purring. The atmosphere among the three of them was warmer afterwards.
Celestina said, fidgeting, "I didn't know if I was to come back, ma'am. He didn't say." Her eyes implored.
"Mrs. Trestrial must be so tired," Libby said.
Mrs. Trestrial snorted. Tired? Yes, she was. If the girl
would tidy up the kitchen, then, she'd 'ave a nice he-down till nurse come. She vanished.
"She won't leave me," Libby said fondly. "I'm glad you are here to help her. There is a nurse coming later."
Celestina said, shyly, "You look nice, ma'am."
"Thank you. I suppose you're happy," said Libby gently, "that Wesley Trezona was saved. You were fond of him, I know."
"Yeh." Celestina's dark eyes fell. "Nothing'll come of it, though. I mean . . . nothing . . ,"
"Why do you say that, Celestina?"
"Oh, I don't know."
But Libby, looking at her, thought she knew. The church, for one thing, and the blood, and the temperament, and a whole back-log of tradition and mode of thought. As well imagine Mrs. Trestrial with a Latin lover!
"I suppose you're wise," she murmured. "I suppose you couldn't have been in love at all."
"Not really," said Celestina, quickly. Their eyes caught and the girl's lips parted, "Nothing comes of it lots of times. I mean, lots of times,"
Libby said, quickly and rather sternly, "Now you go help. There must be such a lot to do. Mr. Duncane will want a big breakfast, I imagine."
Where is he? asked Celestina's eyes. Where he is or why, said Libby's, is not for you to ask or tell me. I am willing to tr}' to understand you and even to like you. But we are not pals and never can be. "Quick as you can," she said aloud.
Celestina said, with an air of relief, "Yes, ma'am," and she went quietly away.
Libby lay back. Nothing comes of it, lots of times. What kind of wisdom was that?
Henry had phoned the news half an hour ago. Said he'd be a half an hour yet. He was later than that, already. It was no use. She could not help remarking that Madeline Cole was a widow this morning.
I don't know much about her, Libby mused. She's beautiful, that I've seen. Mrs. Gilchrist says "Flies to honey," but Mrs. Gilchrist is no fountain of truth or discernment. Mrs. Gilchrist is pretty phony.
So have I been.
Maybe Madeline Cole is not. Maybe that's what offends the Gilchrist kind. Henry will know. Maybe, in that, she and Henrv' are alike. Yet I'm certain, Libby thought. Knowing and granting all the differences, I am certain tliat in some deep and most important way, it's Henr' and I who are alike.
As she mused, it came serenely into her mind that Henry would not run out on the baby. And I? she wondered. What must I do?
It didn't occur to her that she might ask her mother.
She lav puzzling, listening for his car. She could hear birds singing, Celestina, distantly, doing dishes, and, from the sitting room, a gentle snore. From the crib a tiny ct)' tensed her, but soon ceased.
She thought, Henr}' will do the deciding. I'll have nothing to say about it. He won't expect me to say. He won't even ask me. He thinks no one should ever lean. That's why he throws me to stand on my own feet, but he makes a mistake. He stands too much alone.
Morning crept over the hill. Wesley Trezona, dirty, smelling of the mine, lay on the black couCh in the dining room at home. Lay awkwardly, for he was trying to lie on his stomach and the couch was designed with a buffalo hump at one end for the head. But he told the doctor he didn't think he would lie on his back for a year, probably.
Captain Trezona had fallen into his Morris chair. He was stained and reeking of the mine. Dorothy fluttered all around, beaming and beaming. Dick was on the floor and once, quite unknown to himself, he patted his big brother's temple with his grubby hand. Eedie was not conscious of what she did, whether she stood or sat or moved or was still. She was disembodied.
The doctor had just left. Wesley was fine. Black and blue across his thigh. It was nothing.
They wou
ld bustle and wash and feed in a moment, but not just yet. Now came the private time. The captain and Eedie, too, had mourned aloud and in their hearts for those lost. But now, in all decency and right, came the family thanksgiving, which was due for the salvation of their own.
The first thing Pa said was, "I'll 'ave the Bible, Darithv."
"Yes, Pa."
Wesley rolled on his side. "Pa . . ."
"Eh?"
"Before you read . . ."
Eedie knew. Now she felt the chair hit the back of her legs. Well, God had them both in His hands. She sat down quietly.
"Did Ma tell you?"
She said, "No, Wesley."
Wesley did not hesitate. "Pa, last April I took a drink or two one night in the saloon. Went joy-riding in Olsen's car. Car hit the bridge and me driving. Had to pay damages. Scared to tell you, so borrowed the money. Got in a mess. Played cards, trying to get money to pay, and lost more. Now I owe three hundred dollars to Mr. Varker. Will you pay him. Pa? It's due today. And let me pay you in time?"
The captain's eyes were shocked and very blue in his smeared face. Eedie prayed. Pa said, brittlely. "If you h'owe it, it must be paid."
"I got to say this," Wesley went on rapidly. (So different he sounds, his mother thought, so quick and hard. This was no frightened, suffering, conscience-sick boy.) "Look, Pa, before you read . . . Pilotti was Catholic and I heard him die. Calling on saints and go-betweens. That's all right, too. I'm sure 'twas the same God, anyhow. But you don't need a go-between. Eh, Pa? And you try to teach us. A day comes," Wesley said, "I need no go-between, either. Not even you."
The captain blinked.
"I did wrong and God knows I know it," said Wesley, stretching and easing his body. Now his voice was fading, shyly. "Eh, Pa? I've prayed Him to let you take it easy. Pa. If you can't, then that's the way it is. So . . ." faintly, "Pa, will you read?"
The children were still. Pa blinked a time or two. Then Pa took the Bible. His hands trembled. "Worn out," Eedie thought, tender and indignant. "So long, so 'ard, 'e'd been working. And then to lose four of them and now to 'ear what must 'urt 'im so." And she thought, " 'E's the worse off of
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