The Daughter Pays Part 51

"Yes, I am going."

That was all. So he dismissed her, so he flung love and life away from him out of the struggle. He sat upon the edge of the hole, his electric torch fixed upon his chest, the rope about his middle, and began to tie a handkerchief over his mouth.

"Don't go--don't go; he's dead by now. Oh, can't somebody come? Help!

Help!" cried Ferris distractedly. "Your fault, confound you!" he shrieked to the trembling, ashy Joey.

"Silence, Ferris; I think he is calling!"...

Percy's cries ceased abruptly, and in the sudden pause a moan came up to them from the echoing depths.

In another instant Gaunt had disappeared.

The die was cast, and a curious peace descended upon him. The pressure of the emergency held his brain to the exclusion of all else. For the moment he had no regrets; consciousness was bounded by the difficulties of his descent. This was not nearly as awful as he had expected. There was plenty of foothold, and he went down rapidly, coming upon Gerald's body some time before he thought it possible.

Most providentially the victim had fallen upon the bundle of hay which the workmen on the previous day had set alight and thrown in to dispel the noxious gas. The hole, at this point, was not very deep--not deeper than a well, though further along the cleft he saw a yawning gulf of unexplored horror and blackness. He stooped over Rosenberg, who was still groaning and not completely unconscious, though evidently much hurt.

"If you can hear what I say, try to do as I tell you," said he, speaking with great distinctness close to his ear. "Can you sit up?"

Gerald moved slightly, muttering something that sounded like "Let me alone!"

On that Gaunt saw that he had but one course. He must not attempt to reach the surface with him. He must transfer the rope from his own waist, and send up the injured man first.

He was still just capable of doing this, but he was growing deadly sick and faint. With the feeling that it was a race--a grim race between his failing faculties and time--he detached the cord. He succeeded, after what seemed to him like a protracted struggle, in fastening the knots round Gerald securely. Now what must he do? His brain was swimming, his breath came short, but he knew there was something else. Yes, of course! He must jerk the rope. Once--twice--thrice! He did it and waited.

Something was about to happen. He had forgotten what it was. His mind was swimming aimlessly round, like a fish in warm water, as he said to himself. He lay down. Then the thing upon which he was leaning his heavy head began to move; it was lifted; he tried to sit up, grasping in his hands the hay upon which he was crouched. The s.p.a.ce was very narrow. Was it wide enough to serve him for a--for a--one of those things they use to bury the dead?

It was his last thought. Immediately upon thinking it he was asleep.

"Fifty pounds to the man who brings him up!" cried Virgie, kneeling upon the very brink.

Gerald had been hauled up, dragged forth from the cave, through the hole, hurried into the open air. He was alive, and they thought he would recover. But the man who had risked his life to save him lay still in the deadly abyss.

One of the workmen, however, speedily upon her appeal, roped himself up.

"Can't be very deep, 'm," he said consolingly. "If I take two ropes with me, that'll be all right. We've got a plenty hands now, and my mates can pull."

He disappeared, and Virgie crouched there on the brink, huddled and shivering, counting the terrible moments.

As she knelt in the dark, dreadful place, full of booming, terrifying noises, all life changed its values before her eyes.

This was a man who had a touch of greatness in him. He made big mistakes; he was also capable of big heroism. She knew in her heart that, if Gaunt had not been there, if the accident had happened with only the Ferrises and herself in the cave, the delay--while men were fetched to do what her husband had immediately and simply done himself--might have been, would have been, fatal. The contrast between Percy, helplessly unnerved, and Gaunt, ready to rise at once to the height of the moment, had flashed itself upon her like an instantaneous photograph. She had herself risen with Osbert. He had called her, given her something to do--quiet, definite orders to carry out. Without a question, she went and did his bidding, though she was longing to break into cowardly pleading, to cry out to him not to throw away his life.

And she returned to find them all busy with Gerald, and n.o.body apparently giving a thought to the man still in the pit.

She soon changed that. Her beauty, her distress, her urgency, made stronger appeals to the men than her promise of liberal reward. And now everything, everything, hung upon the result--whether the man they brought to the surface would be still alive or not.

When the signal to draw up was given, she felt as if each pa.s.sing clock-tick were a year. The dread which had sprung up in her, when she saw Gaunt hang brooding over the chasm, could never be dispersed, if he were dead. She would never know whether he truly wished to die or whether life was sweet to him.

How slowly they were hauling in the rope! How endlessly long it seemed.

Then, at last, she saw him drawn from the living tomb--limp, inert, ghastly. She rose, though her knees would hardly support her, and crawled to him as they undid the rope from about him.

The man who had gone down stood near, wiping the sweat from his eyes, and reeling slightly on his feet. He coughed, and spat, and seemed as if he would be sick. "Just h.e.l.l down there, 'm," he told her, apologetically. "I'm afraid it's all over with him, G.o.d help you!"

Gaunt was adrift upon a summer sea. The waves rose and fell, with a lulling cadence. He felt only one desire--the desire for sleep; but a perpetual calling kept him perversely awake. When he reached the land he would, he knew, attain perfect repose. He made an inquiry of some unseen companion as to what was the name of the land which they would reach. The answer to this was: "They call it Virginia."

This answer delighted him. Virginia! Country of all joy and beauty. He was going to Virginia, if only this summons would cease--if only some far away, disturbing voice was not calling to him from infinite distance, begging him to make some response. He tried to plead that this voice might be silenced. But it grew more and more insistent. He could not hear what it said, but he knew that he was wanted. He might not drift out into the peace he craved. He must stop, and answer, and find out what was expected of him. He tried as hard as he could to turn a deaf ear to the calling. He almost succeeded, several times, in dropping off into real, sound sleep. But just as he was sure that now he would be let alone, something shook him, something interfered with him; and there was a pulsing in his ear, terribly loud, like the voice of a drum, so that one could not escape it.

The calling went on. "Osbert! Osbert! I want you! Do you hear me?"

Quite suddenly his mind changed, and he knew that it was of supreme importance that he should answer. The difficulty lay in the manner of so doing. How can one communicate with the beating of a drum? He wished that he could explain how unreasonable it was to expect any response from him. He heard right enough, but how could he let anybody know that he heard, with the sea lapping all about and the drum beating in his ears?...

Then came a curious sensation, touching a chord which vibrated throughout his entire being. He remembered quite long ago that he had been carrying a girl upstairs. Her arms were round his neck, and her heart beat, beat, against his ear. _Was_ that noise the sound of a drum after all, or was it the quick throbbing of a girl's heart?

The moment this idea occurred, it was as though a door had been unclosed, releasing him into the world of which hitherto he had been unconscious. He heard somebody saying:

"Lay him down, Mrs. Gaunt, you had much better. He will come round sooner if his head is quite flat."

Another voice replied, very, very near him: "I tell you I saw his lips move. All the time he was lying flat he never moved, and directly I lifted him up he sighed. There! Look! I tell you he is alive! I said he was! I knew he would come back if I called!--Osbert! Osbert! Can you hear?"

Ah, now, indeed, it would be a grand thing had one the means of letting other people, in other universes, know one's thoughts! He knew he must obey the voice that spoke, yet he was dumb, deaf, blind, because he was so far off. He was sinking away again into the tempting slumber that invited him, in spite of his ardent desire to remain here, where he could be sensible to the beating that was like the beating of a girl's heart.

"Well, lift him again then," said a doubtful voice; and once more he heard the drum, close to his ear. Now it was urgent that he should let it be understood that he knew what was going on. He must step over the edge of the plane on which he moved, and come into that upon which these others were moving; since it was clear that they would not come to him.

"There! I tell you it isn't fancy! He took quite a long breath! Osbert, can you hear me? Open your eyes, and then I shall know."

"By Jove," said another voice, "his eyelids flickered then. I saw it."

"Go on calling him, Mrs. Gaunt. You're right, I believe, it is the only way."

"Another whiff of that oxygen!"

Something like the wind of life swept through him. With an immense effort he opened his eyes.

All that he could see was Virgie's face as she stooped over him.

He knew--though how he could hardly say--that he was lying in her arms.

A keen air blew upon him, his hand, which lay at his side, could feel short turf beneath it. He was coming back--beginning to make use once more of his outward senses.

"Do you know me?" she asked, bending over him. Her eyes were full of an intense purpose; there was no shyness, no consciousness--only a vehement desire.

He took a long breath, gathered all his force, and whispered huskily:

"My--wife!"