to drag him over thethreshold. "She is worn out--she is in bed, and asleep. Come in, dearOwen."
"No one is up but you?"
"Not a soul."
"Then I will come to the fire for a moment. I am bitterly cold; andcould you get me something to eat?"
He crossed the threshold, entered the dining-room--shading his eyes fromthe light--and threw himself, with the air of one utterly spent, intothe arm-chair. So worn and miserable was he, physically, that my firstthought--my first thought before I could ask him a single question--wasto see to his bodily comforts. I got him food and wine, then going onmy knees, I unlaced and removed, as well as I could, his wet andmud-covered boots, went softly upstairs for clean, dry socks, and hisfavourite slippers. He did not oppose me by a single remark, hesubmitted to my attentions, ate eagerly and hungrily of the food I gavehim. When I had done all I could, I sat down on the floor by his side,and took his hand. I must now begin to question him, for the silencebetween us, with my ignorance of what he did or did not know, wasbecoming unbearable.
"Where have you been? Owen. We have wanted you here so dreadfully."
"Have you? I should have been no use to you. For the last two days Ihave been mad--that was all." He looked like it now. His eyesbloodshot, his face deadly pale.
"But, brother," I said, impelled to say the words, "our David has quiteforgiven you."
"Good God! Gwladys," starting upright, "do you want to put me on therack? How dare you mention his name. _His_ name, and the name of hismurdered child! Oh! my God! how that little face haunts me!"
He began to pace up and down the room. I feared he would wake mother;but in his passion and agony I could do nothing to restrain him. Aftera time, however, he sat down more quietly.
"Yes; I have been mad, or perhaps, I am sane now, and was mad all therest of my life. In my sanity, or madness--call it what you will--I atlast see myself. How _dared_ you and mother pamper and spoil me when Iwas a boy! How dared you foster my be setting sin, my weak ambition, myoverweening vanity. I never loved you for _that_--never. I cared mostfor David. How could I help it--righteous, humble, noble; judgingcalmly and correctly; telling me my faults. But, there! how I mustblame others, and lay the sin on others. I did love you, my dear,"--laying his hand for an instant on my head--"I used to dream of you when,like the prodigal, I lived in the far country; but, as I say again, whatof that! I went to Oxford--oh! it is a long story, a story of sin uponsin. My vanity, fed by petty adulation. I spent money. I got intodebt, frightfully--frightfully. I did worse. I got amongst a fast set,and became the fastest of them all. At last came the crisis. I won'ttell you of it. Why should you know? But for David, I should have beenpublicly disgraced--think of that! Your `hero' brother--you used to saythat of me--the conceited lad who thought the world hardly vast enoughor grand enough to hold him. David, as I say, saved me. He paid all mydebts--he set me free. My debts were enormous; to pay them the estatewas seriously crippled. I went abroad. I thought myself humbled then.I did not care what I put my hand to. I had one dream, to fulfil that Ilived. I meant to pay back to David the money he had spent on me. Iknew of this mine on his property. I knew it was badly worked; that theprofits, which might be enormous, were very small. I thought this minemight prove my El Dorado; might give to me the golden treasure I needed.I always meant to be a civil engineer; to this purpose I had turned myattention during my short periods of real work at Christ Church. Now Idetermined to take up engineering with a will. I did this because Iknew that it would qualify me to have the direction of David's mine--toget out of David's mine the gold I needed. For four years I worked forthis. I gained practical knowledge; then I came here--you know thatpart of the story. I told David of my hopes; they excited no pleasurein him. He begged of me to make the mine safe; to use my skill insaving life. I promised him. I meant to perform my word. I did notthink I should fail bitterly and utterly a second time. I did notsuppose, when long ago I dreamed dreams, and saw visions, that I shouldrob David, first of his gold, and then of his child; and this last ismurder."
Owen paused here, and wiped some great drops from his brow. "Gwladys,"he continued, "I see myself now. I am sane, not mad. I see myself atlast. I am the greatest sinner in the world."
He paused again; these words have been used hypocritically; but therewas no hypocrisy in that voice--in those eyes then; the solemn, slowdenunciation came with the full approval of the heart and reason. Icould not contradict. I was silent. "Yes," he repeated, "I have cometo that--come down to that--to be a murderer--the lowest of all. I amthe greatest sinner in the world; and for two days I have been lookingat God, and God has been looking at me. Face to face--with thatmurdered child, and all my other crimes between us--we have been viewingeach other. Is it any wonder I should tell you I have been mad?"
"You may be facing God," I said, slowly then. "You may be facing Godwith all your sins; but you must remember one thing: you, a sinner, arefacing a God who died for such as you."
I don't know why I said these words; they seemed to be sent to me. Iappeared to be speaking outside myself.
"Thank you," said Owen. Then he covered his face, and was silent for aquarter of an hour; and in that interval of quiet, the knowledge came tome that this penitent, broken man--this agonised, stricken soul, wasnearer, far nearer to God than I was. At the end of a quarter of anhour, Owen rose to his feet.
"I heard of the mine accident at a roadside inn, this afternoon; thatbrought me home. I cannot understand how the water burst in. I had noidea there was an accumulation of water in Pride's Pit. I thought itwas properly pumped away--but, there! I should have _known_. I amgoing down into the mine at once. I know David is in the mine."
"Owen," I said, suddenly remembering, "David sent you that." I put thelittle note, which David had written, into his hands.
He read it, then threw it, open, on the table.
The hard look was gone from his eyes--they were glistening.
"Farewell, dear, I am going to my duty. God helping me, I will saveDavid or die."
Before I could say a word, he was out of the house; before I could callto him, his footsteps had died away on the night air.
I threw myself on my knees. I did not pray in words, but I prayed infloods of healing tears. Then I read David's letter.
"_Owen, there are two sides to everything. What has happened is not bad for my little lad. God has taken him--it must be good for my child to be with God. I try to fix my mind on this thought. I ask you to try to do the same. I know this is hard_.
"_Owen, you have been careless, and have sinned, and your sin has been punished. The punishment is all the worse for you, because it crushes me. It shall not quite crush me, Owen; I will rise above it. My dear brother, don't despair. If I can and do forgive you, with all my heart, so assuredly will God_.
"_But, Owen, you are cowardly to shirk your duty. There is danger in the mine. As soon as ever you get this come to me there. Be brave! Whatever you feel, do your duty like a man, for my sake, and for God's sake_.
"David."
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.
THE LORD WAS NOT IN THE FIRE.
And now, day after day, heroic men worked nobly. Without a thought ofpersonal danger, engineers, viewers, managers, miners, privategentlemen,--all laboured for the common cause.
Brothers were perishing of slow starvation, that was enough; brothers,come what might, would go to their rescue.
Perhaps there was seldom seen a grander fight between love and death.
Those who had a thorough knowledge of the mine, soon perceived thatthirty-eight yards of solid coal intervened between the imprisoned menand their rescuers. The only other access was completely cut away by sovast a body of water, that it was not unfitly compared to an undergroundocean. The obstacles between the rescuers and the imprisoned men seemedat first insurmountable. It appeared to be beyond human strength,either to drain away the water, or to cut through t
he coal, in time.What was to be done? Moses Thomas, who, whenever he came to the bank,gave me all the information in his power, said that hopeless as the taskappeared, the coal was to be cut away from this black tomb withoutdelay. Every strong man in the neighbourhood volunteered for this work,and truly the work was no light one! The place sloped downwards, aboutfour inches to every yard, and each piece of coal struck away, had to beinstantly removed. But fresh and fresh shifts of men plied theirmandrils unremittingly; there was no halting or turning back; for threehours, without pause, each man worked, to be instantly followed, whenthis allotted time had expired, by a fresh volunteer.
"Sleep, Miss," said one brawny fellow, when coming to the surface, hestooped to wash his blood-covered hands. "No, I doesn't want to sleep,while the Squire,