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Chapter IV.—Memesis.

When the first pale streaks of dawn wore breaking, next morning, in the east, the two miners who loved this woman rose silently to go to their daily labour. Both had spent sleepless nights; both, perhaps, had wished, in bitterness, that they had never seen her; but the one rose erect, resolute and calm, looking out on the breaking day without fear of shrinking; while the other, pale, with trembling hands, for he had been drinking deeply the night before, crept to his accustomed toil, with bowed head, and sullen countenance, and with hatred, jealousy, and murder, hidden in his miserable heart.

They met near the shaft mouth, and Stevens looked up and nodded. His ill-will to Bradshaw had vanished in those silent hours of pain and darkness which were just past, and he had given the blame where it was due, knowing that Nelly had played with the deep and passionate nature of this man's heart, and a feeling of pity pased through his mind when he saw the evident marks of pain and suffering written on Bradshaw's altered face.

With far different feelings, however, the fierce and jealous overman encountered his handsome rival. His sullen eyes followed him with the fugitive and vindictive glance of hatred. "He could bear it no more," he had sworn, and desperate and resolute, he followed the unsuspecting miner down into the gloomy recesses of the pit, determined on his revenge.

Without one thought of danger, however, Stevens went on; his "board," or the place where he picked his coal, lay only a moderate distance in the working of the mine, and hither, silently and unseen, he was followed by the vindictive Bradshaw.

One of the most common and fatal accidents in coal pits is caused by the fall of stones or coal from the roof and as you pass the cottages of the minors you will frequently see some poor little cripple hobbling along on his crutch. "He got it by a fall," says the pale-faced mother, if you make enquiries; and yet more mournful cases of young men lying injured for life by some dreadful blow on the spine or head are well known to the medical men of the district.

With truly diabolical cruelty and ingenuity, Bradshaw had determined that his rival should appear to be the victim of one of these common accidents; so he crept quietly after Stevens, and while giving his orders as usual, and inspecting as he went, his eyes were peering in the darkness to find something suitable far his murderous purpose.

At last he fixed on a heavy stone, but kicking it aside till the men wore all fairly at work, he went through his ordinary duties, never however, wavering from his determined revenge.

Then when he found himself at liberty, with no prying eyes to watch him, he stole silently back, and picking up the deadly missile which he meant to employ, he went by a more unsafe and circuitous route to the place where he knew he would find Stevens lying at his toilsome labour.

So fierce and conflicting wore the passions which agitatod Bradshaw's breast, that he did not notice his "safety lamp" giving, by its change of colour, warning that he was passing through some dangerous gas; but with his eyes fixed before him, he stole on, in the very face of a peril, which, at any other time, he would have been the first to perceive and avoid.

As he approached Stevens's "board" he suddenly stumbled, and, slipping his foot, fell heavily into some water. His lamp falling beneath him was speedily extinguished, and he was thus left in complete darkness.

With a muttered curse he arose, and felt in his pockets for a match, never thinking of the frightful danger he was about to incur by striking an open light amid the deadly vapour by which he was surrounded.

He took one from his box, and struck it on its side, and the next moment there rang through the dismal workings of the mine one of these awful sounds, the very echo of which even above ground, seems to fill all hearts with terror and dismay. With a scream of agony the miserable man was flung by the force of the explosion against the wall of the pit, while the fatal flame he had ignited passed on its destroying way.

Stephens heard the dreaded sound, and, springing from his work, flung himself on his face, and, covering it with his coat which lay near, crouched thus while the fire passed over him, leaving him uninjured, but exposed to the still more dangerous" after damp," a deadly gas which is almost invariably created by an explosion, and of which the victims are yet more numerous and more sure.

To escape this danger, well known to every miner, Stevens now sought to hurry to the shaft, where if the brattice were uninjured, he could obtain a current of air, and where he was most likely to find assistance and release.

As he ran and stumbled along in the darkness, the dread of instant death in his heart, he took by mistake the very way by which, but a few moments before, Bradshaw had come planning his murder, and as he went he suddenly struck his foot against something lying across his path, and, to his horror, discovered by the sounds that issued from this blackened, disfigured, and still burning mass, that the victim was his miserable rival.

Something—a memory, a message, perhaps—seemed to pass into Stevens's heart as he paused one moment over the unhappy man. "If thine enemy hunger, feed him—if he thirst, give him drink." Stooping down he lifted Bradshaw's hood on his bosom, and tried to pour some of the cold tea, which miner's usually carry, between his scorched and blackened lips. The injured man moaned and lifted his hand to his head, and as he did so," Where am I?" he said, "where am I?"

"The pit has fired, Bradshaw," answered Stevens. "Thou must rouse thyself, and I will help thee to the shaft."

"Oh! my God, my God," groaned Bradshaw as recollection remorse, and dread, rushed into his mind, and he found himself face to face with death, and know that the man whose life he had sworn to take, whose love he had made a curse, was kneeling in kindness by his side.

"Leave me, and let me die," said he, suddenly; the pains of hell will not be worse than this."

"Hush man," said Stevens, solemnly; let's name naught now but God and His mercy to us all."

"There's none for me," said Bradshaw.

"None need say so," answered Stevens; and then listening more closely over the prostrate man, he felt that the hand of death was indeed laid upon him, and it seemed but a sacred duty to call on him to prepare.

"Thou'rt badly burnt," he said, "and if we bide here we're lost—thou best think on God "

"Shall I die." asked Bradshaw, with sudden terror, and then, learning his answer by the other's silence, he groaned aloud. "I dare not die," he said, "I dure not die."

"Try to walk then," said Stevens, his own great peril returning to him," and I will help thee along." And the dying man, by one of those strange efforts which expiring nature is capable of, lifted himself up, and dragged on his painful way.

What did they pass on that dreary journey? The dead, the dying, the terror-stricken, and the brave, huddled together in groups, some praying for mercy, some hurrying on in search of fresher air; while groans, oaths, and cries resounded through the darkness and the gloom.

At last, just as they reached the shaft, Bradshaw fell heavily on his side.

"I can do no more," he said, and after a moments glance at him, Stevens—the love of life prevailing over his better nature—left him, and ran to the opening, and looked anxiously around.

But the prospect of immediate relief was gone. The explosion had utterly destroyed the cage, and the whole apparatus of ascent, and, with a sinking heart, Stevens turned away, for he knew now it would be hours before there could be any prospect of release.

"We are all dead men," he said, with momentary bitterness, and then knelt down, calling on his Maker, in that hour of darkness and danger, to save him. And, as he did so, the memory of his mother, and some hours of holy communion, which his own soul of late had held, came back to him bringing peace and courage to his heart.

"We are in Thy hands," he said, reverently, and rose and went back to his dying enemy, lifting him in his arms and carrying him closer to the open shaft.

Bradshaw opened his dim eyes as he did so, from which the light was now fast fading. "Is the cage all right?" he asked, for he was perfectly sensible.

"It's ail blown away," replied Stevens, in a low, solemn tone. "It will be hours, Bradshaw, before they can get us up, and by that time——"

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"It will be all over," said Bradshaw. "Ay, Ay, speak out, man. Dost thou mean that?"

"Yes," said Stevens," an unhurt man could scarce live in this stifling air, and thou art badly burnt."

"I feel but little now," said Bradshaw.

"Thy time is short, then," answerod Stevens, reverently. "Oh! Bradshaw, pray to God. Try to save thy soul."

"I've been but a bad man, I fear."

"Most of us can say that," said Stevens; "but if thou hast any great sin on thy soul, think of it now, and ask for pardon,

Bradshaw groaned, and moved uneasily.

"That lass has ruined me," he said.

"Nelly Gray?" asked Stevens.

"Ay, curse her, curse her," continued Bradshaw, raising his voice; "she's made me what I am. She's driven me to my death in seeking thine."

"What do you mean?" said Stevens.

"I swore I'd have thy life," answered Bradshaw, hoarsely; "and I meant to keep my oath. I said I'd see thee carried home this night, and God has brought it on my head."

"Thou meant to murder me?" asked Stevens, in a low tone of horror.

Bradshaw nodded his head. "I crept after thee," he said, presently. "I had the stone in my hand."

"It is the hand of God," answered Stevens, earnestly. " I pray that he may forgive thee freely as I do."

"She drove me wild,'" said Bradshaw. "She seemed so fond like once, and then she changed. Just put thy hand into my breast, man, and look into the book thou it find there, if thou still doubts my word."

Silently Stevens complied, and took from the man's inner pocket his note-book, which was much burnt and shrivelled.

"Open that," said Bradshaw, and as Stevens obeyed him, a long lock of lovely golden hair, which the miner knew well, fell on the breast of the dying man.

"She gave it to me," he said, in a low gasping voice. "I was mad for her, Will," and with his poor burnt hands he felt for the hair, and held it fast.

"she promised to wed me," he continued painfully, as if making a sort of excuse; and—and I—loved her—too much."

"Think of her no more," said Stevens, with a choking feeling in his throat, for he saw the man was fast sinking. "Think not of her, Bradshaw—she is not worthy of thy last thoughts."

"I—I—loved her—so—well," whispered Bradshaw, and then the deadly nature of his injuries, or the foul air-overcame him, for he closed his eyes, and with a slight shudder, and a smile passed quietly away.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Among the first of the sufferers who were brought up to "bank," a few hours afterwards, was William Stevons. He was then nearly insensible, from the effect of the poisonous gas he had inhaled, but revived shortly after, and was able, in the course of the evening, to assist in removing some of the blackened and disfigured remains of those who had but a few hours before, passed him with a careless jest or smile.

The living were all brought up first, and the sinking sun was just shedding his last beams on the weeping and terrified faces of the women who were standing near the pit shaft, waiting for their dead, when Stevens appeared amongst them. He was instantly surrounded by many eager inquirers.

"Did'st thou see naught of my little Bill?" asked one. "Oh! Willie, was Geordie safe?" said another, and amongst them was Mary Bradshaw.

"Willie, did'st thou see Jim?" she said; and Stevens stopped, looked at her tear-stained face, and, as he did so, the memory of Bradshaw's last moments, and of Nelly's treachery and falsehood, rushed back into his mind, which till then had been somewhat confused and weakened by the poisonous gas he had inhaled.

"Come home lass," he said gently; and taking one of Mary's cold unresisting hands, he led her to their cottage door, shutting it behind them, and pointing to a seat.

"He is dead then," said Mary with a wail of sorrow. Stevens turned away his head, but hold out his hand to the weeping woman.

"Tell me," sobbed Mary, "let me hoar the worst. Is he dead?"

"He died in these arms," said Stevens, in a low voice; " he was among the first to die."

"Oh! Jim, Jim; Oh! Jim, it was too sudden," cried Mary.

"Thou came to me in my sorrow, Mary," said Stevens, laying his hand on her shoulder—" let me try to comfort thee now."

"He was the last-the last of us left but me," sobbed the poor girl.

"Do not grieve so," said Stevens kindly; and then, stooping down, he half whispored," we parted friends—he died with his hand in mine."

As they spoke they heard a tramping noise, and the sound of subdued voices outside, and then a hesitating knock.

"They are bringing him home," said Stevens, reverently taking off his cap and opening the door, where a group of men, bearing Bradshaw's body, decently covered with a sheet, stood waiting for admission.

"He's sorely burnt," said one of them to Stevens, in allow voice as they carried him in, and with a great cry of sorrow, Mary rose to receive her dead brother.

Late that night, when Stevens was sitting alone in his cottage, a little rap at the door disturbed his sad thoughts, and when he rose and opened it there was Nelly Gray, smiling and pretty as ever, standing before him.

"Oh! Willie I'm so glad you are safe, "she said; "so glad; and then coming towards him, she added," I've just come from town, and didn't know the pit had fired till I got home; but I am so glad you are safe.

"Yes. I am safe," replied Stevens, very gravely, not noticing, however, her out-stretched hand.

"And I'm glad, too, that odious Bradshaw is killed. Yes, I am glad."

"Thou's no call to say that," answered Stevens sternly.

"Why not? I am. He was always bothering me."

"Dost thou know this? said Stevens, opening his pocket-book, and taking out the piece of golden hair which Bradshaw had shown him in the pit.

"It looks like mine," said Nelly, with affected carelessness, at the same time blushing deeply. "Yes it looks like mine. Where did you got?"

"He died with it in his hand," said Stevens. "Thou took his thoughts from God."

"He—he—told what was not true," said Nelly, hesitating.

"He told enough for me, anyway," answered Stevens. "When men stand face to face with death they mostly speak the truth."

"Then I suppose you believed him; perhaps made up your quarrel, and promised to be revenged on mo, eh?"

Stevens was silent, and with a gesture of impatience, averted his head.

"Perhaps you do not mean to speak to me again then?" said Nelly.

"Not willingly,'" answered Stevens; and without another word, Nelly tossed her head, and walked out of the cottage, and Stevens was left alone, with the fair curl lying beside him.

Nearly a week afterwards (on the Sunday afternoon) a long procession left the cottages of Woodforth, and went on its slow and mournful way to the village churchyard. It was the funeral of the unfortunate miners who had perished in the explosion, and it was attended by nearly the whole of the workmen employed on the colliery. Among them was Stevens who stood with bowed head and solemn face, as one after the other his early friends and his dead enemy were laid together, side by side, in one wide open grave.

To a thoughtless man even, such an escape as Stevens had had from a sudden and violent death must have caused some serious reflections; but to him it seemed as though his life had been spared in direct answer to his dead mother's prayer, and the thought that he had been watched over and guarded in darkness and danger coloured his whole subsequent life, and made him what he now is, a serious and deeply religious man.

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He kept his word and never willingly spoke again to the faithless Nelly. Indeed she did not give him the chance, for she was excessively indignant, at the way she had been treated by a mere pitman, and speedily entered into another love affair with a person of very superior rank to her own. How this will end remains to be proved The gossips have it that the young gentleman is only amusing himself, but at all events he will not break Nelly's heart, for she is one of those happy people who always know how to take care of themselves, and whose strongest feelings are vanity and pride. Although in her inmost heart she bitterly repented, and perhaps even regretted the loss of her lover, she always gave out that she had rejected him, and she received the news of a quiet wedding, which took place some time after the explosion, with apparent unconcern.

How this came about it is very easy to understand. Stevens felt so utterly lonely and desolate in his cottage without his mother, that he naturally thought of the good and gentle woman who had come to comfort him in his sorrow, and whose character and conduct he could so thoroughly esteem.

When, therefore, he heard that poor Mary had to leave Woodforth, and was going to service, he made up his mind to offer her a home, scarcely conscious, however, of the deep and tender affection which for years she had given him.

She was sitting at her work as he came in one night full of his purpose, and as she held out her hand to welcome him, Stevens noticed that her eyes were red with weeping, and that her face was altered and pale.

What's vexing thee. Mary? he asked.

She turned her head away before she answered. It-it—seems so hard to go away all among strangers.

Thou must not do that, said Stevens, laying his hand on her shoulder. Stay among thy old friends-there is naught like them.

Mary shook her head. I know that, she said, but-but—I must work.

Come and do it for one of them, then, answered Stevens, with a smile. Come and be my wife, Mary, and I will try to make thee happy.

The End