one of the men when he found his strength failing. She was too dizzy and trembling to make out the pencil, and gave it to me to read to her. I hope I am not doing wrong, for I must tell you how beautiful and resigned a farewell it was. He said, in case this note ever came to her, she must not grieve at the manner of his death--it was a comfort to him to be taken, while trying to repair the negligence of earlier years; they were a brave determined set of men who were with him, and she must provide for their widows and children. There was much fond thought for her, and things to console her, and one sentence you must have--'If ever you meet with the 'hoch-beseeltes Madchen', let her know that her knight thanks and blesses her in his last hour for having roused him and sent him forth to the battlefield. I would rather be here now than what I was when she awoke me. Perhaps she will now be a friend and comforter to you.'
'I think those were the words. I could not help writing them. Poor Lucy cried over the note, and we lowered down baskets of nourishment to be handed in, but we heard only of Lord St. Erme's continued swoon, and it was a weary while before the opening could be widened enough to help the sufferers out. They were exhausted, and could work no more on their side. But for him, it seems they would have done nothing; he was the only one who kept his presence of mind when the crash came. One lamp was not extinguished, and he made them at once consider, while the light lasted, whether they could help themselves. One of the hewers knew that they were not far from this old shaft, and happily Lord St. Erme had a little compass hung to his watch, which he used to carry in his wanderings abroad; this decided the direction, and he set them to work, and encouraged them to persevere most manfully. He did not work himself--indeed, the close air oppressed him much more than it did the pitmen, and he had little hope for his own life, however it might end, but he sat the whole time, supporting the head of the man who was hurt, and keeping up the resolution of the others, putting them in mind of the only hope in their dire distress, and guiding them to prayer and repentance, such as might fit them for life or death. 'He was more than ten preachers, and did more good than forty discourses,' said one man. But he had much less bodily strength than they, though more energy and fortitude, and he was scarcely sensible when the first hope of rescue came. It seemed as if he had just kept up to sustain them till then, and when they no longer depended on him for encouragement, he sank. The moment came at last. He was drawn up perfectly insensible, together with a great brawny-armed hewer, a vehement Chartist, and hitherto his great enemy, but who now held him in his arms like a baby, so tenderly and anxiously. As soon as he saw Lady Lucy, he called out, 'Here he is, Miss, I hope ye'll be able to bring him to. If all lords were like he now!' and then his wife had hold of him, quite beside herself with joy; but he shook her off with a sort of kind rudeness, and, exhausted as he was, would not hear of being helped to his home, till he had heard the doctors (who were all in waiting) say that Lord St. Erme was alive. Lady Lucy was hanging over him in a sort of agony of ecstasy, and yet of grief; but still she looked up, and put her little white hand into the collier's big black one, and said, 'Thank you,' and then he fairly burst out crying, and so his wife led him away. I saw Lord St. Erme for one moment, and never was anything more death-like, such ghastly white, except where grimed with coal-dust. They are in his room now, trying to restore animation. He has shown some degree of consciousness, and pressed his sister's hand, but all power of swallowing seems to be gone, and the doctors are in great alarm. The others are doing well- -the people come in swarms to the door to ask for him.
'26th.--Comfort at last. He has been getting better all night, and this morning the doctors say all danger is over. Mamma says she can hardly keep from tears as she watches the happy placid looks of the brother and sister, as he lies there so pale and shadowy, and she hangs over him, as if she could never gaze at him enough. Several of the men, who were with him, came to inquire for him early this morning; none of them suffered half so much as he did. I went down to speak to them, and I am glad I did; it is beautiful to see how he has won all their hearts, and to hear their appreciation of his conduct. They say he tended the man who was hurt as if he had been his mother, and never uttered one word of complaint. 'He told us,' said one man, 'God could hear us out of the depth, as well as when we said our prayers in church; and whenever our hearts were failing us, there was his voice speaking somewhat good to cheer us up, or help us to mind that there was One who knew where we were, and would have a care for us and our wives and children.' 'Bless him,' said another, 'he has been the saving of our lives;' 'Bless him;' and they touched their hats and said Amen. I wish his sister could have seen them!
'Five o'clock.--Mrs. Delaval is come, and there is no room nor need for us, so we are going home. It is best, for mamma was nursing him all night, and is tired out. He has improved much in the course of the day, and they hope that he may soon be moved home. The pitmen want to carry him back on his mattress on their shoulders. He has made himself king of their hearts! He has been able to inquire after them, and Lady Lucy, who forgets no one, has been down-stairs to see the old Betty. 'Ah! my pretty lady,' she said, 'you are not sorry now that you tried to take the Lord's Cross patiently, and now, you see, your sorrow is turned into joy.' And then Lady Lucy would not have it called patience, and said she had had no submission in her, and Betty answered her, 'Ah! well, you are young yet, and He fits the burden to the shoulder.' How an adventure like this brings out the truth of every character, as one never would have known it otherwise. Who would have dreamt of that pattern of saintly resignation in the Coalworth heath, or that Lady Lucy Delaval would have found a poor old woman her truest and best comforter? and this without the least forwardness on the old woman's part.
'Just going! Lady Lucy so warm-hearted and grateful--and Lord St. Erme himself wished mamma good-bye in such a kind cordial manner, thanking her for all she had done for his sister. I am sorry to go, so as not to be in the way of seeing anything more of them, but it is time, for mamma is quite overcome. So I must close up this last letter from Coalworth, a far happier one than I thought to end with.
'Your most affectionate,
A. M.
'P. S.--Is he not a hero, equal to his 'hoch-beseeltes Madchen'? I am ashamed of having written to you what was never meant for other eyes, but it will be safe with you. If you had seen how he used to waylay us, and ask for our tidings from you after the fire, you would see I cannot doubt who the 'madchen' is. Is there no hope for him? The other affair was so long ago, and who could help longing to have such minstrel-love rewarded?'
That postscript did not go on to Brogden, though Annette's betrayal of confidence had been suffered to meet the eye of the high-souled maiden.
The accounts of Lord St. Erme continued to improve, though his recovery was but slow. To talk the adventure over was a never- failing interest to Lady Martindale, who, though Theodora suppressed Annette's quotation, was much of the opinion expressed in the postscript, and made some quiet lamentations that Theodora had rejected him.
'No, we were not fit for each other,' she answered.
'You would not say so now,' said Lady Martindale. 'He has done things as great as yourself, my dear.'
'I am fit for no one now,' said Theodora, bluntly.
'Ah, my dear!--But I don't know why I should wish you to marry; I could never do without you.'
'That's the most sensible thing you have said yet, mamma.'
But Theodora wished herself less necessary at home, when, in a few weeks more, she had to gather that matters were going on well from the large round-hand note, with nursery spelling and folding, in which Johnnie announced that he had a little brother.
An interval of peace to Violet ensued. Arthur did not nurse her as in old times; but he was gentle and kind, and was the more with her as the cough, which had never been entirely removed, was renewed by a chill in the first cold of September. All went well till the babe was a week old, when Arthur suddenly announced his intention of asking for a fortnight's leave, as he was obliged to go to Boulogne on business.
Here was a fresh thunderbolt. Violet guessed that Mr. Gardner was there, and was convinced that, whatever might be Arthur's present designs, he would come back having taken a house at Boulogne. He answered her imploring look by telling her not to worry herself; he hoped to get 'quit of the concern,' and, at any rate, could not help going. She suggested that his cough would bear no liberties; he said, change of air would take it off, and scouted her entreaty that he would consult Mr. Harding. Another morning, a kind careless farewell, he was gone!
Poor Violet drew the coverlet over her head; her heart failed her, and she craved that her throbbing sinking weakness and feverish anxiety might bring her to her final rest. When she glanced over the future, her husband deteriorating, and his love closed up from her; her children led astray by evil influences of a foreign soil; Johnnie, perhaps, only saved by separation--Johnnie, her precious comforter; herself far from every friend, every support, without security of church ordinances--all looked so utterly wretched that, as her pulses beat, and every sensation of illness was aggravated, she almost rejoiced in the danger she felt approaching.
Nothing but her infant's voice could have recalled her to a calmer mind, and brought back the sense that she
