Chapter XVIII: Christmas Morning

It was a shaft into which they fell. Once upon a time they had planned a mine upon the very borders of the sea at Gwithian. It had not come up to their anticipations, and soon the idea was abandoned. The works were never finished, only the shaft remained. When the tide was at its full, the highest waves came within a dozen feet of the "Wheal Galore"--for so the deserted mine was called. It was even found that at certain seasons, when the spring tides were at their fullest, the sea would run into the mine. This was to have been prevented by crowning the shaft with a lofty platform, which would have successfully defied both wind and wave. But the works had never got so far as that. The money had run out, and the mine was never represented by anything but what was to all intents and purposes a deep hole in the ground. This, when the idea was abandoned, they had covered over with planking, so as to form a solid cover. To Wheal Galore, down by the winter sea, in the mist and the darkness, the lads had ignorantly wandered. The planks had either become rotten with ago or had been displaced, and the result was that Duke and Lionel fell in. e It was the climax of their evening's amusement, the wind-up to their Christmas carols. It was an awful feeling to feel the ground yawn beneath their feet and to be swallowed up by mother earth. There was a touch of the supernatural about it. Had they lived in other days, it would have been ascribed to the machinations of evil spirits. As they felt the earth give way, as though it had no greater substance than a wafer, the thought came to both their minds that an earthquake was engulfing them. Down, down they fell! The horror of it! They would forget it never. Down, down--the agony and the terror of that falling!

How great their fall they could not tell. They only ceased descending to sink into unconsciousness. Their senses fled, and they lay, to all intents and purposes, dead things. A pleasant way of spending Christmas Eve! Overhead the mist was as dense as ever, the air was still as silent. Gwithian sands were hidden beneath a canopy, to pierce which the sight of men could be of no avail. Land and sea were shrouded in Egyptian darkness. And in the towns, in Gwithian village just at hand, in many a home throughout the land, were joy and gladness, and the busiest preparations for Christmas Day; and the lads lay at the bottom of Wheal Galore. That was their way of making ready for the birthday of the Lord.

How long they lay insensible they could never tell. He keeps no count of time whose senses are not his own; but at last Duke awoke to consciousness. It was a strange awaking, as though he came, he knew not why, from some strange sleep. All was dark; he strove to rise; the effort was in vain; the agony was too extreme. He found that all his body ached and burned, and with a groan he sank back to the ground. Yet he retained his senses. He knew that there was something wrong, but what it was he could not think. He endeavoured to recall the events of the last few hours, but they marshalled themselves before his eyes as in a dream. He saw them as shadows are seen, through a glass darkly. He strove to remember where he was, and how it was he came there, and what had chanced to him; but his memory refused to wait on him, although he called on it. One sudden flash of recollection he had. He remembered that Lionel had been with him. Where was Pollyon now? And as he thought of it, he called to him in faint uncertain tones.

"Pollyon! Lionel, old man! Pollyon!" But there was no response. So he kept on repeating, in childish fashion, over and over again, in faltering accents, "Pollyon! Lionel, old man! Pollyon!"

And at last there came an answer. For in the end Pollyon awoke from out his stupor; and it was with him, as it had been with Marmaduke, he could not remember where he was, nor what wind of fortune brought him there; but all at once, as he still struggled to remember, he heard a voice, speaking, as it were, close to his ear, say, "Pollyon! Lionel, old man! Pollyon!" But at first he paid no heed, for all the things of fact and fancy were mixed up so strangely in his brain, that he could not tell which one was real, and which one imagination. But in time it seemed to him he knew the voice, and it still kept calling on in always the same refrain--"Pollyon! Lionel, old man! Pollyon!" so that he raised himself up on one arm, and found that he couldn't sit upon the ground.

"Yes," he said; "who is that calling there?"

"Lionel, old man!" the voice replied, and he knew that it was Duke. And with the knowledge that it was Duke came back his memory. As if by magic, all the past came back to him, and he put his hand up to his head as though the sudden rush of recollection was more than he could bear. All the night came back to him; all the journey in search of vengeance; all the disastrous retreat, down to the losing of themselves upon the sands of Gwithian and the falling down into the mine; though on that point he was not as yet quite clear. Where were they actually? He knew that they had fallen, but fallen where, and why? But Duke still called upon his name, and the sound of Duke's voice drove for the time all other thoughts away.

He struggled to his feet. He found that he could stand. He was very sore--sore from top to toe, and stiff. He had no doubt that he was bruised, but beyond that--and all that is nothing to a boy--it did not seem to him that he had any injury. So he turned his attention to Marmaduke, and found that that was not the case with him. He knelt beside him on the ground, and in tones which were curiously soft and kind for Lionel Pollyon he said, "Here I am, Duke. Are you hurt, old boy? What is it has hurt you?"

But Duke made no reply. He only mumbled something oddly disconnected for him.

"If I had a light," said Lionel, "I might do some good with it. Where did I put those wretched matches which Trevena gave me?"

He felt in all his pockets, and found them, in the last. There were but a few--half a dozen, not more; he must be careful how he used them. He took out his knife, and struck one against the rough horn handle. It burst into a flame. He guarded it with both his hands, peering by its aid into the face of Marmaduke Tregowan. The light suddenly flashed before his eyes seemed to do more to rouse the lad than anything which had gone before, and he looked up at Lionel with wondering glance.

"Holloa, old boy! Comfortable state of things, isn't it?" said Lionel, as he perceived the glance of recognition. "This is Trevena's notion of a merry Christmas, I suppose. How goes it? In the wars? What's gone wrong with you?"

"I don't know," replied Duke. Judging from his countenance he was making a violent attempt to smile, though it was only with an effort he could speak at all. "I fancy there is something broken. I can't stand up alone."

To prove it he endeavoured to raise himself, but sank back with a cry of agony.

"Steady!" said Lionel; but Duke was in a faint; and at that moment the match went out.

"Well, this is a pretty state of things," said Lionel, with curious ruefulness, when he understood that Duke had actually lapsed into a swoon, and that, in a sense which there was no mistaking, the charge of him was entirely upon his hands. "If this ain't a cheerful sort of Christmas Eve, I never knew what cheerful meant. Pity it don't come oftener than once a year; the more of this sort of thing the merrier. Next time George Trevena has an idea of his own, if he succeeds in passing it on to me, he's less of an idiot than I took him for. What's the nest thing to be done, I wonder?"

He had not the faintest notion. He lit another match, and looked again at Marmaduke. He lay as if in death; there was a cut upon his brow, from which the blood trickled down upon his face. Lionel took his handkerchief and wiped the blood away: it was the only thing which he could do, and by the time that it was done the second match was out.

Then he eat down upon the ground, with his legs stretched out in front of him, and considered the position. What was to be done for Marmaduke? He had by now made up his mind that they were in Wheal Galore, that they had accidentally stumbled on the shaft, and that the planks which were supposed to cover it had for some cause or other given way beneath their tread and let them in. He supposed, that the shaft was from twelve to fifteen feet in depth--a little more, maybe, perhaps a little less. The sides were bricked. It was obviously impossible to scale up a perpendicular brick wall fifteen feet in height, even were he disposed to leave Duke behind, which he was very far from being. The prospect was decidedly a pleasant one. Unless they could attract some one's attention, or some one chanced to pass that way, they were prisoned there for ever.

"I wonder what they're doing at home," said Lionel, scratching his head, and turning the problem over in his mind. It was fairly warm down there; the depth itself was a certain protection from the cold. "Looking that everything is ready for to-morrow. The dad is giving the last touches to his sermon, and wondering if Brown's voice is good enough to lead the anthem. I know it won't be--I know he'll make a mess of it--I've known it all along; let alone his nervousness, and he's as nervous as a sprat."

What degree of nervousness is symbolised by the image of a sprat he did not trouble himself to say; his reflections took another turn.

"The mother'll be counting her mince-pies"--the thought was a very melancholy one--"and wondering if there'll be enough for all. Now I'm away, there will be and to spare; not that I'm a particularly hearty eater, but I can do my duty when I'm called upon. And then in a few minutes she'll be wondering where I am, and the dad'll say it's not the sort of thing he likes on Christmas Eve, and it's very thoughtless of Lionel to be away at such a season." Here he mimicked the paternal tones. "And then prayer-time'll come, and the dad and the mother'll look at each other, and say never a word, and the mother'll put my share away at supper, hoping and praying that the dad'll not be hard on me when I return,--as though the dad was ever hard on me in all his days!" And before Lionel knew, his coat-sleeve had rubbed his eyes. "What a wretch I am! Oh, dad, dad! was there ever such a dad in all the world as you have been!"

Than he held his peace a while, for he felt such-like thoughts were more than he could bear; and then, with new resolution, "I know one thing I'll do," he said, "I'll try a prayer. I never knew a case yet in which it didn't do a fellow good to pray, and I guess I'm pretty much in want of God just now; they shan't have all the praying to themselves at home."

And he stood up and knelt upon the ground, and took off his cap and laid it by his side, and prayed out loud, so that any one who chose might hear. It was a characteristic prayer, just such a one as might be expected to come from Lionel; but there was no mistake about his earnestness; every word came straight up from his heart and went at once to God.

"And, O Lord"--these were some of the words he used, and it was curious to notice the mixture of childlike trust and worldly shrewdness which prompted them--"don't be hard upon us boys. We know that vengeance is Thine, but Jabez Fruin killed George's dog, and we felt that we must square it up with him; and Duke and I are in Thy hands, O Lord. It's Christmas Eve, and to-morrow's Christmas Day, and the birthday of Thy Son; forgive us, for His sake, O dear Lord, and help us out of the hole which we are in."

Ho spoke unto the Lord in his curious boyish fashion, as though He were his own familiar friend, and the speaking seemed to comfort him; and he opened all his heart to Him, and told Him all there was to tell, and all that he would have Him do, and all in curiously familiar tones, as though the Lord were close at hand, and would listen, no matter what the fashion of his speech. And, indeed, he was very right in that; for the Lord is always at our sides, and asks not for eloquence of words, but only that we should tell Him what in very truth is in our heart.

And when he had done praying, he still remained on his knees a time; and as he stayed there, with his head bowed down and his hands clasped in front of him, he heard a sound above. He raised his head and listened; it came again. Surely there was no mistaking what it was. Splash! splash! It was the splashing of the waves.

"Why," said he to himself, "how well you can hear the sea upon a sudden! If we had only heard it half as plain before, we should never be in such a scrape as this. But it's always the same; if you want a thing, you never get it till you've done wanting it."

Suddenly there came a louder splash, and surely, yes! something trickled down upon his head, It was the water! He sprang to his feet with a cry. There was no mistaking it; the sea was trickling down into the mine. He stood for a moment irresolute, with his face turned upwards, listening with might and main. Again splash! and down the water came on his uncovered head.

"We'll be drowned," he said; and if one could but have had a light, they would have seen that his cheeks were a shade paler than they had been before. "We'll be drowned, as well as broken to bits and starved. It's a spring tide, and it isn't full till midnight, and it's a long way off midnight now, and we'll be drowned; that's a comfortable thing to know."

Down the water came again, more of it than ever; no doubt the ground would soon be soaked. He stooped and felt it with his hand; it was already wet to his touch. He went to where Duke was lying.

"Duke," he said, and laid his hand upon his shoulder, "Duke, old boy!" The reply was inarticulate, but he did make some sort of sound, and Lionel spoke to him again.

"Don't you know me, Duke? It is I, Lionel. Wake up, old boy, and try to pull yourself together."

There was silence; again the water came trickling down. He lit another match. Duke's eyes were open, and he looked up at Pollyon by the uncertain light of the flickering match, evidently trying to collect his senses. All at once the effort was successful; he moved his hand and touched Pollyon's, which was just beside it.

"Is this Christmas Eve?" he said, in accents very faint, but which were very sweet and clear; it was scarcely the voice of Marmaduke. Before Lionel could reply he continued, "Do you remember the half-way house? I've thought about it a good deal since. I've made up my mind to choose the path which leads to God. Don't you think Christmas a good time to turn over a new leaf?"

"Yes," answered Lionel, rather staggered by such a question at such a season; "any time's a good time for doing that."

"But Christmas--don't you think Christmas is a better time than any? What would your father say? I remember once hearing him say that Christmas was the best time of all the year."

Lionel could not reply, for at that moment down the water came with a greater force than ever; it covered the bottom of the shaft to the depth of at least an inch.

"I say, old man, do you think that you could bear to be lifted on my knee? I'll be as gentle as I can; but it seems to me the sea is coming in, and it ain't pleasant to be lying in a pool of water."

"Oh, I don't care. I'm too heavy to be carried on your knee; I can manage where I am. Do you think that we shall drown?"

"I don't know; the tide is rising still; it's full at midnight, but we're a good way from that, I fancy, yet." Again the water came, quite in a torrent now; it splashed upon Pollyon's legs. "Come, Duke, this will not do; you must come upon my knee. Never mind the weight; it's the pain I'm thinking of to you."

"Never mind the pain; it will not hurt at all; it just feels as though I had not anything--neither hands nor feet nor anything; but I'm such a heavy brute--you'll have enough of me ere long."

But Lionel was not to be dissuaded. He put his arms beneath Tregowan, and raised him as gently as he could. He himself sat down in the water, with his back against the wall, and laid Duke's head upon his shoulder, and held him in his arms, so that he was high and dry above the water; and in that position they remained a time.

"It feels as though it were a dream," and Duke spoke as though he were speaking in a dream, "and as though soon I shall wake up and find that everything is gone. Is it a dream, Pollyon?"

"A nightmare--that's more the style of it, my boy, and a pretty bad one too at that."

"It doesn't seem like that to me. I feel as though I were at rest, and everything were going well with me. I feel as though I were so near to God that no one ever yet was nearer. I feel somehow as though I could almost see Him. Don't you think that on Christmas Eve we may be nearer to God than at any other time in all the year?"

"We're very near to Him just now, and it's quite upon the cards that soon we may be nearer still. Duke, you're not afraid, old boy?"

"Afraid! when did a Tregowan know anything of fear?" There was a flash of his old pride in the words; but he came back to his newer tone again. "Of what should I be afraid? Do you think that I am going to die? Is that why God seems to be so very near? It was a good thing you told me about the halfway house. I could not have died as I was then, but now all things seem to have turned out so well."

Lionel held his peace. Duke, as he had said, was no slight weight; his bearer's arms were cramped, and all his limbs ached beneath his burden. By now, too, the water was coming in faster than ever; it was six inches deep. If he wished to raise Duke from out its reach, he would have to stand up, and do his best to hold him in an upright position. This he explained, and Duke, who seemed to regard the whole affair as of no consequence at all, told him to do exactly as he would. So Lionel struggled to his feet with Duke still in his arms. He put his back against the wall, so that there might be something to relieve him of at least a portion of the weight, and holding Tregowan as a mother holds her babe, he waited there for whatever might befall.

"Do you know a prayer?" asked Marmaduke, still in the same calm and contented tone.

"Can you not pray?" said Pollyon between his teeth, for the physical anguish was almost as much as he could bear. Duke's injuries were evidently of a kind which had numbed his faculties and left him in a semi-unconscious state; while the life was yet hot and strong in Lionel, and he could not look forward with equanimity to being drowned like a rat in a hole.

"Our Father," began Duke, in reply to Lionel's inquiry, "which art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done in earth as it is done in heaven." And so on to the end. And when he had finished, Lionel took up the strain upon his own account, and in a tone very different to Duke's, every word wrung from a heart which was filled to the brim with agony.

"Save us boys, O Lord, from death this night. Not for our sakes only, but also for those at home. But, O Lord, if it is Thy will that we should die, let death come quick, and take me before this thing is more than I can bear."

But still the waters rose. They were up to Pollyon's knees, they reached almost to his thigh. And as the sea came dashing in, it fell sometimes on the lads, and, breaking upon their heads, blinded them with spray.

"I wonder," said Tregowan once, when the waves had used them in this fashion, "how it will be if there is no sea in heaven? I cannot understand happiness away from winds and waves for ever."

But Lionel made no reply. He was in no mood to enter on those subtleties. His jaw was tightly clenched; the muscles of his face and body stood out like ropes drawn taut. His senses were fast failing him; there was a film before his eyes. By degrees he was only conscious of one desire, and that was, at any cost, to hold Tregowan above the rising waters. He was careless of himself. With a sort of grim irony he asked God to give him strength that it might be useful to his friend. The minutes passed. Still the waters rose. They had reached his waist. They surged to and fro so violently that it was with difficulty he could keep his footing. Tregowan was in his arms. He stuck with the strength of desperation with his back against the wall, looking death steadfastly in the face. With the noise of the waters mingled Duke's babbling; both rang without ceasing in his ears.

"Duke, old boy," he said at last, "I guess it's nearly done. We'll be with God ere long. Our Christmas'll be spent with Him. If I had only known it was to come to this, how different it would have been! It will be hard upon your mother, Duke, old boy, and upon my people too." His voice died away as he spoke of his people.

"I'd like to have said good-bye to the mother," was all Duke seemed to have to say; and he repeated it, "I'd like to have said good-bye to the mother." Suddenly Pollyon stooped and kissed him. "Lionel! Lionel! how good a friend you've been!"

But Pollyon replied with a return of his own manner--

"I don't suppose it's any use for us to say good-bye. It's like our luck. We can't even indulge in the sweet sentiment of parting, for we shall both be off together."

But then the human nature which was in him got the better of his assumption of sarcastic indifference, and he cried with an exceeding bitter cry, "Oh, I wish the tide were at the full! I wish the tide were at the full! It is hard to die in such a hole as this."

And while even yet the words went up the shaft the sound of bells broke out upon the air. It was the peal at Gwithian Church hard by, telling all men that it was the midnight hour, and that already another Christmas was born into the world. For it was Christmas morning, and the tide was at the full.