CHAPTER IIITHE LIGHT
The London papers were burning with excitement. Marshfielden had at last become known to the vast, outside world, for the disappearance of so many of its inhabitants could no longer be hidden under a veil. After the vicar was found to be missing, Mr. Dickson at the mine made Slater promise to report the matter to the Kiltown police—the nearest constabulary to Marshfielden.
The detective officer and his men came over and pompously took notes and asked voluminous questions, but after a fortnight’s search came no nearer solving the mystery. Then one of the constables disappeared too, and Sergeant Alken thought it was high time to report the matter to Scotland Yard.
Detective Inspector Vardon, the shrewdest, cleverest man at the Yard, came down immediately, and at once sent for Alan and Desmond Forsyth. He had been working out a theory coming down in the train and these two young men were very closely connected with it.
But after his first interview with them, he realized that his suspicions were entirely wrong, and knew he must look elsewhere for a clue. Alan told the full story without any hesitation whatsoever and explained how they themselves had suffered over the “Curse.”
“Pooh Pooh!” laughed Vardon “We will leave the ‘Curse’ out of the question. These mysteries are caused by no witchcraft, but by a clever, cunning brain.”
“Do you really think so?” asked Desmond.
“Of course,” and Alan gave a sigh of relief as hemurmured, “you don’t know how that has relieved me. I was beginning to get quite a horror of the unknown.”
“Of course it’s an uncanny case,” went on the Inspector, “but we’ll solve the problem yet.” Then he added laughingly, “I came down here prepared to suspect you two young gentlemen.”
“Us? Why?”
“Well, all these mysteries occurred after you arrived here, and I found you were none too popular with the natives.”
Desmond was indignant, but Vardon soon cooled him down. “See here, my dear sir. It’s my business to suspect everybody until I convince myself of his innocence. I know now I was mistaken—therefore I have been candid with you.”
The inquiries lasted some time, and every day brought some fresh disaster in its wake, filling the little village with misery and consternation, and the London editors’ pockets with gold. Sightseers and tourists came galore to the stricken place, and the carrier between Marshfielden and Kiltown reaped a small fortune from the curious. Every day the papers recounted some fresh loss—perhaps a cow or a pig, but often a human life. Women kept inside their homes, and even the men folk walked about in pairs, so that they could help each other should the “unknown” fall upon them.
The two boys still worked in the mine, and the men, realizing at last that they were not the instigators of all the trouble, admitted them, charily enough at first, into their lives again.
Alan and Desmond were quite happy with Mrs. Warren, but missed Mr. Winthrop’s kindly advice and friendship greatly. No trace of him had ever been found, and a younger man now took his parochial duties. Amateur detectives swarmed about the place, but the villagers in a body refused shelter to every one. Even the police officials themselves had to pitch tents in fields near by for their own use, as no bribe was high enough to obtain accommodation for them. Inspector Vardon was beginning to get disheartened; he hadformed many theories during his stay, but upon minute investigation they all fell to pieces.
Walking away from the village one day, his hands behind his back and his head sunk upon his breast, deep in thought, he was suddenly awakened from his reverie by the sound of groans. Hedges were on either side of him, but he vaulted over the one from whence the sounds came.
There lay a sheep, its wool burnt away and its body scorched. He examined the helpless creature in pity, and the poor beast breathed his last. He was distinctly puzzled. There was no sign of fire anywhere at all—the poor animal alone had been hurt.
He pondered for a moment, and the thought came into his mind that perhaps this was a sequel to the strange disappearances and mysteries he had been trying to unravel—but after a moment, he cast the thought aside as being impossible, and decided that the accident must have been caused by a passer-by throwing away a match or a lighted cigarette, so he hurried across the fields to tell the farmer of his loss. That night, however, he had cause to think more deeply over the mishap to the sheep.
About six in the evening Ezra Meakin and a companion set out for Kiltown. They intended to stay the night there and come back by the carrier in the morning. At eight a shrieking, demented man came flying into Marshfielden, and fell in a heap across the steps that led up to the church.
Matt Harding was near and ran to his aid.
“Good God, it’s Ezra!” he cried.
It was indeed, but a very different Ezra from the one who had left Marshfielden only two hours before. His clothes were scorched and his hair singed, while great blisters, that could have been caused only by excessive heat, marred his face.
“What has come over ye, lad?” asked Matt in concern.
“The fire! The fire!” cried Ezra hysterically. “It’s taken Luke—he’s gone,” and with the words he lapsed into unconsciousness.
Matt lifted him up in his strong arms, and bore himto the nearest cottage. “Fetch the Inspector,” said he curtly as he busied himself in trying to restore life to the inanimate form on the bed. At length he succeeded—a tremor passed through the body; the hands unclasped; the eyelids fluttered slightly. Then the lids slowly moved, and Matt stared down in horror at the wide open eyes. Blindly he stumbled out of the room, and fell into the arms of the Inspector.
“What’s the matter?” asked Vardon.
Matt looked at him stupidly for a moment, and then gave a harsh, mirthless laugh. “Ezra—he’s—he’s—”
“Yes?”
“He’s blind.”
“Blind?”
Matt Harding could say no more, but sank down on to a chair and buried his head in his hands.
For a week Ezra lay delirious, and it was even longer than that before any one could get his story from him. When it came, it was disjointed and almost incoherent. After he and Luke Wilden had walked about a mile, he told them, they suddenly saw in the distance something that looked like a red hot wire on the horizon. Dancing and swaying it drew nearer to them, and fascinated they watched to see what it could possibly be.
Then suddenly, before they realized, it was upon them. It swooped down and coiled around Luke’s body, and carried him off into mid-air. As he tried to drag Luke from its clutches, the end of it, in curling around Luke still more firmly, struck him, and burnt and blinded him. He remembered no more; everything grew dim, and he fled down the long, straight road towards the village, instinct guiding him in place of his sight.
Every one heard the story incredulously, and it duly appeared in the London newspapers, and tended to make the “Marshfielden Mystery” as it was called, still more complicated and unfathomable.
Ezra recovered from the shock, but his eyesight was gone forever.
“Destroyed by fire,” was the verdict of the eminent specialist who was called in to diagnose his case.
The story of the “Light” grew daily more terrifying. School children declared they saw it from the windows of their class-rooms, and when closely questioned about it, declared it was “a golden streak of fire, as thin as wire, that came rushing through the sky like lightning.”
Then men began to watch for it, but somehow it seemed to evade most of them, and for some time, solitary statements were all that could be obtained with reference to it.
“What do you make of it, Alan?” asked Desmond one day, after it had been seen by three different witnesses at the same time and in the same direction.
“I don’t know. Every one is not a liar, and at the same time every one cannot suffer from a like optical delusion. Every one who has seen this phenomenon agrees in every detail about its appearance.”
“Yes, even the children,” supplemented Desmond.
“Let’s go for a walk,” yawned his cousin. “I feel very tired to-day.”
Mrs. Warren watched them going toward the gate with apprehension in her eyes, and just as they were about to pass through, she rushed to the door. “Be you agoin’ out? Oh, do’ant ’ee go—do’ant ’ee—not to-night! I be afeared—mortal afeared.”
“Oh, we’ll take care of ourselves,” laughed Desmond. “Don’t you worry.”
“But I’m afeared.” She shivered as she spoke—but the boys laughed as they walked toward the Corlot Woods, a favourite spot of theirs.
As they crossed the stile leading to the path across the fields, they heard a dog crying pitifully. Alan, always tender-hearted towards dumb animals, stopped and looked round. Again came the mournful cry. “I think it must be across the way,” said Desmond. Alan crossed the road, and then called out to his cousin.
“It’s Slater’s pup”—he bent over it closely—“Why its leg is broken and its fur is singed,” he added in an awe-struck tone.
A rustling sounded behind him—an intense heat that nearly stifled him; he heard a sudden shriek—a groan.
Once more the “Light” had found its prey. Alan was alone!
“Come at once. Something terrible has happened to Dez. Don’t delay. Alan.”
Such was the telegram that Sir John Forsyth received upon arriving at his office the day after Desmond’s disappearance. The two boys had kept him fully posted with all the news at Marshfielden. But as he always prided himself upon his strong common sense, he laughed with the boys at the suggestion that the “Curse” was responsible for the strange happenings in the little Derbyshire village.
His face blanched as he read the message, and instinctively he thought of the “Curse,” yet put the thought aside as quickly as it came.
Masters, his confidential secretary, almost friend, looked at him pityingly.
“I am going to Marshfielden,” announced Sir John.
“Shall I come with you?” asked Masters.
“Yes, Masters, I shall need you.”
“An express leaves for Derby in half an hour,” went on Masters. “If we book there, I can ’phone through for a car to meet us and motor us direct to Grimland.”
“Yes! Yes! You arrange,” and Sir John, who had grown as many years old as minutes had passed since he had had the news, sat with his teeth chattering and his limbs trembling.
“A motor car will be waiting for us at Derby,” announced Masters as they took their seats in the train.
At last the whistle sounded, the flag waved, and the great engine snorted violently as it left the station.
Sir John, in his anguish of mind, was unable to sit still; up and down the corridor he walked until the passengers began to pity his white, strained face, and wondered what his trouble could be. Derby at last! Then followed a mad ride to Grimland. Alan was awaiting his Uncle at the pit head; he had not attempted to go to bed since the “Light” had taken Desmondfrom his side. Silently they gripped hands, and Sir John entered the little office and heard the whole story.
Alan wound up by saying, “Even as I tell the story, it seems almost incredible. As I turned round I saw Desmond in mid-air, with, it seemed, a fiery wire about him—and as I looked he vanished from sight.”
Sir John was determined not to look upon it as witchcraft.
“It’s man’s devilry, I’ll be bound,” said he. “I’ll swear it’s not supernatural. Get all the scientists down—let them make investigations. I’ll pay handsomely, but discover the secret I will.”
The men, when they realized that Desmond had disappeared, were shamefaced, and came to Mrs. Warren’s cottage to offer their sympathy. They tried to atone for their past conduct, by inviting both Alan and his Uncle to stay in Marshfielden. But Alan refused. “No, we’ll stay here,” said he. “Mrs. Warren has made me very comfortable. But perhaps we’ll come and visit Marshfielden, if we may, and do our utmost to discover the perpetrator of this diabolical plot.”
“Aye, do ’ee sur, do ’ee,” said the men, and Alan felt strangely cheered by their friendship.
Sir John stayed with Alan for a fortnight, but as others had disappeared, so had Desmond, and no trace of him could be found. It was necessary for Sir John to return to town, in order that he might keep his business appointments and he asked Alan to accompany him.
“I curse the day I ever sent you to Grimland,” said he over and over again.
“Don’t upset yourself so, Uncle John! How could anyone have foreseen such a calamity. No, I’ll stay here, and perhaps I may be the means of unravelling the mystery.”
Police from the Continent, detectives from America, Asiatic wizards and sorcerers all came to Marshfielden—but none solved the mystery. For days no one stirred out of doors, and when at length they did so, it was with faltering steps and bated breath. No one knew who would be the next victim of thestrange power that pervaded the place. Summer came again! A year had passed and left its mark on the once peaceful English village. Many white crosses adorned the little churchyard, but of all the new ones, few really marked the last resting place of those whose names they bore. A tiny tombstone in the far corner, under a weeping ash, named the spot consecrated to the memory of little Jimmie Murlock, the first victim of the “Light”.
Moll Murlock had gone out of her mind. The shock had turned her brain,—and when, one after another, she learned of the tragedies that were daily coming on the little village, her senses left her entirely, and she was taken to the Kiltown asylum. Dan lived alone, in the little cottage, his hair snow white, and his features old and wrinkled; and none of his comrades dared recall the past to his mind. The new vicar who had taken Mr. Winthrop’s place was very unpopular, and on Sundays the church was nearly half empty. Fear had turned their thoughts from Heaven, and while men openly cursed their God, the women whispered their curses in their hearts.
Inspector Vardon was still investigating, but his reports to the Yard were all the same. “Nothing further to hand” and then came the day when he added “Fear this is beyond me” and the chiefs looked at each other in dismay, as they feared it would remain one of the unsolved mysteries of the day. They had no shrewder or cleverer man in their employ than Marcus Vardon.
Then the “Light” suddenly disappeared. No more losses were reported, things went on more calmly, and women began to go out of doors more freely. Children returned to school, and Marshfielden had become almost normal again. For two months there were no casualties, and people hoped that the evil influence had departed for good, or burnt itself out.
And the next Sunday the new clergyman addressed from his pulpit a full church. The people had once more come to the house of God for comfort and to return Him thanks for the cessation of the pasthorrors. And his voice shook as he gave out his text, from the one hundred and twenty-first psalm:—
“The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil; the Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in, from this time forth for ever more.”
CHAPTER IVTHE OUTLET
For over six months Marshfielden was unvisited by the “Light”. The inhabitants were settling down and work had begun again in earnest. Alan had been promoted second overseer at the mine, and as he had a firm way with the men, those under him worked diligently and well. Traces of sorrow were left on every one’s face. It was impossible to eradicate them in a few months; years would not wipe away the affliction that had come into their lives.
The little village was opened up now. Motors traversed its cobbled streets, and the inhabitants so far allowed themselves to become “modernized” that the sign “Teas provided here” could be seen in nearly every cottage window down the street.
The influx of so many strangers made them forget the “Curse” and as once they believed in it, now they believed just as firmly that the disasters that had come upon them were wrought by some human agency. These six months of peace and quiet they hoped were precursors of the future. Inspector Vardon left the place, and nothing remained outwardly to remind them of the terrible past.
Then suddenly they woke up once more to sorrow. Two horses were found to be missing, and with them the little stable boy who tended them. The “Light” had returned!
Once more voices were hushed and heads were shaken gravely, as every one talked of the tragedy. A week passed, then Mrs. Skeet disappeared, and a few days later Mary Slater. The place swarmed again withdetectives; the papers were again alive with the renewal of the tragedies.
The men in the mine worked silently; the only thing to break the stillness was the sound of the picks on the coal seams, or the running of the trolleys up and down the roads. Each feared to think of the horror that might await him when he reached his home at the end of his day’s work.
The dinner hour came round, and each man sat silent and glum, eating his bread and meat, and uttering only a monosyllable now and again to his particular chum.
Suddenly there came a dull roar; the men rose to their feet in haste. They knew only too well that ominous sound—it was familiar to them all.
Mr. Dickson appeared, his face ashen. “An explosion in the South Road,” said he. “Rescue parties to work at once.”
In an instant everything was forgotten but the one desire to help their brothers in distress. With picks and ropes and lanterns they hurried down the main road, just at the bend of which a sheet of flame flared out suddenly, entirely enveloping the first man, and setting his clothing on fire.
In vain they played on the flames—it was useless. The fire had gained too much power. The rescuers were forced back to the cage at the bottom of the shaft, and all had to seek refuge above. Another sorrow had come upon the people of Marshfielden—their cup was full to overflowing as it was, yet Tragedy, the Humourist, was not yet content with his handiwork.
For two days the fire raged, and the willing rescuers were helpless in the face of such odds; on the third it quieted sufficiently to enable a rescue party to descend. Gradually they fought the flames, but not a trace remained of the men who had been caught like rats in a trap when the first explosion came. So Marshfielden was again in mourning, and broken-hearted widows and fatherless children went to the touching little memorial service that was arranged for the lost ones.
Alan was horror-stricken at the calamity that hadbefallen the mine. The thought of the men who had been burnt to death preyed on his mind; it was his first experience of such an accident, and it left upon him an indelible mark.
The mine was once more in working order, and he was doing some accounts in the office below, when a voice startled him. It was the voice of Mr. Dickson, and very grave.
“Go at once to the third shaft, Forsyth,” said he. “The telephone has failed, and Daniels has reported that there is something wrong with the air pumps there.”
“What? In the lower engine house?”
“Yes. We can get no further information. Make a careful examination, and if you suspect any danger, order the shift off and close the gates.”
“Very good,” and Alan, glad to have something to do that would occupy his mind, left the office, and jumped on to one of the empty trolleys that was being run by the cable to the second shaft, and would take him very near his destination. At the second shaft there were anxious faces.
“Something wrong at number three shaft, sir,” said one of the men. “Daniels ’phoned us, but before he could tell us anything definite, the connections broke down.”
“Thanks,” said Alan shortly. “How many men are working there?”
“None, sir. They’ve not been working it to-day. Daniels and two other men have been inspecting a bulge that has appeared in the roof, and were arranging to have it fixed up with supports.” Mechanically Alan walked down the low road that led to the third shaft. He pushed aside the heavy tarpaulins that hung across the roadways, and kept the current of air from flowing in the wrong direction, and as he passed through each one, he sniffed the air eagerly.
At last! The sickly, choking smell came up from the distance. It was one he knew and feared—a noxious gas. The roof became very low, and Alan had almost to crawl on his hands and knees, for there was no room for him to stand upright. Cramped,aching, he made his way along the narrow roadway. Suddenly he gave a sigh of relief; the roof rose to perhaps ten feet, and the road widened out into a vault-like chamber, perhaps twenty feet square. He heard a cry in the distance. “Help! Help!” It was Daniels—Daniels who came stumbling in and fell on the ground before him.
“Mr. Forsyth,” he muttered, “run—save yourself—Rutter is dead—The gas is terrible. There’s danger,” and even as he spoke there came a dull roar and a flash, a terrible sound of falling—and Alan realized that the little chamber had indeed become a vault, for the force of the explosion had made the walls on either side cave in, and the entrance at each end was blocked up completely.
“Too late,” murmured Daniels weakly. “I couldn’t get here before.” He fumbled at his belt, and Alan bent over him gently. “Water—water,” he cried, and Alan unfastened the basket that was slung across his shoulders, and took from it a bottle of cold tea.
But even as he put it to the lips of the sick man, there came another roar in the distance, and Daniels fell back—dead.
Once more the dreaded sound was heard—once more an explosion had occurred in the mine. This time there was little fire—only water—water everywhere.
“Where is Mr. Alan?” asked the manager hoarsely. “Has he returned from the third shaft?”
“No, sir.”
“Then he is in the midst of the danger. Rescue parties at once.” But all these efforts were in vain. It was water this time—water that drove the men back to the mouth of the pit.
Pumps were put in order, and for hours the men worked to clear the mine, but when at last they were able to get near the spot where the accident took place—they, as they feared, found no trace of Alan.
From the second shaft the mine was in such a complete state of wreckage and ruin, that it would take weeks before it was even possible to get near the third shaft and the original scene of the disaster. Soonce more a casualty list was sent out, and this time was headed by the name
“Alan Forsyth”.
“Alan Forsyth”.
“Alan Forsyth”.
“Alan Forsyth”.
Sir John heard the news with a set face. First Desmond, now Alan had been taken from him.
“Don’t take it so to heart, Mr. Dickson,” said he kindly. “The boy was doing his duty when death overtook him.”
“I am broken-hearted, Sir John,” said Mr. Dickson. “I feel that it was I who drove him to his doom. If I hadn’t sent him to the third shaft that day, he would be with us still.”
“It is fate,” said Sir John simply.
But when he reached his office next day, he told Masters to get him his will from the safe. With trembling fingers he tore it across, threw the pieces in the fire and watched it burn. Then he said quietly, “I must make a new will, Masters. But to whom shall I leave my money? There is no one to follow me now.” Suddenly he took up pen and paper and wrote hurriedly. “Fetch a clerk, Masters,” said he, and when a clerk appeared he added quietly, “I want you both to witness my signature to my will,” and with firm fingers wrote his name, and passed the paper over to Masters, making no effort to hide what he had written.
And Masters’ eyes grew dim as he read—
“Everything I possess to the ‘Miners’ Fund’ for widows and orphans, rendered such by accidents in the mine.”
When Alan recovered from the shock of the explosion, he found his lamp was still burning dimly, and felt that he had a dull ache in his legs. He was covered with débris from head to foot and stifling from the dust and powdered coal that was all about. With difficulty he extricated himself, and realized that Daniels was completely buried.
Alone in the little chamber, a feeling akin to superstitioncame over him, and he moved away from the silent form, now shrouded in coal. Scarcely realizing the hopeless position he was in, he leant back, and closing his eyes, his worn out nerves gave way, and he fell asleep. He woke up with a start some hours later; his watch had stopped and he had no idea of the time. Madness seemed to be coming over him; his face was flushed, his head throbbed. He was ravenously hungry, and crossed to the dead man’s side and searched about until he found the basket that contained Daniel’s untouched dinner, and the bottle of cold tea. There was not a great deal of food—half a loaf, several thick slices of beef, a piece of cheese and some homemade apple tart.
Alan ate sparingly, for although his stomach clamoured for more, he realized that not yet was his greatest hour of need, and that later on he would need the food still more.
When he had finished, he took up a pick and wildly struck at the blocked exit, but only the echoes replied, laughing at his impotence. Flinging his tool down he buried his head in his hands and sobbed in bitter despair. His convulsive outburst left him calmer, and he began for the first time to think out a plan of escape. He knew that rescue parties would be working hard for his release—but could they reach him in time?
There was around him a death-like stillness, and he realized that the buried cavern was far from the bottom of the shaft. Then he suddenly wondered where the air came from. There must be an inlet somewhere, he thought, for the air he was breathing, although stuffy, was quite pure. He walked round the walled up chamber—round and round—but there was nowhere a weak spot. He sat down and tried to think coherently, and laughed aloud in his agony, as he wondered whether he would go mad. He looked up suddenly, and in his weakness imagined that the roof was trying to dance with the floor. He tottered round the place, hardly able to keep his feet in his wild fancy that the floor was moving, and laughed hysterically as he knocked against a jutting piece of coal, and thought the roof had got him at last. Then he quieted a little,and in the semi-darkness the dead figure of Daniels seemed to rise from the place where it lay, and point at him a menacing finger.
In terror, Alan backed to the further side of the little chamber, his eyes distorted, his limbs trembling. He watched the figure come nearer—nearer—its long claw-like fingers were almost on his flesh—“Ah!” he shrieked—the fingers were touching him with a cold, slimy touch. He felt impelled to move forward—with the forefinger of the dead man pressed to his forehead. He walked fearfully onward—then his overwrought brain gave way entirely, and with another wild shriek, he fell to the floor in merciful unconsciousness.
When he recovered, his dimmed senses hid from him much of the past. His fever had abated, but he longed for water. His mouth was parched. He crawled feebly to the basket where the dead Daniels had kept his food, and drew out the bottle of tea. There was very little left, but enough to take away the first keen edge of his thirst. A torn newspaper that had been used to wrap up some of the food rustled slightly. It startled him and he looked round nervously. Again it moved, and seemed to be lifted up by some unseen hand.
He watched it fascinated, then suddenly his face lighted up. “A draught,” he cried triumphantly. “Then it is from that direction I must try and secure my release!” With renewed energy he began to pick at the coal, in the fast dimming light of his lantern. Tirelessly he worked, until success met his efforts and he had made a hole big enough to crawl through, whence came the sound of rushing waters.
He lifted his lantern above his head in his endeavour to discover where he was, and its feeble rays shone upon a swiftly flowing, subterranean river that disappeared through a tunnel on either side. The place he was in was very small and had no outlet except by way of the water.
The river was narrow, perhaps four feet wide at the most, but with a current so strong that Alan, good swimmer though he was, would not have dared trusthimself to its cruel-looking depths. Mechanically he dropped into the water a lump of coal. There was a slight splash—but no sound came to tell him that it had reached the bottom. He felt in his pockets, and found half a ball of string. Tying a piece of coal to one end he dropped it into the rapids, but his arm was up to his shoulder in the river, and yet the coal had not touched the bottom.
He looked at the water curiously, and dabbled his fingers in the brackish fluid. Suddenly a pain in his hand made him draw it out quickly, and by the light of the lantern he saw it was covered with blood. As he wiped it clean he saw the impression of two teeth on his first and third fingers. Slowly his lips moved and he murmured—“There is animal life in this river then—I wonder whither it leads—can there be humanity near too?”
His lantern was nearly out, and by its dying rays he tried frantically to fashion himself a raft, upon which he could trust himself to the waters. A trolley, smashed by the force of the explosion, lay near him. The wheels had been wrenched off and it was all in pieces. He looked at it carefully. The bottom piece was intact with half of one end still in position. He examined it critically. Would it float? Well he must risk that. He thought it would, and the end piece would serve as a hold to keep him on safely.
He was feeling faint—he ate the remains of his food, and with a reverent glance at the place where Daniels lay, he pushed the plank out on to the seething waters. Lightly he jumped on it himself, and, with a tight grip on the projecting pieces of wood, gave himself up to the mercy of the torrent.
His lantern went out; the darkness was intense; there was no sound but the lashing of the waters and the drumming of the raft against the sides of the tunnel. The current was swifter than anything he had ever known. The water just tore along at a breakneck speed, lashed over the frail raft and drenched Alan to the skin. He was faint. In a dim way he thought of his life—how empty it had been. Where was Desmond—and Uncle John? Cambridgecame before his eyes, and he could almost see the serene picture of the “backs” with their quaint bridges and fields beyond.
He felt stiff. Mechanically he held on to the raft, even when his senses left him; and the frail wood with its worn burden of humanity, rushed on, down into the depths, carried by the river that was descending lower and lower through the earth.
Suddenly the raft gave a still more violent jerk, and Alan awoke to life once more. The rapids were over at last, and he was drifting along in waters that were as sluggish now as before they had been fast.
The tunnel widened, and he was aware that the intense blackness had gone, and in its place there was a purplish light that was soothing to his aching eyes. As the tunnel began to widen out, a path branched off at either side of the water.
The raft drifted on and at last found a harbour in a little, natural bay hollowed out in the bank. Alan stepped on land at last, his senses reeling. He had no idea of the time that had passed since he first started on that strange journey, and he felt hungry, weak and tired.
Slowly he walked along the river bank, and the purple lights grew stronger—then voices came upon his ear, and as he eagerly bent forward toward the unknown that faced him, above in Marshfielden, the clergyman was saying—
“And for the soul of Alan Forsyth—lately dead.”
“And for the soul of Alan Forsyth—lately dead.”
“And for the soul of Alan Forsyth—lately dead.”
“And for the soul of Alan Forsyth—lately dead.”