Читать книгу The Perfect World - Ella M. Scrymsour - Страница 6

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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 with detectives; 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 had befallen 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. So once more a casualty list was sent out, and this time was headed by the name

“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 superstition came 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 trust himself 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? Cambridge came 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.”