Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

THE PERFECT WORLD
A ROMANCE OF STRANGE PEOPLE AND STRANGE PLACES

BY

ELLA SCRYMSOUR

LONDON

EVELEIGH NASH & GRAYSON LTD.

148 STRAND

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY

THE NORTHUMBERLAND PRESS LTD., THORNTON STREET, NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE

To

MY TWO DEAR ONES

CONTENTS

BOOK I
THE OLD WORLD
(Before the War)

THE PERFECT WORLD

CHAPTER I
STRANGERS COME TO MARSHFIELDEN

An English summer! The birds sang merrily, and the trees bowed their heads, keeping time with the melody. The breeze whispered its accompaniment, and all the glades and woods were happy.

Marshfielden was, perhaps, one of the prettiest villages in Derbyshire. Nestling among the peaks of that lovely county, its surroundings were most picturesque. Its straggling street, for it had but one, was unspoiled by tripper or tourist, for its charms were unknown to the outside world. The road was cobbled, and boasted of no pavement, and long gardens, shining with marigolds and nasturtiums, reached down to each side of it, forming frames to the pretty, irregular little cottages with their gables and latticed windows.

The little church at the top of the street finished the picture. It was very tiny, holding only about one hundred and fifty people; but with its ivy-covered towers, and picturesque little graveyard, the vicar was a lucky man to have charge of such a place. Unmarried and friendless he had come to Marshfielden forty years before, and had lodged with Mrs. Skeet, the cobbler’s wife. Still he remained, having grown old in the service of his people.

It was a well-known fact, that “our vicar” as Mr. Winthrop was called, had during all that time never left the precincts of the parish. Children had grown up and gone away married; old people had died; but still Mr. Winthrop went on in his kind, fatherly manner, advising those who sought the benefit of his wisdom, helping those who needed his aid, and still living in the little rooms he had rented when first he came to Marshfielden, a stranger.

Marshfielden was about seven miles off the main road. As they would have to reach it by narrow lanes and rutted roads, motorists never came its way, and it retained its old-world simplicity.

Two miles to the south was a coal mine, in which most of the villagers toiled. It was quite an unimportant one, and not very deep, but it gave employment to all the natives who needed work. Strange as it seems, however, by an unwritten law, not one of the villagers entered Marshfielden in his collier dirt or collier garb. Every one of the men changed his clothes at “Grimland” as the mine district was called, and washed away the coal dust and dirt; so in the evening, when they made their way in a body to their homes, they returned as fresh and clean as they had left them in the morning.

It was, therefore, an ideal place to live in and as old Mr. Winthrop walked down the uneven street, his eyes dimmed and his thoughts were tender as he acknowledged first one, then another of his flock.

He stopped at the gate of a pretty, white cottage with a well kept garden full of sweet-smelling flowers, and greeted the woman who stood at the gate.

She was quite young and pretty, and maternal love and pride glowed in her face as she gently crooned over the sleeping babe at her breast.

“And how’s Jimmy, Mrs. Slater?” he asked.

“Very well indeed, sir, thank you.”

“And you—how are you feeling?”

“Quite all right again, now, sir.”

“That’s right. And your husband?”

“Yes, sir, he’s had a rise at the mine.”

Mr. Winthrop smiled and was about to pass on, when he noticed an underlying current of excitement in the woman’s manner. He looked at her curiously.

“What is the matter, Mrs. Slater?” he asked.

“Have you heard the news, sir?”

“No. What news?”

“I be agoin’ to have lodgers.”

“Really?”

“Well I heard only last night, sir. Bill—he came home and said as ’ow Mr. Dickson, the manager at the mine, had heard from Sir John Forsyth—”

“The new owner of Grimland?” queried Mr. Winthrop.

“Yes, sir. Well, he said as ’ow Sir John wanted both his nephews to go to the mine and learn the practical working of it—and Mr. Dickson was to find them rooms near by.”

“Well?”

“Well, Mr. Dickson knows as ’ow my ’ome is clean—” and Mrs. Slater looked around her little cottage with an air of pride.

“And ’e asks Bill if I would take them.”

“And so you are going to?”

The woman looked round her fearfully. “I’ve a spare bedroom, sir, which I’ve cleaned up, and they can have my parlour. But fancy, sir, two strangers in Marshfielden!”

“It will liven things up,” remarked the vicar “we’ve never had strangers to live here since I came—now over forty years ago.”

“No, sir, nor before that,” went on the woman in a low tone. “My grandmother used to speak of two ladies who came to Marshfielden when she was a little girl. Artists they were, and strangers. The clergyman’s wife put them up—and—and—”

“Yes?” urged Mr. Winthrop gently.

“Well, sir, they were both found dead one day, stiff and cold, sir, outside the ruins of the Priory. They had been painting, and their easels were left standing—but they were dead.”

“What has that to do with the case?” asked the vicar with a little smile.

“Don’t you see, sir,” she went on quickly, the same half-scared look coming into her eyes, “that was the ‘Curse’ that caused those mishaps, and I am afraid the ‘Curse’ will be on the two young gentlemen, too.”

“Nonsense,” laughed Mr. Winthrop, “You don’t really believe that the ‘Marshfielden Curse’ as you people call it, had anything to do with the deaths of those two lady artists that occurred over fifty years ago?”

“Indeed I do, sir,” averred the woman. “Why ever since the Priory was dismantled by Henry the Eighth, the ‘Curse’ has been on this place. That wasn’t the only case, sir. There are records of many others—but that was the last.”

“Let me see,” began the vicar, “It’s so long since I even heard it mentioned, that I’ve forgotten what it was.”

The woman’s face contracted as if she was afraid of something, she knew not what, but of something mystic, intangible, uncanny—and she repeated slowly:

When the eighth Henry fair Marshfielden’s monastery took,

Its priory as a palace, its vast income to his privy purse,—

The outcast prior solemnly, by candle, bell and book

Upon this place for ever laid this interdict and curse:

From now until the end of time,

Whene’er a stranger come

Unto Marshfielden’s pleasaunces,

To make therein his home,

Troubles—disease—misfortunes—death—

Upon the spot shall fall.

So—an’ Marshfielden folks ye’d swell

With fair prosperity, and safely dwell,

All strangers from your gates expel,

And live cut off from all.

The vicar laughed. “Yes, it’s a pretty legend, Mrs. Slater, but remember this is the twentieth century, and nothing is likely to happen to Marshfielden, its inhabitants or its visitors, because of that. Why, I was a stranger when I came, yet nothing very terrible has happened to me during these last forty years.”

“Ah, sir, you don’t count. I mean, sir, you belong to the Priory; you are our priest. You wouldn’t come under the ‘Curse’ sir.”

“And neither will any one else, Mrs. Slater. It’s a stupid legend.—Have no fear.”

“But,” began Mrs. Slater. “How do you account for the case of—” But Mr. Winthrop lifted up a deprecatory hand.

“I cannot listen to any more, Mrs. Slater.” And a note of authority came into his voice. “Why, all this is against the religion I preach to you—never listen to tales of superstition. Have no fear, do the best you can for the two young gentlemen, and I think I can promise you that no harm will come to them or you.”

The woman shook her head, and disbelief shone in her eyes. The vicar saw it, and smiled again.

“Well, well! It remains to be proved that I am right,” said he.

“It remains to be proved, which of us is right, sir.”

“Very well, we’ll leave it at that. When do they arrive?”

“About six this evening, sir; the usual time when the men come home.”

“I will call in this evening then, and welcome them. Good-bye, Mrs. Slater, and don’t go listening to or spreading idle gossip!” And the kindly old man went away down the street.

That evening, when the bell rang to denote the return of the men-folk, every door was occupied by an eager face, anxious not only to catch sight of the two strangers, but also to take another look at the woman who had dared to defy the “Marshfielden Curse.”

For in this little village the “Curse” was a real, poignant fact, and was spoken of in the twilight with hushed tones and furtive glances. Children were quieted and terrified by it, and the fear imbibed by them in their childhood grew with them till their death. Not one of them but Mary Slater would have risked its anger by allowing a stranger to sleep beneath her roof; and even Mary, although outwardly calm, was inwardly terrified lest her action might be the means of bringing disaster and misery, not only on her two lodgers, but on the whole little community.

Dan Murlock, the husband of the little woman at the corner house, was the first to arrive. He came along at a swinging pace, and waved his cap jauntily as he saw his wife’s trim little figure at the doorway.

“Hullo, Moll,” he cried, when he was within speaking distance “an’ how’s yersel’?”

“I’m all right,” she replied, while their three year old, curly haired boy and only child peeped from behind his mother’s skirts and cried “Boo” to his dad. The man looked at them both, with awe as well as pride in his glance. Even now he was often heard to remark, that he could not make out why a clumsy brute like him should be allowed to own such an angelic wife and child.

“Where’s the strangers?” asked Moll eagerly.

“Comin’ along, lass. Why?”

“Oh, the ‘Curse,’ Dan!”

“Never mind the ‘Curse,’ lass; that’s done with long ago! Is supper ready yet?”

“Yes, Dan. It’s ready.” But his wife made no effort to re-enter their little home, and serve the meal her husband wanted.

“Woman, what are you staring at?” he cried. “Why do’ant ’ee come in? I’m hungry.”

“In a moment, Dan. I—I—”

“What’s thee lookin’ at, lass?”

“The strangers, Dan. Think the ‘Curse’—” But Dan only laughed good-humouredly. “Thou’rt a fule, lass. Come in and do’ant bother yer head about it,” and he good-naturedly put his arm through hers, and dragged the unwilling woman into the house.

Most of the women outside, however, were still waiting, waiting for the strangers. Then suddenly came a buzz of excitement as the news was passed from mouth to mouth. “They’re coming! They’re coming!”

The two young men, Alan and Desmond Forsyth, were entirely unconscious of all the attention and interest showered on them. Of the “Curse” they knew nothing, and had they done so, would have cared less.

They were cousins, and on very affectionate and intimate terms, and one day would share equally in the Grimland Colliery, of which their uncle was now owner. Alan, moreover, would succeed to his uncle’s title. The future looked very rosy for these two young men.

Sir John was determined that when they left Cambridge, they should thoroughly learn the workings of the mine. The instructions he gave Dickson, his manager, were that he was to “make them work like ordinary colliers until they were competent to take charge.”

They had travelled on the Continent for six months after coming down from the ’Varsity, and this was their first day of real, hard work. It had left them both eager to begin another day, for they were anxious to learn more of the wonderful workings of the mine below the surface of the earth. They had walked cheerily toward Marshfielden, eager to reach their apartments and have a good meal. They liked Slater, and felt that they would be comfortable and happy in his home.

“How do you feel, young gentlemen?” he asked them.

“I’m dead tired,” answered Alan, the elder, a man of some twenty-five years, while his cousin, Desmond, a year younger, yawned lustily, as he asked, “How much further is that adorable little home of yours, Slater?”

“We’re nigh there, sir. There’s my Mary at the gate.”

“What, the little cottage at the bend?” asked Alan.

“Yes, sir. She’s a good lass, is my missus. She’ll treat you well, and make you comfortable and happy.”

The rest of the short way was trodden in silence, and at length the two young men stepped across the threshold of Sweet William Cottage, as the Slaters’ home was called.

The room they were ushered into was old-world and sweet. The lattice windows were open wide, letting in the soft, fresh air of summer. The ceiling was low and beamed, and the furniture was of old dark oak; while the bright chintz hangings took away all hint of sombreness. The table was laid, and within a few minutes of their arrival they were sitting down to an appetizing repast.

Neither of them spoke for some time, and then Desmond laid down his knife and fork with a sigh.

“I’m done” said he.

“I should just think you were” laughed his cousin “You’ve been stuffing incessantly for over half an hour” Alan rang the bell for the table to be cleared and then they lit their pipes.

“How do you feel?” asked Desmond.

“Very tired—very sore—and very bruised”

“So am I. I think I shall like the life of a miner, though”

“Rather! What a ripping set of chaps they are!”

So they chattered on until it was time for them to retire. At peace with each other, at peace with the world, they slept until a knock at their bedroom door awakened them.

“Yes” sleepily answered Desmond.

“It’s four o’clock, young gentlemen, you’d better get up”

Alan woke up lazily to hear Desmond cry out in amazement.

“Surely not yet, Slater?”

“Yes, sir. You must be at the mine by five fifteen. Early shift to-day, you know”

“All right, Slater” cried Alan, who was now wide awake “we’ll be down in twenty minutes”

In a very short space of time they had had their breakfast, and were walking across the Grimland fields to the mine, to begin once more a day’s arduous duty.

It passed quickly enough, but they were thankful when the bell sounded for them to knock off work, and they were taken up to daylight again by the cage.

When they reached Sweet William Cottage, they found Mr. Winthrop awaiting them, with profuse apologies for his absence the night before.

“I’m afraid Mrs. Slater omitted to give us any message from you” said Alan “In fact we didn’t even know you had called”

“I am the vicar of Marshfielden” said the kindly old man “and I should have liked to give you a personal welcome. You see the ‘Curse’ has made your position here somewhat strained”

The two boys stared at each other in perplexity. The vicar laughed. “None of the women have been frightening you with their child’s stories yet?”

“No!” said both boys together, “what is it?”

“Oh, there’s a legend connected with this place, that any strangers in Marshfielden will bring disaster on themselves and perhaps on the place, if they take up their abode here”

“Why?”

“A curse was laid on the place by a monk in Henry the Eighth’s time, when the Priory here was dismantled”

“Oh, is that all?” said Alan lightly “We are not afraid of old wives’ tales like that!”

But Molly Murlock, who was in the kitchen with Mary Slater, heard the words, and her brow clouded. Drawing her child closer, she muttered as she said good night to Mary—

“‘Curse’ or no ‘Curse,’ I’d rather be dead, than live to see strangers come here”

CHAPTER II
THE CURSE

The two men had now been working for three months at the mine, and the villagers had become used to the sight of strangers in Marshfielden. Indeed, as the weeks sped by, and nothing uncanny happened, they began gradually to forget the “Curse” in connection with the two young Forsyths.

Summer was now waning. Leaves were beginning to fall and folks were making preparations for a hard winter. Mr. Winthrop was still going round on his kindly errands and had become sincerely attached to the two youths who had taken up their residence so near him.

Indeed, there was no one else in the village to whom they could go for social intercourse, and nearly every evening Mrs. Skeet’s little parlour was full of the smoke and chatter of the vicar and his two young friends. It was now the first Tuesday in October, and the evenings were growing chilly. Mrs. Skeet had lighted a nice fire, and they all sat round it enjoying the warmth of its glow.

People outside, passing by, heard the sound of merry laughter, and Mr. Winthrop’s characteristic chuckle, and smiled with him. But Moll Murlock passed the cottage hurriedly and drew her shawl closer round her shoulders, while a slight moan came from between her tightly compressed lips.

Of all the inhabitants of Marshfielden, there was one still who had not forgotten the “Curse.”

“Well, boys,” said Mr. Winthrop, “I suppose you feel used to your life among us now?”

“Yes,” answered Alan. “It seems almost like home to us.”

“We’ve never had a proper home,” broke in Desmond.

“Ours is rather a romantic story,” said Alan. “Our mothers were twin sisters—they married on the same day and went to the same place for their honeymoon. A year later my mother died in giving me birth, and Desmond’s mother died when he was only a few months old, so we were both left babies to get on the best way we could without a woman’s care.”

“Poor lads! Poor lads!” sighed the vicar.

“When I was five my father died,” said Desmond, “and four years later Alan’s father was drowned. Uncle John then took us to live with him—but as he was a bachelor we were brought up in the care of nurses and tutors, and had no real home life.”

“You are fond of your uncle?” queried the vicar.

“Rather!” answered Alan. “Uncle John is the dearest old boy imaginable. He’s a bit of a crank though. He has been working for years on what he calls his ‘Petradtheolin’ airship.”

“His what?” laughed Mr. Winthrop.

“His ‘Petradtheolin’ airship. It’s his own invention, you know, but up to now he has been unsuccessful. He has built a wonderful aluminium airship—most beautifully fitted and upholstered—in fact it is absolutely ready to fly, but up to now it won’t budge an inch.”

“What?”

“He is under the impression,” went on Alan “that in the near future flying will be an every day occurrence, and it is his greatest ambition to own the most comfortable, most speedy, and lightest airship of the day.”

Mr. Winthrop smiled. “There is a great deal of talk about flying now,” said he, “but do you honestly think it will ever come to anything?”

“I don’t know,” said Alan thoughtfully, “we have conquered the sea—‘Iron on the water shall float, like any wooden boat’,” he quoted. “We have built ships that can submerge and remain under water and navigate for certain periods of time. I see no reason why the modern man should not also conquer the air.”

Mr. Winthrop shook his head. “I may be old-fashioned, but it seems impossible to believe that navigable ships could be built for flying, that were safe. I don’t doubt that airships will be built that up to a certain point will be successful—say for a few hours’ flight, but it seems inconceivable to me that man could so conquer the air, that commerce and travel would benefit.”

“Well, Uncle John thinks he will conquer it with his ‘Argenta’,” went on Alan.

“Surely that was not what you called it just now?” asked the vicar.

Alan laughed. “The ‘Argenta’ is the name of the ship itself, but ‘Petradtheolin’ is the name of the power he is experimenting on, that he is desirous of using to propel it.”

“The machine itself is complete,” went on Desmond enthusiastically, “the balance is perfect, and its engines are supposed to be of wonderful velocity, but no known power will raise it even an inch from the ground. So he is still experimenting on this spirit. It is a formula which embraces petrol, radium and theolin; these chemicals are blended in some way or other—concentrated and solidified. The engines are made so as to generate electricity in the bonnet part. The current acts on the solidified cubes, which as they melt are sent through metal retorts drop by drop, and then being conveyed to the engines should make the machine fly.”

“Well?”

“I know it all sounds very fantastic, but my uncle firmly believes in the ultimate success of his experiments. His ambition is to be able to fly for about one hundred hours with about a cupful of this powerful matter. He expects each drop of the vaporized spirit, as it issues from the retort, to keep the engines going about fifty minutes.”

“It all sounds very interesting,” said Mr. Winthrop “but is extremely puzzling. I am afraid I would rather trust myself to Mother Earth than to your uncle’s very ingenious ‘Argenta’.”

“So would I,” laughed Desmond. “But the dear old boy is so keen on his work, we don’t like to discourage him”

“And” finished Alan “there in a most wonderful shed, rests the ‘Argenta’; its body of glistening aluminium—its interior richly upholstered and wonderfully arranged from engine room to kitchen, but absolutely lifeless. And there I expect it will remain, for he will never destroy it. It is his biggest hobby after us—sometimes I think it even comes before us. He has the money, he has the brains, he may perfect this power, and if he does, he will have conferred a great benefit upon humanity”

“You stayed with him until you came here, I suppose?”

“Yes” answered Alan “We went to Eton—Cambridge—”

“Cambridge?” Mr. Winthrop’s face lighted up “Dear me! Dear me! What College, may I ask?”

“Queens” said Desmond.

“Queens? That was my College”

“Indeed” cried the two boys together.

“Yes, I’ve not been there for over forty-five years. I expect the dear old place has changed a great deal?”

“Yes. We had rooms opposite each other on the same staircase in the New Buildings” said Desmond.

“That was since my time” said Mr. Winthrop rather sadly “I’ve never even seen the New Buildings. I was in the Walnut-Tree Court” Then he stopped, and gazed into the fire, his eyes sparkling and a colour coming into his old, worn cheeks, as he thought of the days of his youth. Reminiscences came quickly. “Do you remember this?” “I remember when so-and-so happened” So the conversation went on until they were rudely interrupted by a sharp knock on the door, startling in its unexpectedness. All three rose hurriedly.

“Come in” cried the vicar and Mrs. Skeet appeared breathing heavily, with a look of horror in her eyes.

“Whatever is the matter?” asked Mr. Winthrop in dismay, startled out of his usual placidity by her frightened mien.

“Dan—Dan Murlock’s baby—it’s gone, sir”

“Gone? Gone where?”

“No one knows, sir. He was playing in the garden, safe and sound, only five minutes before, and when Moll went to call him in to put him to bed, he had vanished.”

“It’s impossible for the child to have gone far,” said the vicar. “Why, he is only a baby!”

“Three last month, sir.”

“Has any one looked for him? What have they done?”

“The child can’t be spirited away,” said Alan. “Why, there’s no traffic in the village that could possibly hurt him.”

Mrs. Skeet looked scared. “If you please, sir,” she half whispered, “the people do say, as ’ow it’s the ‘Curse’ and that he has been spirited away.”

The vicar blinked his eyes. “Nonsense, Mrs. Skeet! I’m ashamed of you. Never let me hear such words from you again. Spirited away indeed! I expect he has strayed away into the woods at the back of the Murlocks’ cottage. Come, lads, we’ll go down and see Dan and his wife, and do our best to help them.” Taking up their hats the three made their way down the street, usually so quiet and still, but now buzzing with excitement.

As they reached the Murlocks’ cottage, they saw the front door was open wide, leaving the kitchen and garden beyond exposed to view. Curious neighbours, sympathetic friends, open-mouthed children were surrounding the stricken mother, who was rocking herself to and fro in her abandonment and grief.

“Let us go through,” said the vicar, and the two boys followed him.

The woman heard the approaching footsteps, and lifted up her tear-stained face to the intruders. She held out her hands pathetically to the vicar, and the tears rolled down her cheeks unchecked. He took hold of the toil-worn hands, and was about to speak when she caught sight of the two boys behind him. Her eyes dilated and her body stiffened. Suddenly she uttered a piercing scream, and pointing a shaking hand at them, “Go, go!” she cried. “You came to Marshfielden unbidden—you defied the ‘Curse’—now you have taken my baby—my darling, darling baby!”

Dan put his arm about her tenderly. “Do’ant ’ee tak’ on so, lass,” said he gently. “Sure, we’ll find the babby. Already John Skinner and Matt Harding have gone with search parties to find the wee lad. We’ll get him back, wife mine.” But she only looked fiercely at the strangers. “Go—go—the ‘Curse’ is on us all!”

Mr. Winthrop silently motioned to the two lads and they quickly left the stricken house, and made their way back to their rooms in silence.

The next morning on their way to work, they missed Dan Murlock. Some of the miners eyed them suspiciously as they asked where he was, and Slater, their landlord, was the only one to satisfy their curiosity. “With his wife,” said he curtly. “The wee laddie has not been found.”

“Wherever can he be?” said Desmond in bewilderment. Slater shook his head.

“Search parties were out all night, but could find no trace or tidings of him.”

“Have you any idea what has happened?” asked Alan. Slater gave a quick look at each in turn, and then muttered something unintelligible under his breath, and the boys had to be content with that.

It was a terrible day at the mine for the two boys; they had to partake of their midday meal in silence, for not one of the colliers addressed a word to them if he could possibly avoid it. They were regarded with suspicion mingled with fear, and the “Curse” seemed to be on every one’s lips.

Two days passed—a week, a fortnight; still Dan Murlock’s baby was not found, and at last the broken-hearted parents appeared at church in mourning, thus acknowledging to the world that they had given up all hope of ever seeing their little one again.

Murlock was silent about it all, but every one who knew him realized that he was a changed man. He had idolized his wife and child, and at one blow had lost both, for his baby was without doubt dead; and his wife had turned from him in the throes of her grief.

The weeks passed on, Christmas was nigh upon them, and the child was spoken of in hushed tones as one speaks of the dead. The two boys were treated as aliens by the men, and they were beginning to chafe under their treatment. Although nothing had been said openly, they knew instinctively that they were blamed by the superstitious inhabitants for the disappearance of the baby.

“Alan,” said Desmond one day, as they were sitting apart from the rest eating their dinner, “I can’t stand this. I am going to speak to the men.”

“Stand what?” asked Alan wearily.

“Why the whispers and sneers that are showered on us whenever we are near them. They all shrink away from us—treat us as if we were lepers; even Slater avoids us, and the ‘Curse’ is whispered from lip to lip as we pass.”

“You’ll do no good, Desmond.”

“We had nothing to do with the child’s going away, yet they treat us as if we had murdered him.”

“Leave it alone,” said Alan, “I don’t know what it is, but this place seems uncanny. I think I am almost beginning to believe in the ‘Curse’ myself.”

Desmond made no reply, but squaring his shoulders, began to walk toward the miners.

“Look here, you fellows,” he began. “What’s wrong with you all? Why are you treating my cousin and me as if we were murderers? We aren’t responsible for Murlock’s little child vanishing away.”

The miners moved restlessly and muttered together, each waiting for a spokesman to assert himself, who would teach them the line of action they should take. Desmond continued, “You talk about the ‘Curse’! We knew nothing about it when we came here, and to us it seems ridiculous to imagine there is anything supernatural about the whole affair. The river is only a quarter of a mile from their garden gate; I know it has been dragged, but after all it is full of whirlpools and weeds, and if the little chap did fall into it, ten to one his little body will never be found.”

Suddenly a leader was found among the men, and Matt Harding stood up.

“Look ’ere mates,” said he. “We do’ant suppose these young gentlemen actually hurt Dan Murlock’s baby, or that they know where he went to, but after all, the ‘Curse’ tells us not to have strangers in Marshfielden, or evil will befall. It may befall them, it may befall us, but some one will reap ill. Now it’s really Slater’s fault for giving them lodgings. Let Slater turn them out, and that may break the ‘Curse.’”

“Aye, aye!” cried the men in unison.

“Where is Slater?” asked one burly fellow.

“With the shift above,” came the reply in another voice. Then came groans from the rest. “Turn them out! Turn them out!”

“There is no need to turn us out,” said Alan with quiet dignity. “We will find rooms outside Marshfielden, and leave at the end of the week.”

“Leave now! Leave now!” cried a hoarse voice, which they recognized as belonging to Toby Skinner.

That was the one word needed to make the miners obstreperous. “Yes, go now, go now,” they cried. “By the end of the week all our babes may be gone.”

In vain the signal was given for the men to resume work; but they were free of their pent up feelings, and refused to listen to the strident tones of the bell that called them back to their duties.

Suddenly the manager’s voice was heard above the din and babel.

“Get to your work at once,” he thundered, “or take my word for it, there will be a general lockout to-morrow.”

Gradually the men quieted, relieved of the strain of the past few weeks, and slunk back to work.

“What’s the trouble?” asked Mr. Dickson, coming to the boys.

“They think we are the cause of the disappearance of Dan Murlock’s baby,” explained Alan to the manager with some bitterness.

“Yes,” continued Desmond, “and now they demand that we leave Marshfielden. That damned ‘Curse’ is driving us mad. These people are like a set of uncivilized savages, who believe in witchcraft and omens of the twelfth century.”

Mr. Dickson smiled as he answered them. “Our Marshfielden folk are unique. They are almost a race in themselves. As Cornishmen consider themselves ‘Cornish’ and not ‘English’ so Marshfielden men call themselves ‘Marshfieldens.’ It is true they are very superstitious for they believe implicitly in the folk lore that has been handed down to them from all time.”

“What would you advise us to do?” asked Alan somewhat impatiently.

Mr. Dickson thought a moment, and then said quickly, “The widow of one of our men lives in a little cottage not a quarter of a mile from here; it stands on Corlot ground—not Marshfielden. She has a hard struggle to make both ends meet. I will send round at once and see if she is willing to take you two as lodgers. If she will—then go to her, for she is clean, respectable, and will look after you well. Meanwhile, neither of you has had a day off yet, so go and arrange about your luggage, and I’ll see you are fixed up somewhere with rooms.”

“Thanks,” said Alan. “I shall be very sorry to leave Marshfielden though. It is such a quaint, old-world place.”

“Far too old-world for strangers,” said Mr. Dickson significantly. The little village street was buzzing with excitement when they reached Marshfielden. Women were rushing to and fro across the cobbled stones, and the whole place showed signs of some great disturbance.

As the boys approached, a sudden hush seemed to pervade the place, and the women huddled together and whispered “The ‘Curse’! The ‘Curse’!”

Alan shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll see to the things,” said he. “You go along to Mr. Winthrop, and tell him of the change in our plans.”

“Right, old boy,” and Desmond went towards Mr. Winthrop’s rooms, whistling and doing his best to ignore the hostile looks that were directed at him.

Alan went into the little room that had become so dear to them both. The cottage was deserted, Mrs. Slater was absent, and as he made his way up to the little bedroom, he sighed as he thought of leaving the dear little place.

In a very short space of time the drawers were emptied and the trunks packed; everything was done except the putting together of the hundred and one odds and ends that invariably remain about.

“That’s good!” said he to himself, as he rose from his knees, having finished strapping up the trunks, and he surveyed his handiwork with pride, as he realized the short time it had taken him to complete it all.

“Alan!”—He turned round suddenly—it was Desmond’s voice.

“Coming, old chap,” but Desmond was in the room, with a white, set face, trembling limbs and a look of horror in his eyes.

“Good God! Whatever is the matter?” he asked.

“John Meal—Matt Harding—” gasped Desmond.

“Have found Dan’s boy?” eagerly.

“No. Their children have disappeared too!”

“What?”

“It’s true! Mr. Winthrop told me. That’s what caused the commotion when we arrived here this morning. This news had only just become known.”

Alan seemed struck dumb. He looked at Desmond with unseeing eyes; his tongue swelled, and his mouth grew parched, but his lips would not form words. Then suddenly sounds came. “I wonder—is it the ‘Curse’ after all?”

“I wondered that too.”

“When were they missed?”

“The children were all in school safe and sound. Lunch time came and they were seen to enter the playground with the other little ones. Ten minutes later the bell was rung for them all to reassemble.

“When the children did so, it was found that there were five children missing. Harding’s three little girls and Meal’s two had disappeared.

“The Head Mistress was furious, thinking they had all gone off together, and were playing truant. She sent a message round to the parents, so John Meal left his work in the fields, and insisted on a search being made. He swore it was the ‘Curse’ and that if he found his children he would find them in company with Harding’s, and Dan’s boy.”

“Do you think it is a band of gypsies at work?” suggested Alan.

“There have been no gypsies near Marshfielden for over five years, they say. Besides that, the extraordinary thing is, the children disappeared from the playground.”

“Well?”

“There is a ten foot wall all round it, so it is impossible for them to have climbed over. The only way out is past the Head Mistress’ desk. She was sitting there the whole of the break, and declares that for the whole ten minutes of the luncheon time, the hall was entirely deserted and no one passed her. It seems impossible for them to have left the playground that way, and equally impossible by the front entrance.”

“Why it sounds like witchcraft,” said Alan.

A voice startled them. It was Mrs. Slater; her eyes red from weeping. “I beg of you two young gentlemen to go,” she sobbed. “The ‘Curse’ is upon us.”

“We are going,” said Alan gently, “but we will do our utmost to discover the children. Now let us have our account.” But the woman threw out her hands before her with a cry.

“No-No-Not a penny, sir.”

“Oh, come, Mrs. Slater, don’t be foolish. Let us have our bill,” urged Alan.

But Mrs. Slater was obdurate. “It’s only two days you owe me, sir, and I wouldn’t touch a penny. You are quite welcome to what you’ve had, only go—go!” It was useless to argue and they left the house with heavy hearts, and went toward the blacksmith’s in order to ask some one to take their luggage away for them.

“Good morning, Jim,” said Alan pleasantly as they reached the forge. The man looked up and greeted them carefully, and as he saw Alan about to step across the threshold he gave a cry.

“Do’ant ’ee put your foot inside, gentlemen, do’ant ’ee please! Oh, the ‘Curse’ be upon us all!”

The boys shrugged their shoulders helplessly, and Alan spoke quickly.

“Send your boy up to Mrs. Slater’s, will you, Jim? We want our luggage taken from there to Mrs. Warren’s cottage at Corlot.”

“You be agoin’ away?” asked the man eagerly.

“Yes.”

“I be mighty glad, sirs. I do’ant mean to be rude, sirs, of course we shall miss you sorely, but the ‘Curse’ has hit us sore hard since you came.”

“Then you’ll send your boy, Jim?”

Jim scratched his head. “Couldn’t you manage it yourselves?”

“Surely it won’t harm you to help us out of Marshfielden?” said Alan bitterly.

“I do’ant rightly know, sir, but—”

“Well?”

“I’d rather lend you my trolley, sir, than my boy. I do be mighty feared of the ‘Curse’.”

“All right, Jim, give us the trolley. We’ll do it ourselves.” The blacksmith wheeled it out, and gave it with half an apology to Alan.

“Don’t apologize, Jim. I understand.”

But the blacksmith had one more thing to say. “Do’ant ’ee trouble to bring it back to Marshfielden, sirs, leave it with Ezra Meakin. He’ll bring it back for ’ee.”

“Oh, don’t fear, Jim, we won’t return to Marshfielden once we’ve left. Ezra shall return it safely. We’ll pay you now.”

Jim was not too frightened to refuse payment, and the liberal amount of silver they showered on him touched him.

“I do’ant mean to be rude, sir,” he began—but the boys had started on their way and were already wheeling the lumbering trolley down the uneven street.

Jim went back into his forge with a shaking hand. Had he helped the “Curse” by lending his trolley—doubly so, indeed, by accepting payment? And as he beat the hammer on the anvil, sparks flew out all around him like little red devils thirsting for prey!

When the miners came home that night they were unaware of the double tragedy that had come into their midst. The strangers were gone! They rejoiced, and Matt Harding was among the merriest. Mr. Winthrop and John Meal were away still searching for the missing ones, and no one had dared go to the mine to tell Matt of his loss.

He received the news with a set face, and strong self control. No word of comfort was given him by his comrades; he needed none. Blindly he staggered home, his loving, grief-stricken wife comforting and consoling him, bearing up herself in order to help the man she loved.

Silently the miners prepared for another fruitless search.

“The two young gentlemen are going to help,” volunteered a woman in the crowd.

“We do’ant want no help,” cried a man baring his brawny arm. “We’ll find the chillun ourselves.” But the search proved futile, as they almost expected, for as Murlock’s boy had vanished completely, so had these other five children. But still stranger things were happening!

Mrs. Skeet possessed a dun cow of which she was very proud. Two days after the disappearance of the children, she tied it up in its stall in the byre, as it was suffering from an inflamed heel. Next morning when she entered the byre the cow had gone, and the whole of the thatched roof had been burnt away. Rushing into the cottage she called Mr. Winthrop, but there was no reply. She knocked at his bedroom door. The room sounded empty. Again she knocked, and fear made her open it. In a second she was out, and shrieking in her terror, for the window was open wide, and the vicar too had disappeared.

CHAPTER III
THE 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 he murmured, “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 had formed 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.