The Root of All Evil

  CHAPTER IX

  _The Bell Rings_

  Jeckie Farnish was a strong woman; physically as well as mentally shewas the strongest woman in all those parts. She had scarcely ever knownwhat it was to feel a sudden giving way of strength; the end of a longday's toil usually found her fresh and vigorous, ready for and gladlyanticipating the labours of the morrow. Nor had she ever known what itwas to experience a mental giving way; the nearest approach to it--onlya momentary one--had been on that day, long years before, whereon GeorgeGrice had turned his back on her and her father's fallen fortunes. Shehad felt mentally sick and physically weak then, as though all thestrength had been dashed out of her mind and body. But the feeling hadquickly passed under the reviving fire of her anger and resentment, andsince then she had rarely felt a qualm that affected her in eithersense--determination and resolution had always kept her going. Therewere folks in the parish who were fond of saying that she was moulded ofbeaten iron with a steel core in the middle--it was their way ofexpressing a belief that nothing on earth below or in heaven above couldmove or bend her.

  But as the vivid flash of flame and the infernal roar which followed itpassed away, Jeckie standing in her night-clothes between her bed andher curtained window, felt herself stricken from head to foot; she wassick, in heart and brain. She suddenly realised that she was shakingthroughout her strongly-fashioned frame, that her knees were knockingone against the other, her feet rattling on the floor, her fingersworking as from a terrible shock. And in the silence she heard her heartthumping and thumping and thumping--it made her think of the engines atthe pit which pumped up the leaking water as the shafts were drivendeeper and deeper into the earth. She tried to lift a hand towards herheaving breast; it dropped back, nerveless, to her side.

  "Oh God!" she breathed at last. "What is it? What is it?"

  The hurrying of folk in the street outside roused her out of hermomentary paralysis, and with an effort she stumbled rather than walkedto the window-place, drew aside curtain and blind, flung open acasement, and leaned out into the night. And at what she saw, a moanburst from her lips, and she began to tremble as with a violent attackof ague. For the night was one of brilliantly clear moonlight, and fromher window she could see all across the Leys and the buildings uponwhich she had expended such vast sums. And over the newly made pit, sorapidly approaching completion, hung a great umbrella-shaped cloud ofdun-coloured smoke, thick and rolling, and from the pit mouth itselfissued spurts and flickers of bright flame, which, as she stared,horror-stricken, began to gather at one place into a steady, spreadingblaze. Thitherwards men were already beginning to hasten from the opendoors of the cottages, calling to each other as they ran. And abovetheir voices, never ceasing, sounded the frantic ringing of the big bellof the church, maddening in its insistence.

  She leaned farther out of the window and called to the folk who werehurrying past; called several times before she attracted attention. Butat last a white face looked up and a voice hailed her--the voice of oneof the principal foremen in the machinery department at the pit.

  "Miss Farnish!" he called. "Miss Farnish!--it's an explosion! Thedown-cast shaft! And look there!--the pit's on fire!"

  He pointed a shaking arm across the flat expanse of land before thecottage, and Jeckie saw that the gathering flame about the mouth of theshaft had suddenly leaped into a great mass of lurid light. Itsbrightness illumined the whole area around it, and she saw then that thesurface works which had steadily grown up around the excavations hadeither been blown away or were left in shapeless bulks of ruinousmasonry. Towards these from all directions men were running like antsswarming about a broken down nest.

  She turned away from the window, and with no other light than the glarefrom without, sought for and huddled her shaking limbs into the firstgarments that came to hand. And as she fastened them about her, scarceknowing how, a hand began to beat upon her door, and Farnish called toher, once, twice, thrice, before she realised that the sounds were humanand had any significance.

  "Jeckie, mi lass!" Farnish was calling. "Jeckie! Jeckie!"

  "What is it?" she asked at last in a dull, strained voice, so strange inits sound that she found herself wondering at it. "What do you want?"

  "Yon noise?" cried Farnish, who slept at the back of the cottage."What's it about, mi lass? What's it mean?"

  "The pit's blown up," answered Jeckie, with almost sullen indifference."It's on fire, too. You can come in and see for yourself."

  Farnish pushed the door open and entered; he was half whimpering, halfmoaning as he crossed the floor towards the window. But Jeckie, nowwrapped in a thick ulster coat and tying a shawl round her head andneck, said nothing. Her heart had resumed its normal action by then; shewas only conscious that she felt sick and faint. She stared stupidly ather father's figure, darkly outlined against the glow of the fire.

  "God ha' mercy on us!" groaned Farnish. "A bad job! a bad job! Howivercan it ha' come about, and what mun be done? It's all of a flame,and----"

  "Come out!" commanded Jeckie. "I must see for myself what's----"

  She had laid a hand on the half-open door of the bedroom, when it wassuddenly wrenched out of her grasp, and she herself thrown backwardsacross the bed by a second and apparently more violent explosion, whichcame simultaneously with another vivid burst of orange-coloured flame.Jeckie remembered afterwards what curious and vivid impressions she hadin that moment. As she herself was flung over the edge of her thickfeather-bed she saw Farnish thrown away from the window, his armswhirling in the air like the sails of a wind-mill; she heard a musicaltinkle of falling glass, making a sort of background to his startledoutcry. And she saw things. The vividness of the glare lit up aglass-fronted case on the bedroom wall wherein was a stuffed squirrel;it also lit up a framed text of Scripture, set in a floral bordering ofhideous design, and a little weather-glass, furnished with two figures,one of which, a man, came out for fine weather, while the other, awoman, emerged for wet; years afterwards she had vivid recollections ofhow these two quaint puppets were violently agitated at the end of theirwires. And then there was gloom again, and silence, and she heardFarnish gathering himself up from the floor, moaning.

  "Are you hurt?" she asked, dully and indifferently. "Is aught wrong?"

  "T'window were blown right in on mi face," answered Farnish, "I'mbleedin' somewhere. What about yoursen, mi lass?"

  Jeckie was seeking for matches and a candle. The candle had been blownout of its tin holder and had rolled into a corner. When she found andlighted it it was to reveal Farnish with a trickle or two of blood onhis cheeks and scarce a pane of glass left in the window. She pointedhim to a towel, and turned to the door. "That 'ud be the other shaft,"she said in a low voice, and in a fashion that made Farnish afraid."It's been a put-up job. I've enemies! But I'll best 'em yet! I'll notbe bet!"

  Without another word she went downstairs and out into the street, andFarnish, left alone, looked dolefully at his face as envisaged to him inJeckie's mirror. Something glittered on one of his projectingcheekbones, and he groaned again as he picked out a sliver of glass.Then he wiped his face with the towel, and, still moaning and bewailing,descended to the living-room. In those days Jeckie no longer locked upthe spirits, and he, accordingly, went to the cupboard, got out the gin,and mixed himself a stiff drink. And as he stood sipping it he mutteredto himself.

  "A bad job!" said Farnish. "A bad, bad job! All that theer brass--gonei' th' twinklin' of an eye, as the sayin' is! An' who can ha' done it?"

  He, too, went into the street at last. By that time the whole villagewas out of bed and abroad, and while the more active of the men folkwere flocking towards the scene of the explosion, the older men and thewomen were hanging in groups about the doors of the houses and cottages,gazing fearfully at the great cupola of smoke that hung over the Leys.Farnish joined one such group, the members of which were alreadyrecounting with great zest their own particular private experiences.

  "Our Sarah's little lad, Albert James, wor flung fair
out o' t'bed andageean t'wall!" declared one woman. "And his father's heead wor jowledageean t'chest o' drawers! An' our cottage rocked same as if it wor aearthquake--I made sure 'at all t'place 'ud come tummlin' down about worears!"

  "Aye, an theer isn't a pane o' glass left whole in our front windows!"said another. "Blown reight into t'kitchen they wor, and I would like toknow who's goin' to pay for t'mendin'! This is what comes o' mekkin'coal-pits i' a quiet, peaceable place same as what this wor afore JeckieFarnish started on at t'game! I allus did say 'at no good 'ud come o't'job, and 'at we should all on us be blowed up i' wor beds some finenight, and if we hevn't been to-night it nowt but a mercifuldispensation o' Providence 'at we hevn't! An' I hope 'at t'job'sfinished, and 'at we shall hev' no more on't--theer's nowt 'ud suit mebetter nor to see all t'coal-miners tak theer-sens off and leave us i'peace as we used to be, for I'm sure----"

  "Hod this wisht!" broke in one of the few men who had kept back from theLeys. "That's talkin' like a fooil!--doesn't ta see 'at this here'llmean no end o' money lost to them 'at's mekkin' t'pit, and theer'sMestur Farnish stannin' theer? How is it, Mestur Farnish?--d'ye knaw owtabout how it happened like?"

  "I know no more about it nor what you do," answered Farnish, who wasstanding at the end of a group of cottages, staring blankly at the flameand smoke which glared and rolled in front. "It's a bad job--a bad job!An' what's yon theer bell ringin' for--is it somebody 'at's gone toring for t'Sicaster fire brigade, or what?"

  "Why, theer wor a young feller started off on his bicycle for that theerpurpose, as soon as t'first explosion wor over," answered the man."Besides, they wodn't hear our bell as far off as Sicaster--t'wind's i't'wrong quarter, an' all. I been wonderin' what t'bell wor ringin' for,missen. How would it be if we stepped up to t'church, like?"

  Farnish, realising the hopelessness of going near the pit, joined thetwo or three men who turned in the direction of the church. As theyhurried up the street, a dog-cart dashed past them; the young man whohad hastened to Sicaster for the fire brigade had called at AlbertGrice's house on his way, and Albert and Lucilla, panic-stricken, wereflying to what might be the grave of their hopes, and more than one manwho watched them pass noticed that Lucilla was driving, and flogging thesmart cob to the utmost limit of his speed, while Albert, pale andfrightened, cowered in the lower seat at her side. Behind them presentlycame the Sicaster fire engine, its bell ringing clangerously as thesteaming horses clattered through the village; in its brazen loudnessthe frantic ringing of the church bell was lost to hearing, and whenFarnish and his companions came to the churchyard and comparativesilence, it had ceased altogether.

  "Whoever wor ringin' must ha' been ringin' for t'fire engine," mutteredone of the men. "Ye see, he's stopped now 'at t'fire brigade's comed. Itmun ha' been t'sexton." But just then the sexton, accompanied by thevicar, came hurrying through the little wicket-gate at the farther endof the churchyard. Encountering the other men at the porch, they stoppedshort.

  "Who is in there, ringing that bell?" demanded the vicar. "Who'sthis?--you, Farnish? Did they send some one up from the pit to ring? Ifso, they must have broken into the church."

  "Notwithstanding," interrupted the sexton, solemnly, "'at everybody int'parish know 'at t'keys is in my possession, and close by!"

  "I know naught about it," answered Farnish. "We come up here to find outwho it wor, and what he wor ringin' for, ye see."

  High over their heads the big bell once more gave tongue--loudly,clamorously, insistently. It rang out a score of times; then stopped assuddenly as it had begun. And one of the men, stepping back, as therest, headed by the sexton, made for the porch, and looking up towardsthe head of the great square tower, let out a sharp exclamation.

  "There's a man up there, looking ower t'parapet!" he said. "Seeyer!--there, wi' t'moon shinin' on his face! Look!"

  The other men fell back, and shading their eyes from the brightmoonlight, stared in the direction indicated. There, leaning over thebattlemented parapet of the tower, immediately above one of the mostgrotesque of its gargoyles, appeared a weird and sinister figure--a manwhose unkempt hair and sparse beard were being blown about his face bythe light breeze. One of the younger men there, whose sight was keen,suddenly uttered a sound of recognition.

  "Ecod!" he exclaimed. "It's Ben Scholes!"

  The vicar uttered a sound too--dismal, and full of foreboding.

  "Mad," he muttered. "Mad--undoubtedly! Scholes!" he went on, callingupwards to the figure silhouetted against the sky. "Scholes! What areyou doing there? Come down, my good fellow, come down at once!"

  But Scholes shook his floating locks, vigorously and emphatically.

  "Naught o' t'sort, parson!" he answered, his voice coming with curiousforce from his airy station. "T'job isn't half done in yet! Ye don'tunderstand--how should yer? Ye see, it wor you 'at put t'idee into mimind when ye read them comfortable passages t'other week, and I said'Amen and Amen' to 'em. 'Cursed be covetous persons'--and sich like. Iknew then, d'ye see, 'at I wor what they call t'instrument o' vengeanceon yon theer Jecholiah. It hed to be, parson it hed to be! I wor doomed,as it weer, to blow her and her devil's wark to perdition, as t'sayin'is. Aye!--listen, all on yer--it wor through me 'at t'pit's been blownup! Three hundred pound o' good money I wared to get it blown intot'air. And I mun ring, I mun ring, all through the night, till t'sunrises on t'scene o' desolation; ring, d'ye understand, to show howt'Lord hes vengeance on bad 'uns like yon theer woman! Three hundredpound!--but I gat it done! Flame and smoke, parson!--I see'd 'em riseout o' t'pit. And then I rang, and rang, and rang--and I mun ring agentill t'sun rises ower yon woods. So may all them 'at cheats poor folkperish!"

  "Mad!" repeated the vicar, looking helplessly round him. "What does hemean! And how can we get at him?"

  "He means, sir, 'at he's paid some of them miners three hundred pound toblow t'pit up," answered the sexton, who was a sharp-witted man, "and asto gettin' at him, it's none to be done till he chooses to come down.There's naught but a straight ladder, and a man-hole at t'end on it,into yon belfry, and if he stands on t'trap door i' that man-hole he cankeep all t'parish out as long as he likes. See you!--he's at it again!"

  Scholes had suddenly disappeared from the parapet, and a moment laterthe big bell began clamouring once more.

  "Didn't he say he mun ring till sunrise?" said the sexton. "He willring!"

  Farnish went hurrying home through the crowds in the village street.There was a light in the window of the living-room, and when he walkedin, he found Jeckie, white-faced and grim, standing by a newly lightedlamp, staring at nothing. He went up and touched her timidly, and forthe first time in her life she started, as if in fear. But Farnish wastoo full of news to notice that her nerves were gone.

  "Jeckie, mi lass!" he said. "It's yon man Ben Scholes's 'at's att'bottom o' this here! He paid some fellers three hundred pound to blowt'pit up--and he's gone mad wi' t'glory on it--mad!"