CHAPTER XI
_The Sentence_
On the evening of that eventful day--a day of comings and goings aboutthe ruined colliery--Farnish stayed later than usual at the"Coach-and-Four." There had never been so much to talk about in thewhole history of Savilestowe as there was that evening, and he, asfather of Jeckie Farnish, was a person of consequence in the debatewhich was carried on in the bar-parlour to the latest hours allowed bythe licensing laws. But he went home at last, to find the cottage indarkness; there was not even the gleam of the last ashes of the usualwood fire to welcome him when he opened the door which admitted to theliving-room. "I misdoubt yon poor lass o' mine is still hangin' aboutthem shafts!" he muttered, as he began to feel around him in thedarkness. "It's nat'ral on her part, an' all, but it'll do no good, nogood!" Then he struck a match, drawn from a box which was always handyat the corner of the mantelpiece, and as he turned to where the lamp waskept, saw Jeckie. She sat in an easy chair at the other side of thehearth, but in no lounging attitude, such as is commonly affected byfolk who sit in easy chairs. Instead, she was bolt upright and rigid,and for a moment Farnish wondered if she had been stricken withparalysis, or was dead. But a sudden flash of her keen eyes showed himthat she was alive enough.
"Why, Jecholiah, mi lass!" he exclaimed, as he lighted the lamp. "What'sthis here? Sittin' there i' t'darkness?--no light, no fire! Ye mo'nt tekon so, Jecholiah--it's o' no use, and bad for a body."
"Who said aught about takin' on?" answered Jeckie, with a sombre stareat him. "I was thinkin'--can't one think in t'dark as well as int'light?"
"I dare say they can, mi lass," assented Farnish. "I done it misen, morenor once, and a varry bad thing it is--what ye happen to think i't'dark's allus magnified, as it weer. Let me get you a drop o' summat,now?--and then go to yer bed and try for a bit o' sleep--ye need it."
"You can get something for yourself," answered Jeckie. "I want naught!"Farnish had no objection to this invitation. He got out the bottle ofgin, mixed himself a tumbler to his liking, and sitting down in his ownchair, wagged his head over the glass.
"I been tryin' to collect a bit o' information," he said. "Yon theer BenScholes--as were at t'bottom o' this unfortunate episode, as t'termis--he's clean disappeared. They laid wait for him to come down out o't'church tower; watched for him most o' t'day, but he niver come, and ast'afternoon were drawing to an end, some on 'em stormed his citadel.Went up t'ladder to t'chamber i' t'tower wheer they toll t'bells--butt'bird hed flown. An' now they're sayin' 'at Scholes knew some secretway in and out o' t'church, and 'at he's off wi' them fellers 'at hebribed to blow t'pit up. Howsomeiver, Jecholiah, mi lass, t'police is ont'track of all on 'em, and ye'll hev t'satisfaction o' seein'malefactors browt to justice. There is them 'at I've been talkin' wi''at says 'at i' their opinion it's a hengin' matter--high treason, orsummat o' that sort, but chuse how, it'll mean 'at they'll be clapped i'gaol for t'rest o' their lives, and never come out no more. So ye muncheer up!"
Jeckie glowered at him in the dim light of the lamp.
"What good'll that do me?" she demanded, contemptuously. "Will it repairt'damage they've done? I don't care whether they catch Ben Scholes orno! Him and them other devils can go where they like, for all I care! Iwant to hear naught about 'em. They've done their job. It's over!"
"Aye, why, mi lass," expostulated Farnish. "But theer's what t'scholarsterms poetic justice. It 'ud be nowt but right if these here chaps werebrowt to it. Now, it 'ud nobbut be t'proper thing if they could behenged--and happen drawn and quartered, same as yere done i' t'good oldtimes--on t'scene o' their misdeeds. But I doubt whether that theer 'udbe allowed nowadays--we'm all too soft-hearted. Hev a drop o' comfort,Jecholiah, mi lass, and then get to your bed."
"No!" retorted Jeckie. "I haven't done thinking."
Farnish left her thinking, and went to bed himself, and slept soundly.But the habits of a lifetime had made him an early riser, and he was upagain and downstairs as the grey dawn broke over the village. And therehe found Jeckie still sitting just as he had left her, some hoursbefore, and in the light of his chamber candlestick he saw somethingthat made him start back in amazement.
"The Lord ha' mercy on us, mi lass!" he exclaimed in awe-struck accents."What's come o' your hair? Look at yoursen!"
The feminine instinct never wholly dies out, and Jeckie lifted herselfto her feet, and, taking the candle from her father's hand, looked intothe old mirror which hung above the mantelpieces. Then she saw what hemeant. Her hair, thick, luxuriant still, and till the day before blackand glossy as in her days of young womanhood, was now patched freelywith grey strands, and here and there with unmistakable threads ofwhite. She stood, looked, turned away, and set down the candle.
"Aye!" she muttered, as if to herself. "Aye!--and there's a lot o'thinkin', and plannin', and schemin' to do yet!"
None knew that better than she did. Of all the folk who from personalmotives or from sheer natural curiosity discussed the present and futuresituation of the unlucky mine, none were so keenly aware of the realstate of things as its principal proprietor. Lucilla might weep andbewail, and Albert indulge in platitudes which he fondly believed to beoracular sayings of the deepest wisdom, but Jeckie, essentiallypractical and businesslike, knew what the real problem was. There was somuch capital left. It would have sufficed amply, if things had gone onas they were going on before the explosions. But now the pit was ruinedin its upper and lower workings, and an immense amount of labour inpumping, clearing, and restoring was absolutely necessary before itcould be brought back to the state in which it had been when Scholesachieved his revenge. Could she last out?
It was not in her to be idle. She sought the opinion of numerousexperts; she went carefully into the all-important question of themoney; at last she went to work once more. It was a fell and sinisterenemy that had to be encountered first, for the shafts, as Robinson hadprophesied, were flooded to the brim. But there the water had paused inits upward progress, and she gave the word to start on its clearance.Henceforth the village saw nothing but the progress of this grim fight.There was now no more clanging of steel and iron about the place; nomore work at the rows of cottages which should soon have been filled byminers and their families; there was nothing but the ceaseless clearingof the shafts from the dark flood which had been released from itsunsuspected source in the bowels of the earth--and the fear lest, whenall this was accomplished, some further eruption might not break out andrender all the labour in vain.
And as before, when hope was high and the fruition of her toiling andscheming seemed certain, so now, when all was doubt and anxiety, JeckieFarnish haunted the scene from early morning till the evening shadowsfell. She aged rapidly in those days; the patches of white thickened inthe dark hair; the keen eyes grew harassed and hunted; about the firmmouth lines and seams appeared which nothing would ever smooth awayagain. She grew strangely silent; it seemed to those whose businessbrought them into touch with her that all she did throughout the day wasto watch and watch and watch. She said little to Farnish; she ate anddrank mechanically--no more, observed Farnish to his cronies, than keptthe health in her body, now growing thin and gaunt; and at night she satalone in the cottage, always staring at the fire which her father tookcare to keep going; if it had not been for him, he said, there wouldhave been no fire, for she had no interest in anything but the ceaselessclearance of the dark floods which were being drawn and pumped away. Itwas useless, too, he said, to sit with her and attempt to cheer her up;she just sat, staring before her. So Farnish continued to attend thenightly symposium at the "Coach-and-Four," and in the living-room oftheir cottage Jeckie sat motionless, her eyes fixed on the bit of redglow in the grate, thinking.
She was so sitting one night, long after darkness had fallen, and whenthere was no light in the place beyond a rapidly dying lamp and the dullgleam of the fire, when, behind her chair, she heard the latch of thedoor lifted, and a footstep which she knew to be a man's. She believedit to be Farnish, who had come in an hour before his ti
me, and she tookno heed. But then fell silence, a strange and frightening silence, andat last she turned her head and looked. And there, half in shadow, halfin the light, staring at her out of glowing eyes, stood Scholes.
The man whom Jeckie had so cunningly dispossessed of his lawful rights,had always been more or less of an unkempt, carelessly attiredindividual--the sort of man who neglected hair and beard, and wore hisclothes as if they had been thrown on with one of his own pitchforks.But as he stood there now, motionless, staring at her, he remindedJeckie of pictures which she had seen; pictures of prophets, hermits,anchorites. His head was bare, and his untrimmed, uncombed locks fellabout his ears and shoulders; even in that dim light she could seeleaves and straw in them, and in the straggling beard which mingled withthem. The rest of him, as she saw it, was wrapped in an ancient,weather-stained ulster coat, in rags at all its extremities, and tiedabout the waist with a piece of old cart rope. He carried a long staffof hazel in one hand; the other clawed meditatively at his beard as hestood fixedly staring at the woman who, in her turn, stared at him overher shoulder. And, suddenly, Jeckie forgot hair, beard, the strangegarb, and saw nothing but the man's burning eyes, which never shiftedtheir intense gaze from her face. Before many seconds had elapsed shewould have given much to withdraw her own gaze--twice she tried to closeher eyelids, in the vain hope that this was a phantom, a bad dream. ButScholes held her; and at last he spoke, in a queer, hollow voice whichsent a thrill of fear through her. For Jeckie Farnish, like all countryfolk of her sort, and in spite of her hard-hearted, practicaltemperament, was intensely superstitious, and it seemed to her thatthis was either Scholes's ghost or that if he were really there in theflesh he had become endowed with supernatural powers. And as he spokeshe cowered before him, trembling in every limb.
"So ye're sittin' theer, Jecholiah, all bi yersen, doin' nowt butthinkin'!" said the queer voice. "An' to be sure, when all's said anddone, that's t'inevitable end of all them 'at compasses evil. Ye've nowtto do now but think, and think, and think! Here's t'end of all yourschemin' and contrivin' and sellin' yer soul for brass! Wheer's yerbrass, now? Gone!--and ye'll niver see one penny on it agen--niver!Ye're doomed, Jecholiah! Ye've been doomed to destruction ever sincethat day when yer carried yer bad heart into a poor man's house, wi'full determination to cheat him. Ye reckoned to be buyin' one thing whenye knew well 'at ye wor buyin' another. An' what ye wor doin' then worthis--ye were sellin' yer soul to t'Devil! Ye cheated me to mi face; butye can't cheat him 'at put it into yer mind to cheat me! An' theer'sothers powers beside him, and I've been their instrument. I wor nowt butan agent i' bringing you to destruction. For ye're destroyed, Jecholiah!Ye can work and tew, tew and work, labour and better labour, at yonblack water, but ye'll never clear it; it's t'flood o' vengeance 'at'scome down on yer! If ye'd been content to mak' yer brass honest andstraight, nowt would ha' happened to ye; and ye'd ha' had all 'at yer'velost. Lost! lost! lost! Sit theer, and stare and stare at yer bit o'fire till it dies out; yer last hopes'll die wi' that, for niver onepenny o' yer brass will ye iver see out o' that land 'at once were mineand 'at ye cheated me out on. Ye ran t'race i' yer own way, Jecholiah,and ye're beaten!"
The burning eyes and strange figure suddenly vanished into the gloomfrom which they had appeared, and at the same moment the light of thelamp, which had been growing fainter and fainter while the queer voicesounded, gave one leap, showed Jeckie that she was alone in theliving-room, and died out. Then came blackness, for at the same time thered ashes in the grate sank into sombre grey, and with the blackness anintense silence. She knew then that what she had seen was Scholes'sghost, and with a lifting of her hands to her head and a sudden catchingof her breath, she half rose, and in the action fell forward across thehearth.
Farnish, coming home an hour later, found her lying there unconscious.And, in unconsciousness or semi-consciousness, she lay in her bed for along time, hovering between life and death. One season had merged intoanother before Jeckie came to herself. Farnish and his younger daughterwere at her bedside when her eyes first opened with full intelligence,and for a moment she believed that the old days at Applecroft were backagain, and that they were all together. But in the next she rememberedand realised, and after one quick glance at Rushie she turned her faceto the wall with a gesture that seemed to implore silence.
It takes much to kill a woman of such a constitution, and Jeckie beganto mend. But it was long before she spoke a word to any of those whocame about her as to the events that had led up to her illness. It wasto Farnish that she spoke at last; he had never failed in constantattendance on her, and sat for hours in her room, watching her, wakingor sleeping. And as he sat by her side one grey afternoon she suddenlyturned her eyes on him with a flash of their old power.
"How long have I been here?" she demanded.
Farnish, mindful of the doctor's orders, tried to evade a direct answer.
"Ye'd best not to bother about that theer, mi lass," he said,soothingly. "Ye're mendin' varry weel now, and t'doctor says 'at ifye're nobbut kept quiet, and hev nowt to worry yer, ye'll soon be up anddoin', so----"
"I shall have plenty to worry about if you don't tell me what I want toknow," insisted Jeckie. "How long have I been ill? Out with it!"
"Why, then, a matter o' two or three month, mi lass," replied Farnish."But ye've been well looked to. Me an' yer sister Rushie, we've been wi'you all t'time--she's been a reight good 'un, has Rushie--never leftt'place, and----"
Jeckie made a movement of impatience.
"What's gone on across there?" she demanded, pointing a wasted hand tothe window. "What have they done? How are things?"
Farnish, who sat by the bedside twiddling his thumbs in sign of deepperplexity, shook his head.
"Now, Jecholiah, mi lass!" he said, with a poor attempt at firmness."That's t'varry thing 'at t'doctor said ye worrn't to be allowed to talkabout. So----"
"If you don't tell me, I'll get up and see for myself!" she retorted."You'd better say!"
"Why, then," answered Farnish, "if I mun say, all I can say is, 'at youwere took badly Mestur Revis he's hed all t'affairs i' hand. He comeforrard and said 'at he'd tak it all on his shoulders, i' your interest.And he's t'only man 'at can rightly say how things is--I can't. I knownowt, mi lass--'ceptin' what I've telled you."
"I must see him," said Jeckie.
"Ye mun ha' t'doctor's consent first, mi lass," replied Farnish.
She lay quiet for some time after that; then she suddenly asked aquestion which made Farnish stare at her.
"Has naught been heard of Ben Scholes?"
Farnish made a curious exclamation.
"Scholes!" he said. "Aye, for sure! He wor found dead, i' Wake Wood,some time ago; they say he'd evidently been i' hiding theer, and theerhe'd died. Queer, worrn't it, mi lass?"
But Jeckie made no answer. She knew now, for certain, that it wasScholes's ghost that had come to her, and that all was lost.