MARK RUNHAM
No sight in the Fens is so solemn, so touching, as a funeral. There
are no graveyards in the Fens. There is no earth to which the dead can
be committed—only peat, and this in dry weather is converted into
dust, and in rain resolved into a quagmire. A body laid in it would be
exposed by the March winds, soddened by the November rains.
Consequently the dead are conveyed, sometimes as many as nine miles, to
the islets—to Ely, to Stuntney, or to Littleport, wherever there is
a graveyard; and a graveyard can only be where there is an outcrop of
blue clay. For a funeral, the largest cornwain is brought forth, and
to it is harnessed a team of magnificent cart-horses, trimmed out with
black favours.
In the waggon is placed the coffin, and round it on the wain-boards sit
the mourners. The sorrowful journey takes long. The horses step along
slowly, their unshod feet muffled in the dust or mire, and their tread
is therefore noiseless. But their bells jingle, and now and then a sob
breaks forth from one of the mourners.
Two waggons bearing dead men took the road to Ely. In one sat a single
mourner, Zita; and this waggon preceded the other. The second was full,
and was followed by a train of labourers who had been in the service of
the deceased, and of acquaintances who had roistered or dealt with him.
A cold wind piped over the level, and rustled the harsh dun leaves of
the rushes in the dykes. Royston crows in sable and white stalked the
fields, dressed as though they also were mourners, but were uninvited,
and kept at a distance from the train. Lines of black windmills
radiated from every quarter of the heavens, as though they were
mourners coming over the fens from the outermost limits to attend the
obsequies of a true son of the marshland.
To the south-west stood up the isle of Ely, tufted with trees; and
soaring above the trees, now wan against a sombre cloud, then dark
against a shining sky, rose the mighty bulk of the minster, its size
enhanced by contrast with the level uniformity of the country.
Although it cannot be said that no suspicion of foul play was
entertained relative to the death of Jake Runham, yet nothing had
transpired at the coroner's inquest that could in any way give it
grounds on which to rest; nothing that could in the smallest degree
implicate Drownlands.
Runham had drunk freely at the tavern at Ely, and he had ridden away
'fresh,' as a witness euphemistically termed it, implying that he was
fuddled. He had started on his home journey with a single lantern, in
itself likely to occasion an accident, for it vividly illumined one
side of the way and unduly darkened the other. Some one in the tavern
yard had commented on this, and had advised the extinction of the
single light as more calculated to mislead than none at all.
Horse and man had been discovered in the water about a mile above the
drove that led to Crumbland, his farm. Runham had been found with his
legs entangled in the stirrups. Possibly, had he been able to disengage
himself when falling, he might have escaped to land. Certainly the
horse would have found its way out; but the weight of the rider had
prevented the poor beast from reaching the bank. It was observed that
Runham had gone into the canal on his right hand, and that the lantern
had been slung to his left foot.
There were, it was noticed, contusions on the head and body of the
deceased, but these were easily accounted for without recourse to
the supposition of violence. At intervals in the course of the Lark
piles were driven into the banks to protect them against the lighters,
and horse and man might have been carried by the stream, or in their
struggles, against these stakes, and thus the abrasions of the skin and
the bruises might have been produced.
Something was, indeed, said about a recent quarrel between the dead
man and his neighbour, Drownlands; but then, it was asked, when, for
the last nineteen years, had there been an occasion on which they had
met without quarrelling? The quarrel, according to report, had been
inconsiderable, and had concerned nothing more than a flail for which
both men had bidden high. Furthermore, Drownlands, it was ascertained,
had been detained on his way to Prickwillow, before reaching the
spot where the corpse had been found. He had been detained by the
Cheap Jack's daughter on account of the Cheap Jack's sickness. It was
known that Drownlands had summoned his men, and with a team of horses
had removed the van to his rickyard. He had been attentive to the
unfortunate vagabond, and had been at his side till his death.
There was no specifying the exact hour when Runham had fallen into the
water, but, as far as could be judged, it must have been about the time
when Drownlands was occupied with the Cheap Jack.
A floating suspicion that Ki might have had a hand in the death of Jake
did exist, but there was nothing tangible on which a charge could be
based. On the contrary, there was a great deal to show that he was not
present; enough to free him from suspicion.
When the funerals were over,—and both had taken place simultaneously,
the graves being adjacent, one chaplain performing the service over
both,—then the waggons returned. That in which the Cheap Jack's coffin
had been conveyed to its last resting-place was empty. Zita declared
her intention to walk.
Those who had walked behind the waggon of Runham were taken up into it,
the horses started at a trot, and both conveyances were soon far away,
and appeared as specks in the distance.
Zita walked slowly along the road. She was in no hurry. She had to
resolve what she was to do for her maintenance.
Should she pursue the same trade as her father? Would it be safe for
her to do so? At times there was a good deal of money in the van;
and if she, a young girl, were alone, she might be robbed. She had
abundance of ready wit, she had assurance, she had at command the
stock-in-trade of old jokes used by her father, and was perfectly
competent to sell goods and reap profits. But the purchase of the stock
had been managed by her father, and with that part of the business she
was not conversant. Could she manage the van and its stores and the
horse alone? If not alone, then whom might she take into partnership
with herself? Not another girl. A man it must be; but a man—that
would not do for other reasons. The girl coloured as she walked and
pondered on the perplexed question of her future.
She then considered whether it would be advisable for her to dispose
of her van and its contents. But she saw that she could do so only at
a ruinous loss. Her situation would be taken advantage of. The damaged
goods would not sell at all, unhelped out in the exaggerations, lies,
the flourish and scuffle of a public auction. All the articles were
not, indeed, like the tin kettle and the 'own plantation tea.' Some
were really good. A majority were good, but the collection was spiced
with infirm and defective articles.
If she did dispose of the van and her stock, what should she do
with herself? Into service she could not go—the bondage would be
intolerable. Into a school she could not go—she had no education. To
become a dressmaker was not possible—she could not cut out. To enter a
factory of any sort was hardly to be considered. She knew no trade. She
could befool the general public—that was her sole accomplishment.
As she walked along, musing on her difficulties, she was caught up by
a young man, dressed in deep mourning. At first he made as though he
would pass her by, for he was walking at a greater pace than hers, but
after a few steps in advance he halted, turned back, and said in a
kind tone—
'We are both orphans. You lost your father on the same night as that on
which I lost mine. They have been buried on the same day, and the same
service has been read over both. I am Mark Runham; you are the Cheap
Jack girl.'
'Yes, I am Cheap Jack Zita.'
'I could not call you by any other name; your real name I did not know.
Let us walk together, unless you desire to be alone.'
'Oh no.'
'When I was in the waggon, with my dead father in the coffin before me,
I looked forward, and then I saw you—you, poor little thing, sitting
alone, with your head bowed down over your father's coffin. I thought
it infinitely sad. You were all alone, and I had so many with me.'
Zita turned her face to him.
'You are very kind,' she said.
'Not at all. My heart is sore because I have lost my father—but there
is so much to take the sharpness off my pain; I have my mother alive.
And you?'
'My mother has been dead these five years.'
'And I have many relatives, and more friends. But you?'
'I have none. I am alone in the world.'
'And then I have house and lands. And you?'
'I have the van.'
'A wandering house—no real house. What are you going to do with
yourself?'
'That is just what I was considering as I walked along.'
'Will you tell me your plan?'
'I have none. I have not resolved what to do.'
'I am glad that I have caught you up. I sent on the waggon. I had to
stay behind and make arrangements with the undertaker and the clerk. I
am glad I remained; it has given me the opportunity of speaking with
you. Our mutual losses make us fellows in sorrow, and you seem to me so
piteously lonely. Even when I was in the wain my eyes wandered to you,
and with my eyes went my thoughts. I could not fail to consider how
much greater was your desolation than mine.'
Again Zita turned to look at the young fellow who spoke. He had fair
hair, bright blue eyes, a fresh, pleasant face, frank and kindly.
'I think you sold something to my father,' he said; 'I have heard the
chaps talk about it. You sold it middling dear. A flail—and he paid a
guinea for it.'
'Yes, I sold a flail for a guinea, and another for twelve and six. Mr.
Drownlands bought one of them.'
'And my father the other. I was not at the fair when that took place,
but folk have talked about it. I think, had I been there, I would have
prevented my father bidding so high. The flail was not found with him
when he was recovered from the river.'
'No; it was on the bank.'
'It was probably carried down by the Lark,' said he, not noticing her
words, 'and went out in the Wash.'
The flail! Zita was surprised. One flail she knew that Drownlands held
when she met him, the other she had herself picked up, and had used to
prevent him from continuing his course, and to compel him to assist her
father.
She stood still and considered. The matter was, however, of no
consequence, so she stepped on. If she found the flail at Prickwillow,
she would take it to Crumbland. It belonged to Mark Runham by right.
'What is it?' asked the young man, surprised at her look of
concentrated thought.
'It is nothing particular,' she answered; 'something occurred to
me—that is all. But it is of no matter.'
'I should like to know what is going to become of you,' said the young
man. 'Have you no kindred at all?'
'None that I know of.'
'And no home?'
'None, as I said, but the van. When that is sold, I shall have none at
all.'
'But you have friends?'
'A friend—yes—Jewel, the old horse. Well, he ain't so old, neither. I
call him old because I love him.'
'I say, when you've made up your mind what to do with yourself, come to
our farm, Crumbland, and tell me.'
'That's blazin' impudence,' said Zita. 'If you want to know, you can
come and ask of me.'
'I cannot do that. Do you not know that my father and Ki Drownlands
were mortal enemies? I cannot set foot on his soil, or he would
prosecute me for trespass. If I went to his door, I would be met with
something more than bad words.'
'Why were they enemies?'
'I do not know. They have been enemies as long as I can remember
anything. Well, you will let me have some tidings concerning you. I
will come out on the embankment near Prickwillow, and you can come
there too. It is so dreadful that you should have no one to care for
you, and no place as a home to go to. If I can help you in any way tell
me. My mother is most kind. As it has chanced that we have both been
made orphans at one time, and as our two fathers were buried, as one
may say, together, and as we are walking home together, it seems to me
that it would be wrong and heartless were I to do nothing for you. To
sit and nestle into my home and comforts at Crumbland and see you
wander forth desolate and alone—the Pharisee couldn't have done half
so bad with the poor man by the wayside, and I won't. I should never
forgive myself. I should never forget the sight of the poor little lass
in black, with the coffin in the great waggon, all alone.'
'You are kind,' said Zita, touched with the honest, genuine feeling his
tones expressed. 'I thank you, but I want no help. I have money, I have
goods, I have a horse, and I have a home on wheels. And I have—what is
best of all—a spirit that will carry me along.'
'Yes; but one little girl is a poor and feeble thing, and the world is
very wide and very wicked, and terribly strong. I'd be sorry that this
bold spirit of yours were crushed by it.'
'Here is the place where I live,' said Zita.
'Yes, that's Prickwillow drove. Here am I, eighteen years old, and I
have never been along it—never been on Drownlands farm, along of this
quarrel. And what it was all about, blessed if I or any one else knows!'
Zita lingered a moment at the branch of the road. Mark put out his
hand, and she took it.
'I'll tell you what,' said she; 'you've been kind and well-meanin' with
me, and I'll give you a milk-strainer or a blacking-brush, whichever
you choose to have.'
Mark Runham was constrained to laugh.
'I'll tell you which it is to be next time we meet; to-morrow on the
embankment—just here. Remember, if you are short of anything beside a
milk-strainer or a blacking-brush—it is yours.'