THE JACK O' LANTERNS
'Take it, and keep it,' said Drownlands, handing the will to Zita. 'You
can read. It is as you desired, and on the same condition as before.
That is as you promised.'
'Yes,' said the girl; 'with that I am content.' She put the will in her
bosom.
'Then,' said Drownlands in a tone of sad bitterness, 'for life and till
death we are united.'
'After a fashion, to keep apart.'
'Yes, united to be separate.'
'Like a pair of wheels,' said Zita. 'They keep the concern going, but
have it always between them.'
The day had closed in, and Zita retired to her room to sit at the
window and look out at the dead uniformity of the fen, and the white
line of horizon between it and the darkness above, like a white fringe
to a pall. She desired solitude, that she might review what was past.
The weather was cold. There had been frost, hard and biting, and the
ice clad the water. The snow that had been spread over the land had in
part disappeared, licked up by the dry wind that scaled the waters, and
the land from whiteness had turned to blackness.
The lakes of frozen water would have attracted many skaters during the
day, had not the engrossing excitement relative to the trial of the
rioters engaged the public attention.
The frost had set in with redoubled hardness on the morrow of the
riot, and in four days even the Lark was turned to stone within its
embankments.
As Zita looked out into the night, she could see the heavy sky,
burdened with black clouds, that were ragged as a torn fringe, or a
moth-eaten pall, about the black hard bank of the river, that stood up
sharply against the sky.
The cold was so biting in the fireless room that Zita drew the velvet
curtains about her, which were suspended over her window, covered her
shoulders, and wrapped them about her bosom. There was no light in the
room save the wan reflection from the horizon. Had there been, she
would have formed a pretty picture, folded in crimson velvet, with her
oval face and dark amber hair peeping out of the folds.
She looked dreamily through the window.
A wave of regret had come over her after the exaltation caused by the
sense of self-sacrifice.
She considered how that she had loved Mark, had valued his regard for
herself, had delighted in his society. He had never said to her that
he loved her, yet there had been a look in his blue eyes, a pressure
of his fingers when he took her hand, a softness of intonation in his
voice when he spoke to her, that had said more than words, that had
assured her heart that she was dear to him. And how happy she had
been when she believed that! A solitary child, with no belongings and
belonging to none, a waif thrown upon the desolate fens, she had found
herself lifted into a new region of brightness. Then Mark had become
cool, and had held aloof from her. She had discovered that he was
engaged to Kainie, and could not become disentangled from this tie.
He had been constrained to resign himself to it. Now his interest,
his sympathies, were enlisted on behalf of that girl, because she was
treated with injustice and was exposed to danger. Now he was about to
take Kainie to his house—now, this very evening.
A feeling of resentment against the girl who stood between herself and
happiness swelled in Zita's heart; Kainie threw down the palace of
delight she had built up in the cloudland of hope and fancy. Kainie
snatched Mark from her; and it was for Kainie that she—Zita—had given
up the inheritance offered her by Drownlands.
In the darkness Zita's brow darkened. Angry feelings surged in her
bosom and sent waves of fire through her pulses. She would defy the
world. What need she care for the chatter of slanderous tongues?
Conscious of her own integrity, she would brave public opinion.
She snatched the will from her bosom, that she might tear it in pieces,
and then she would run to the master and bid him make another in her
own favour, as first proposed. Why should she not be his heir?
If Kainie robbed her of Mark, might not she retaliate and take from her
the inheritance of Drownlands?
If she were struck, might she not strike back? Did Kainie need lands
and houses? As Mark's wife, she would be rich without her uncle's
estate added to Crumbland, whereas she—Zita—had not a particle of
soil on which to set her foot and say it was her own. Had not the
master of Prickwillow a right to do what he would with his own? Kainie
had done nothing for him, and she—Zita—was devoting her life to his
service.
As she looked out of the window, musing on these things, she saw that
the light on the horizon had faded, or that the great curtain of cloud
had set over it and had obscured it. Something, where she believed
that the embankment ran, now attracted, without greatly engaging, her
attention.
A minute flash of light travelled a little distance, and was then
extinguished. Presently another wavering speck appeared, and then
again all was dark.
'The Jack o' Lanterns are about,' said Zita.
Her thoughts recurred to her troubles.
A recoil of better feeling set in and washed over her heart.
'No,' said she, 'I could not have borne it. It would have killed me to
have Mark believe that I was sold body and soul. Let him take Kainie,
and with Kainie let him have Prickwillow when it falls;—but let him
not think ill of me.'
She started up. She replaced the will in her bosom.
'I will go to Red Wings,' she said. 'He is there with Kainie. He said
he would take her away this night. I will go and tell him all. I will
show him what I have here;' she touched her bosom where lay the will.
'When he has heard my story and has seen that, he will think better of
me.'
She descended the staircase. At the foot she found the master.
'There are Jack o' Lanterns in the fens,' she said.
'Folks say that they have seen them,' he replied. 'I never have. They
were plentiful before so much marsh was reclaimed.'
'I have seen them,' said Zita.
'Pshaw!' laughed he. 'There are no Jack of Lanterns in winter. Whither
are you going?'
'On the embankment; perhaps on the ice. I wish to be alone.'
She drew a shawl over her head and opened the door. Drownlands followed
her to the doorstep.
At that moment he also for a moment saw a twinkle on the embankment.
'That is what you call Jack o' Lanterns,' said he. 'It is some ganger
going home. Shall I attend you?'
'I desire to be alone.'
Then Drownlands went within, and Zita walked on till she reached the
highway that ran below the embankment. It was so dark there that she
mounted the steep slope, so as to have the advantage of what little
light still hung in the sky and was reflected by the frozen surface of
the river.
As she ascended, an uneasy sensation came over her—a feeling that she
was in the presence of human beings whom she neither saw nor heard. She
stood still, listening. Then, stepping forward, she was again conscious
that she was close upon some invisible person. Feeling alarmed, Zita
was about to retrace her steps, when a light was flashed in her eyes
and a hand grasped her shoulder. Thereupon a voice said in a low tone,
'It is that wench of Drownlands'.' Then she was aware that several men
surrounded her. They had been crouching on the ground for concealment,
at the sound of her approaching foot. Now they rose and pressed about
her. She could distinguish that these were all men, and that they had
black kerchiefs over their faces with holes cut in them, through which
their eyes peered. One alone was not so disguised, and he it was who
spoke to her.
'Unhappy girl! You do not return. Go your ways along the bank, and no
harm will be done to you. We have no quarrel with you, but we have with
your master. This night we strike off a score, pay a debt.'
The voice was that of Ephraim Beamish.
'Throw her in. Send her under the ice. She's a bad lot,' said one of
the men.
'Make an end of all that belongs to Tiger Ki,' said another.
'We do not fight with women,' said Beamish. 'She shall go, but not
return to Prickwillow.'
'What are you about? What harm are you doing?' asked Zita.
'We are serving out chastisement to your master for what he has done to
our lads,' answered Pip.
'You will not hurt him?'
'Not in person.'
'What, then, will you do?'
'Go your way. We are letting the water out over his land.'
Ephraim conducted Zita a little way along the tow-path on the bank.
'Attend to me,' said he. 'Go anywhere you will except back to
Prickwillow. We have our men drawn across the way. You cannot pass,
it is in vain for you to attempt it. Keep to the bank, and keep at a
distance from us.'
'Where is Mark Runham?'
'I have not seen him.'
'He is not in this affair with you?'
'Mark? of course he is not. He knows nothing of our purpose.'
Zita advanced along the path. She was uneasy; desirous, if possible, to
warn Drownlands.
Presently she heard a rush of water.
She turned, and was caught almost immediately by one of the men.
'It is of no use your attempting to go home,' he said. 'It is of no use
your thinking of telling Tiger Ki to be on his guard. It is now too
late.' The man took her wrist and said, 'Go your way, but take care not
to step on the ice—not as you value your life.'
'The ice?—why so?'
'Listen.'
A shrill whine—then a crash. The icy surface of the Lark had split,
then gone down in fragments under its own weight, as the water that had
sustained it was withdrawn.