Visit https://ebooknice.

com to download the full version and

explore more ebooks

(Ebook) SQL and Relational Theory: How to Write

Accurate SQL Code by C. J. Date ISBN 0596523068

_____ Click the link below to download _____

https://ebooknice.com/product/sql-and-relational-
theory-how-to-write-accurate-sql-code-2207488

Explore and download more ebooks at ebooknice.com

Here are some suggested products you might be interested in.
Click the link to download

(Ebook) SQL and Relational Theory: How to Write Accurate SQL Code by
C. J. Date ISBN 9780596523060, 0596523068

https://ebooknice.com/product/sql-and-relational-theory-how-to-write-
accurate-sql-code-55460786

(Ebook) SQL and Relational Theory: How to Write Accurate SQL Code, 2nd
Edition by C. J. Date ISBN 9781449316402, 1449316409

https://ebooknice.com/product/sql-and-relational-theory-how-to-write-
accurate-sql-code-2nd-edition-2402130

(Ebook) SQL and relational theory : how to write accurate SQL code by
Date, C. J ISBN 9781449316402, 9781449319748, 9781449319755,
1449316409, 1449319742, 1449319750

https://ebooknice.com/product/sql-and-relational-theory-how-to-write-
accurate-sql-code-5428890

(Ebook) SQL and relational theory : how to write accurate SQL code by
Date, C. J ISBN 9781491941133, 9781491941157, 9781491941171,
1491941138, 1491941154, 1491941170

https://ebooknice.com/product/sql-and-relational-theory-how-to-write-
accurate-sql-code-5428894
(Ebook) Effective SQL: 61 Specific Ways to Write Better SQL by John L.
Viescas & Douglas J. Steele & Ben G. Clothier ISBN 9780134579078,
0134579070

https://ebooknice.com/product/effective-sql-61-specific-ways-to-write-
better-sql-38442488

(Ebook) The Language of SQL: How to Access Data in Relational

Databases by Larry Rockoff ISBN 9781435457515, 143545751X

https://ebooknice.com/product/the-language-of-sql-how-to-access-data-
in-relational-databases-1834812

(Ebook) View Updating and Relational Theory: Solving the View Update
Problem by C. J. Date ISBN 9781449357849, 1449357849

https://ebooknice.com/product/view-updating-and-relational-theory-
solving-the-view-update-problem-6744180

(Ebook) Database Design and Relational Theory: Normal Forms and All
That Jazz by C. J. Date ISBN 9781484255391, 1484255399

https://ebooknice.com/product/database-design-and-relational-theory-
normal-forms-and-all-that-jazz-11063546

(Ebook) Functional Programming in C#: How to write better C# code by

Enrico Buonanno ISBN 9781617293955, 1617293954

https://ebooknice.com/product/functional-programming-in-c-how-to-
write-better-c-code-6855324
SQL and Relational Theory How to Write Accurate SQL
Code 1st Edition C. J. Date Digital Instant Download
Author(s): C. J. Date
ISBN(s): 0596523068
Edition: 1
File Details: PDF, 1.92 MB
Year: 2009
Language: english
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Perfect
World: A romance of strange people and
strange places
 This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away
or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License
included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the
laws of the country where you are located before using this
eBook.

Title: The Perfect World: A romance of strange people and

strange places

Author: Ella M. Scrymsour

Release date: December 27, 2019 [eBook #61028]

Most recently updated: February 11, 2020

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed

Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PERFECT

WORLD: A ROMANCE OF STRANGE PEOPLE AND STRANGE PLACES
***
 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)

CHAPTER PAGE
I. STRANGERS COME TO MARSHFIELDEN 11

II. THE CURSE 20

III. THE LIGHT 33

IV. THE OUTLET 42

BOOK II

THE UNDERWORLD

I. A STRANGE MEETING 53

II. THE ORIGIN OF THE PEOPLE 65

III. RELATING TO HISTORY 79

IV. OUT INTO THE GREAT BEYOND 88

V. A FRIEND FROM THE ENEMY 95

VI. THE LAIR OF THE SERPENT 102

VII. ON THE WAY TO THE TOMB OF KORAH 109

VIII. THE TOMB OF KORAH 115

IX. THE PAPYRUS 122

 X. THE ESCAPE 129

BOOK III

EXIT THE WORLD

(After the War)

I. AT WALLA BALLA 139

II. HOME AGAIN 154

III. THE AIRSHIP 166

IV. THE END OF THE WORLD 173

BOOK IV

THE PERFECT WORLD

I. IN SPACE 187

II. ADRIFT IN THE SOLAR REGIONS 194

III. THE VISION OF A NEW WORLD 204

IV. JUPITER AND THE JOVIANS 211

V. DEATH IN JUPITER 223

VI. THE SACRAMENT OF SCHLERIK-ITATA 232

VII. HATRED ON KEEMAR 244

VIII. THE UNFORGIVEABLE KISS 256

IX. ALAN—THE KNIGHT ERRANT 265

X. THE CAVE OF WHISPERING MADNESS 270

XI. THE WRAITHS OF THE RORKAS 282

XII. THE FATE OF KULMERVAN 292

XIII. THE SENTENCE UPON ARRACK 296

XIV. THE HALL OF SORROWS 302

XV. THE TRIUMPH OF AK-ALAN 307

XVI. THE PERFECT WORLD 316

ENVOI 320
 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
Welcome to our website – the ideal destination for book lovers and
knowledge seekers. With a mission to inspire endlessly, we offer a
vast collection of books, ranging from classic literary works to
specialized publications, self-development books, and children's
literature. Each book is a new journey of discovery, expanding
knowledge and enriching the soul of the reade

Our website is not just a platform for buying books, but a bridge
connecting readers to the timeless values of culture and wisdom. With
an elegant, user-friendly interface and an intelligent search system,
we are committed to providing a quick and convenient shopping
experience. Additionally, our special promotions and home delivery
services ensure that you save time and fully enjoy the joy of reading.

Let us accompany you on the journey of exploring knowledge and

personal growth!

ebooknice.com