For over six months Marshfielden was unvisited by the “Light”. The inhabitants were settling down and work had begun again in earnest. Alan had been promoted second overseer at the mine, and as he had a firm way with the men, those under him worked diligently and well. Traces of sorrow were left on every one’s face. It was impossible to eradicate them in a few months; years would not wipe away the affliction that had come into their lives.
The little village was opened up now. Motors traversed its cobbled streets, and the inhabitants so far allowed themselves to become “modernized” that the sign “Teas provided here” could be seen in nearly every cottage window down the street.
The influx of so many strangers made them forget the “Curse” and as once they believed in it, now they believed just as firmly that the disasters that had come upon them were wrought by some human agency. These six months of peace and quiet they hoped were precursors of the future. Inspector Vardon left the place, and nothing remained outwardly to remind them of the terrible past.
Then suddenly they woke up once more to sorrow. Two horses were found to be missing, and with them the little stable boy who tended them. The “Light” had returned!
Once more voices were hushed and heads were shaken gravely, as every one talked of the tragedy. A week passed, then Mrs. Skeet disappeared, and a few days later Mary Slater. The place swarmed again with detectives; the papers were again alive with the renewal of the tragedies.
The men in the mine worked silently; the only thing to break the stillness was the sound of the picks on the coal seams, or the running of the trolleys up and down the roads. Each feared to think of the horror that might await him when he reached his home at the end of his day’s work.
The dinner hour came round, and each man sat silent and glum, eating his bread and meat, and uttering only a monosyllable now and again to his particular chum.
Suddenly there came a dull roar; the men rose to their feet in haste. They knew only too well that ominous sound—it was familiar to them all.
Mr. Dickson appeared, his face ashen. “An explosion in the South Road,” said he. “Rescue parties to work at once.”
In an instant everything was forgotten but the one desire to help their brothers in distress. With picks and ropes and lanterns they hurried down the main road, just at the bend of which a sheet of flame flared out suddenly, entirely enveloping the first man, and setting his clothing on fire.