PUDDICOMBE IN F
The mystery of the disappearance of Jason Quarm was not cleared up; on
the contrary, it had become more profound. The excavation of the ruins
had revealed nothing. It had disclosed no remains of the lost man, and
opinions were divided. Some contended that the intense heat of the mass
of coals, a heat which had split the flooring slates and burnt the soil
beneath them to the depth of six inches, reddening it like brick, that
this heat had completely consumed the unhappy man. On the other hand,
others asked, How could that be? Some of the wool was scorched, not
burnt; a man would make his way from fire; he had eyes and arms, and
though Quarm was crippled, yet he could extricate himself from danger,
or at all events use his powerful lungs so as to call for help.
Moreover, Quarm wore brass buttons. Even if his body had been resolved
to ashes, the molten buttons would be found; but no metal of any sort
had been discovered on the floor.
To this responded the first: If Quarm were not burnt, how was it that he
had not put in an appearance? His bundle of clothes was found in the
cart. If he had escaped, he would surely either have made known his
escape, or have gone off with his parcel of necessaries. Some hinted
that, finding the Cellars locked, he had made his way into the
warehouse, there to spend the night, and had gone to sleep with his pipe
alight, and the pipe had set fire to combustibles in the place. But
then, supposing this, why was his body not found if he had been
smothered by smoke? and if he had escaped, why had he not gone off with
donkey, and cart, and bundle? There was the puzzle.
Others hinted that Pasco Pepperill was the gainer by the fire, and that
he had had a finger in setting the stores alight. It was suspicious that
he had sent away his wife, and had gone away with his niece just before
the conflagration broke out. There was an ugly rumour afloat, that he
had returned secretly to the Cellars, and had there met and quarrelled
with his brother-in-law. This rumour was constructed out of the reported
admission of Kate, and something, it was believed, that the schoolmaster
had said. But neither of these, on being interrogated by the
inquisitive, would say a word. The schoolmaster, with the cheek of a
stuck-up creature, had answered all inquiries with the question, “Who
has authorised you to catechise me? If the matter is brought into court,
I will say what little I know on oath before the magistrate. I will say
nothing to self-constituted inquisitors.”
Whenever this answer of the schoolmaster was repeated, and it was so a
hundred times in the course of a week, it never failed to elicit an
indignant remark, generally couched thus: “Them schoolmasters want
setting down. They’re owdacious cocky monkeys. But they’re a low
lot’they must be taught their place, which is under our heels. They
gives theirselves airs, as if they was parsons and knew everything, but
they lives on our voluntary subscriptions, and unless they come to eat
humble-pie, we’ll withdraw our farthing-in-the-pound rate. ’Tisn’t for
our pleasure or profit they exist, but just because of a fad o’ the
pass’n. Mr. Puddicombe was the man for us. Him we could respect. And now
they sez that Mr. Puddicombe is compoging a Tee-dum which will cut out
even Jackson.”
The minds and hearts of Kitty and her aunt were sensibly relieved. The
girl had watched the exploration of the cinder heaps with quivering
nerves and brooding fear. What might not each spade disclose? Into what
an object of horror might not her poor father be reduced? But, as the
floor of the warehouse was cleared, and every mass of ash turned over,
and nothing revealed, her heart swelled, and the blood began again to
pulsate in her arteries. She covered her face with her hands, and lifted
her heart half in thanksgiving and half in prayer. And yet, what had
become of him? How was it that, if he were alive, he had given no signs
of life?
It was ascertained that Jason Quarm had not crossed the estuary, either
by the bridge or by boat, at Shaldon. It was inconceivable that he had
traced the creek up to its head, below Newton Abbot, to cross the water
there, as there was no path along the water-side, and he must have come
into the road and made such a circuit as was not possible for a man in
his crippled condition.
At one moment Kitty was sanguine, at the next her spirits fell. It was
to be hoped’nay, believed’that he had not perished in the fire; but was
it not possible’nay, probable’that he had died by some other means, that
he may have fallen into the mud, and been smothered therein? That mud
would swallow up the man that sank in it and never restore him again. If
he had come by his end thus, had he fallen in, or had he been cast in?
Again, with a chill, as if pierced by an icicle, came the thought of her
uncle. Undoubtedly, he could explain all if he chose. He had returned to
the Cellars and found her father there. The altercation which Walter had
imperfectly heard must have taken place between her father and her
uncle. It could not have occurred at that time, in that place, between
any others. Her father had passed by the road as the cart entered the
linhay, her uncle had gone home immediately after. Therefore, these two
had met at the Cellars. What had been the occasion of the quarrel? and
what the result of that quarrel? The result was the disappearance of her
father. How had he disappeared? That, she felt convinced, her uncle
could answer, and he alone. But for motives which she dared not
investigate, he remained silent; nay, worse, he endeavoured, by denial
of his having returned to the Cellars, to cast the suspicion of having
fired the storehouse from himself on other shoulders. These questions
turned and twisted in Kitty’s brain without rest. They occupied her by
day, they tortured her by night. She did not venture to express them to
her aunt. She knew that the same thoughts, the same questions, were
working in her mind; and she knew also that her aunt could not endure
their discussion. Meanwhile, the work of the house must be carried on,
and Mrs. Pepperill called in the assistance of Mrs. Redmore. With their
preoccupied minds, neither she nor Kitty was capable of doing all that
had been done as in days gone by.
Pasco grumbled at the introduction of this woman into his house’the wife
of the wretch who had set fire to the rick of Farmer Pooke, and who had
escaped pursuit. But Mrs. Pepperill did not yield. There were no other
women disengaged in Coombe, and of girls she would have none to break
dishes, and throw away spoons, and melt the blades out of the handles of
knives.
Pasco acquiesced, with a growl, and a malicious look at Kate, and a
mutter that some folk were mighty fond of incendiaries and their
belongings, backing them up, helping them to escape, providing for their
families; to which neither Kate nor her aunt made reply.
Pasco found that he was not comfortable at home; his wife would not
unbend, and Kate kept out of his way. To his boisterous mirth, to his
boastfulness, they made no response; when he stormed, they withdrew. He
was uneasy in himself, suspicious of what men said of him, and alarmed
when he heard from his lawyer, Mr. Squire, that the insurance company
refused to pay the sum for which he had insured. Society, distraction,
were necessary for him. As he could find none at home, he wandered to
the village tavern, the Lamb and Flag, to seek both there.
The first occasion was the evening of the practice of the village
orchestra, and it was attended by every member of the same, not only
because all desired to say something relative to the matter exercising
all minds, but also because the score of a new Te Deum had been placed
before them, the composition of the ex-schoolmaster. Puddicombe in F was
to be rehearsed by the instruments before the vocalists were called in.
Puddicombe in F was expected to be a huge success, and to make
Puddicombe known through the wide world of music, and to render
Coombe-in-Teignhead famous in after generations, just as Exeter was
known as the place which had produced Mr. Jackson, who had won such a
fame with his Te Deum.
Each instrumentalist had his separate sheet of music, and each devoted
himself to his score with seriousness.
Puddicombe in F began with a movement slow and stately, with all the
harmonies in thirds and fifths, and a solemn tum-tum bass. Then,
precipitately, it transformed itself into something headed _Fugg_. If it
had been entitled _fugue_, no one would have understood what was meant.
But “fugg” signified that the instruments were to perform a sort of
musical leap-frog, to go higgledy-piggledy, one after the other, like
children tumbling out of school, with the master behind them threatening
to whack the hindermost.
And, verily, never was a fugue more of a higgledy-piggledy
devil-take-the-hindermost character than this one of Puddicombe in F,
never such a caterwauling of cats that could surpass it in discords,
with random gruntings in and out of the violoncello.
A villager, standing breathless outside, listening, ventured to say to
the landlord, who was smoking complacently at his door, “There don’t
seem to be much tune in it.”
“No; but there’s tremendous noise.”
The landlord drew whiffs, blew out the smoke in a long column, and said,
smiling, “Wait till we come to the _largo molto tranquillo con
affettuoso caprizio_.”
“What’s that?” asked the bumpkin, in an awestruck tone.
“It’s something writ on the music by the hand of Mr. Puddicombe. The
Lord knows what it means!”
The hubbub of the “fugg” came to an end, and the instruments paused,
drew a sort of sigh, and, with stately tread, marched in unison _largo
molto tranquillo con affettuoso caprizio_, and stalked through it to the
end.
“There’s tune there now, and be blowed,” said the landlord triumphantly.
“It’s the tune of ‘Kitty Alone and I,’” retorted the irreverent
countryman, and he began to sing’
“‘There was a frog lived in a well,
Crock-a-mydaisy, Kitty alone;
And a merry mouse lived in a mill,
Kitty alone and I.’”
The instruments behind the lighted window-curtains were hushed. They had
heard the rustic song.
“It is that, ain’t it?” pursued the man. “I’ll sing another verse, and
make sure’
“‘So here’s an end to the lovers three,
Crock-a-mydaisy, Kitty alone,
The Rat, the Mouse, and the little Frogee,
Kitty alone and I.’”
Within, the instrumentalists looked at each other. None spoke for a
minute, and then the ’cello said, in a deep voice, as from a tomb,
“Puddicombe han’t riz to the theme. He’s forgot and worked in that frog
and mouse tune. Not but what it’s a good ’un, only unsootable.”
“It’s easy set right,” observed the first violin. “If you’ll wait,
brothers, I’ll clap on my hat and run up to his house, and get him to
titch it up a bit, and git the Kitty tune out of it altogether. The fugg
was famous.”
“Yes,” said the second violin; “it’s only to stir it about a bit and
shuffle as you do cards. Cut along with all your legs.”
At that moment Pasco Pepperill came up, puffing, looking about him half
suspiciously, half defiantly. “How are ye, gents?” said he. “What!
practising? I don’t mind if I sit a bit and listen to you. I’m fond of
music, especially sacred music, as I’m churchwarden.”