Whether it was that my fancies pursued me to the inn, or that
Vane-Cartwright’s words had unconsciously impressed me, I took and
have retained a great dislike to the gentleman who was just arriving
at the inn. He came, as he said, for dry-fly fishing, but his accent
and his looks showed him to be native to a land where dry fly-fishing
is, I believe, not practised. He was near me and about me several
times in the course of that day, and though he molested me in no way,
my dislike deepened. It was now near midday and I contemplated taking
no further step till evening, so I had plenty of time for thought, and
I needed it. It may be imagined that I was in a state of some tension.
I had rested little since I left Vane-Cartwright’s hotel at Florence,
and on arriving at the inn I had news which increased my agitation. My
wife had telegraphed to my home saying she had gone for a day or two
to the Hôtel de Brunswick, saying also, that I must pay no attention
to any wire, purporting to be from her, which did not contain the word
“Fidele”. Evidently there was some one in Florence whom she suspected
would send false messages. I conjectured that Vane-Cartwright had an
understanding with the Mafia, and had obtained through them the
services of some villain. Well, here was a wire: “Regret to acquaint
respected sir, Mrs. Driver suddenly unwell.—Direttore Hôtel
Brunswick.”
There is one advantage about being tired. It prevents the mind from
wandering away on so many side tracks. But with all that advantage,
whatever it may be worth, it took me a full half-hour to make up my
mind how to regard this; but I came back to my first impulse, not on
the first occasion to disregard what my wife herself had undoubtedly
telegraphed.
On the other main points I may acquit myself of having wavered, and I
will not mystify the reader more than I mystified myself. I had not
the faintest doubt that Vane-Cartwright’s suggestion about the
Trethewy family, whatever its object might be, was a well-acted lie.
However, I determined to follow the suggestion to some extent. I got
hold of the landlord; he was all that Vane-Cartwright had said, and on
a very slight hint he began talking of the Long Wilton murder and of
the charge against Trethewy. I was disgusted to find that suspicion
had followed the people here. It was not clearly to Vane-Cartwright’s
interest that it should follow them, and I suppose it was accident. I
found that the landlord was well posted as to Trethewy’s story and all
the proceedings in regard to him. As he went on hinting suspicion of
him, I said it was a curious thing about those tracks. “Ah,” said he,
“little feet can wear big shoes;” and he looked wise. “About that lass
now of Trethewy’s, not but what I like the lass,” he was continuing
after a solemn interval, but I need not try to repeat his talk. The
upshot of the suggestion was simply this, that the girl had stepped
out in her father’s boots and made the tracks, knowing full well that
she could ensure the detection of the false tracks hereafter, but for
which of two reasons rumour was not certain. Either it was really to
fasten false suspicion on her father till the guilty man, a lover of
hers presumably, made good his escape; or her father had committed the
crime, and she knew it, and to save him had fabricated against him
evidence which he and she knew would be broken down.
It was not a likely story to tell to me, and I was inclined now, not
for the first time, to be thankful that however great a fool I might
be, I looked a greater fool than I was. By putting me up to eliciting
this story, Vane-Cartwright had merely supplied me with knowledge
about the situation of the Trethewys which I might find useful in
dealing with them.
I felt that I had brought danger not only upon myself but also upon
the Trethewys. I was in some doubt whether by going to them again that
night I might not be bringing danger nearer them, but the impulse to
be beside them if danger were there impelled me to go. I arrived about
nightfall. I found Trethewy himself preparing to leave the house. He
had been bidden to go and help in repairing a threatening breach of a
mill-dam some way up the stream, and he evidently felt surprised and
suspicious about the errand on which he was sent. Replying to a look
of enquiry in my face, he said: “Sir, I never disobeyed my master’s
orders yet”. “No,” he added, looking suddenly abashed, “I behaved
badly enough by my old master, but I never disobeyed orders, and I
should not like to begin doing so now.” I said that, if he went I
should stay at his house till he returned. He said, “It would be a
kindness that I should always remember, sir”. And so he went.
Poor Mrs. Trethewy appeared ill-pleased at my presence. She seemed to
guess that my coming was in some way to disturb their peace. I fancied
that, in getting the mastery over his drinking and his wrathful ways,
Trethewy had become very gentle and submissive to his wife. In her
days of difficulty I had been used to admire her for the way in which
she brought up her daughter. I now did not think her improved by
finding herself more the mistress of her house than she was wont to
be. Still she was civil enough, and willing, after the girl had gone
to bed in a sort of cupboard off the parlour-kitchen, to entertain me
with her best conversation. I interrupted by telling her frankly that
I knew she wished to keep her daughter in ignorance of all concerning
Peters’ murder, and the suspicion that had arisen about it, but that I
feared that she would find it impossible, for I had learned that day
that rumour had followed them to their new home. From my heart I
pitied her, for she seemed utterly cast down as she began to realise
that Ellen must come to hear all, if indeed she had not heard it
already.
Suddenly the girl burst into the room and threw her arms round her
mother’s neck. “Oh, mother, mother!” she said, “I cannot keep on
deceiving you. Dear, kind mother, who wanted to deceive me for my
good. I would have given so much that you should not know this, but
grandmother told me all.” “Go to bed now, dear,” said her mother; “I
cannot bear more to-night.” The mother too went to bed, and I lay down
under a rug upon the sofa.
I had no intention of keeping awake all night. Gladly as in my excited
state I would have done so, it was a necessity that I should get such
rest as I could. I lay on a shake-down which Mrs. Trethewy provided
for me, and I thought of Florence and of one whom I had left at
Florence. Then I slept, and I dreamed, dreamed that she was ill and
wanted me. I woke with a horrid start as some one in my dream
pronounced the word “poison”. Thank God, it was a dream. I assured
myself of that and slept again to dream more pleasantly.
I dreamed I was a boy and I was swimming in a clear river. Cool, cool
river!
There was a fish in the river, and I was swimming after the fish.
Cool, cool river!
It was an ugly fish, and I was pursuing it, and the river was warm.
The fish was Vane-Cartwright, and I was pursuing him. Warm, warm
river!
The river was gone from my dream, and I was pursuing Vane-Cartwright
over a great plain. Warmer and warmer!
I pursued him through thick woodlands. Sultry and stifling!
I pursued him over a great mountain. Burning, burning hot!
I leapt to my feet calling “Fire!”
In waking fact, the thatched cottage was in a blaze.
I called with all my might to Mrs. Trethewy. I told her to run out
while I brought out her daughter, and she answered.
I burst into the girl’s little room on the ground floor. It was full
of smoke; she was suffocating before she could wake. I tore her from
her bed, and bore her through the door and on to the footbridge. I
turned my head back towards the house to call again to Mrs. Trethewy,
when a hoarse cry of “Fire!” came from the other direction, and a
man—he seemed an old grey-bearded rustic—ran on to the bridge towards
the door, dashed with full force against us, and overturned me and my
half-conscious burden.
I do not know just how we rolled or fell, but we were in the water. I
had managed still to hold Ellen Trethewy with my right arm, and with
my left hand to catch the edge of the footbridge. I could not by any
effort have pulled us both out or raised her on to the bridge, but it
was easy to hold our heads above water, for we were against the pier
of the bridge, in between the two currents that shot under the arches.
Mrs. Trethewy would be there in a moment and could help us out; or—why
did not that old rustic help us?
They say that men in moments of extreme peril take in all manner of
things with extraordinary rapidity, but I do not know whether I really
saw all as I see it in memory now, or whether what I did was from
accident and the instinct of fear.
I glanced up, and the old rustic stood over us raising a mighty stick
which I thought was not unlike that which Vane-Cartwright had carried
in the morning. So much I did see and think.
One good blow and I should have been stunned, if my brains were not
out. Whether we got entangled in the eel grating or were carried right
under the fish-house into the pool, there was little chance for either
of our lives if that blow had fallen where it was aimed.
I let go my hold on the bridge and threw my head back, and the stick
crashed idly on the bricks of the margin. I tried to get one long
breath before we went under, but I swallowed a horrible gulp of water.
Good chance or my convulsive effort guided us into the arch for which
I would have steered. Under one arch the old eel grating remained. I
did not know its structure, and I did not know whether the trap-door
over it was fastened down, but there was little hope that we should
pass that way alive. Under the other arch, as I had found that
morning, the grating had long been removed, and down that archway the
strong stream was carrying us, safe, if it did not throttle us on the
way. How long a passage I thought it, though the rush of the water
seemed so headlong. I could feel the slimy growth on the brick archway
above us, and my nostrils were for a moment above water though my
mouth was pressed under. Then we were under the floor of the
fish-house, and my head rose and I got a gulp of air, but my head
struck a joist of the floor, and the stream swept me on, ducking
involuntarily under another joist and another. We were out in the
pool, sucked down in the bubble and swirl of the eddy. I opened my
eyes and could see the glare of the fire through great green globes of
water. I was on the surface; I was swimming with great gasps; I was
under again; I was exhausted. My feet struck on pebbles: I was
standing in the shallow water. I still held the body. Was it lifeless?
Three strides and I should land her on the bank. No, my steps sank in
some two feet of almost liquid mud. The dragging of my steps furnished
just the little further effort needed to spend my remaining breath. I
sank forward on the reeds and flags of the margin, with one last
endeavour to push her body in front of me, and I lay, helpless and
panting horribly, beside her, while a man came and jumped into the
marshy fringe of the pool and stood over us. That dire old rustic, I
felt no doubt, and I felt no care. No, it was the girl’s father.
In the morning, shooting down that same dark cool avenue of sweet
water, and swept without an effort far out into the swirling
reed-fringed pool, I could not have imagined how hardly and how ill I
was to pass that way again with a living or lifeless burden.
She lived; the first shock of the water had roused her, and she had
kept a shut mouth, a steady grasp where it least incommoded me and a
heroic presence of mind.