JOHN CORRIE was now fairly in the net. He reached his cottage in a
condition verging on collapse, physical and mental, and slinking round to
the back, gained admittance by the window of his own room, from which he
had emerged an age, as it seemed, ago. He stood listening. . . . Not a
sound. What was his sister doing? He must see her at once—not to tell
her anything, but to discover whether she had learned of his having been
out of doors.
But first he must remove traces of the outing. Having lit the candle, he
got off his boots, and the black muffler. They must be got rid of.
In stocking feet he stole to the shop, and there made a parcel which he
laid on a high shelf behind a row of tomato tins. In another part of the
shop he hid his jacket in similar fashion. And then a most sickening
thought struck him and almost wrecked his fear-tossed mind. The
staff—Almighty! what on earth had made him fling it in the ditch? Sooner
or later a search would be made; might even be going on now! Presently,
his mouth craving water, he went unsteadily, spilling candle-grease by
the way, to the kitchen.
And there he found his sister, in a heap on the floor. She was inert,
but fully conscious. Somehow he managed to drag her up and place her in
the arm-chair by the cold hearth. Then he got water, and gave her some,
took a draught himself, and sat down by the table. On a sudden
inspiration he blew out the candle. A wakeful, curious person might
wonder to see a light at such an hour. Besides . . .
For perhaps twenty minutes the two wretched beings sat huddled in their
chairs, motionless, speechless, while a feeble greyness began to filter
slowly through the darkness. Then the woman spoke, neither to the man
nor herself, but as to a third person, invisible, somewhere in the
shadows.
“I hope he died quick. . . . I hope he didna feel the fire. . . . I did
it for my brother’s sake. I promised mother I would look after him.”
Corrie rose and sat down again. He was not going to tell her that Sam
had escaped the flames.
There was another silence, and through it came the sound of a person
running on the dry road. Presently the sound gave place to that of
knocking, then cries—shouts—more knocking—then running again—several
persons—cries and shouts once more. . . .
Through the greyness the man and woman peered at each other’s pallid
countenances. And she was thinking of a little brother she had tended
long, long ago; and he was thinking of a clublike staff lying in a ditch.
The scattered noises from the village grew to a commotion. Corrie
dropped forward, his elbows on his knees, his face between his hands.
Suddenly the woman got up and came over to him, and laid her hand on his
shoulder, and said with a strange tenderness—
“Dinna be feared, John. Ye’re safe. The letter’s bound to be ashes by
now.”
Then she shrieked, for the room was lit by a blinding flash, and she fell
to her knees. Almost immediately the house shook under an appalling
crash. The long threatened storm had burst at last.
There was a pause as though to allow Earth to take one long breath before
the storm and deluge—which were to prove memorable in Dunford and
district.
Not many minutes had passed when something like hope came to John Corrie.
Unless the staff were already discovered, he was safe so far as it was
concerned, for now the ditch would be rushing a foot deep. His wits
began to work again. Even if young Hayward had picked up the letter. . . .
He drew Rachel to her feet, saying shortly but not harshly: “Get to your
bed, woman. I’m for out.”
“Out!” she echoed faintly. “Would ye face the wrath o’ God?”
“I would face the folk, in case they wonder. Besides, ye canna be sure
that—that he’s burnt wi’ the house.”
“Oh, God!” she whispered; and a moment later—“John, bring me word he’s
alive, and I’ll take oath it was me that stole the Zeniths!” She moved
gropingly from the room.
So Corrie, having put on his Sunday boots and oilskins, went out into the
storm to face his fellows. He did not encounter his poor victim, who was
already on the way, in a summer visitor’s motor-car, to the nearest
hospital, twenty miles distant; but he heard talk of concussion of the
brain and a villainous-looking tramp seen in the village the previous
night; also he beheld the ruins of the shanty and the brimming ditch.
But for something white on the sodden grass he looked in vain; and young
Hayward, it seemed, had disappeared after doing what he could for the
postman.
It was nearing four when Corrie returned home. The storm had ceased,
though fine rain still fell on torn-up roads, ruined crops and flooded
meadows. He told Rachel exactly what he had heard, and added a little
more.
“He was found by young Hayward. Supposing he had the letter in his hand
when he was struck, where is it now?”
She was too exhausted by the revulsion, too thankful, to think it out.
“If you’re in danger, John, I’ll take the blame,” she faltered. “We’ll
hope the letter was burned.”
“But if it’s not burned, what about Symington?”
“He mun give back the shares.”
“Ye talk foolishness, Rachel!”
“I’m wearied. I canna grasp aught except that I didna commit black
murder. Let me be till the morning.”
Afraid to say more lest he should betray himself, he let her go.
At eight o’clock, the moment the wire was open, he sent a telegram to
Symington—
“Come at once.”
About eleven, Symington’s housekeeper, purchasing provisions, mentioned
in the course of her chatter on last night’s affair—the sole topic of
conversation in Dunford—that young Mr. Hayward had called to see her
employer at six o’clock that morning.
“What was he wanting at such an hour?” Corrie managed to say.
“He didna name his business, but he took a note o’ the address in
London.”
This added to Corrie’s uneasiness, though he could conceive of no
connexion between the early call and the letter.
About an hour later, a customer casually referred to his having observed
young Hayward enter the morning train for the South, at Kenny Junction.
At that Corrie wellnigh gave up. All morning he had hoped against hope
that Hayward would return the letter to its owner—himself. Now he was
forced to face two dreadful possibilities: first, that Hayward had
recognized him last night; secondly, that Hayward knew Kitty’s address in
London. And before long he perceived a third: namely, that Symington,
elated by the enormous rise in Zeniths, might have been talking openly
about his shares. Corrie felt like making a bolt for it. Vain to
imagine mercy from Kitty after all that had passed! Only the idea that
Hayward’s recognition would be a difficult thing to substantiate and the
thought of his sister’s promise restrained and sustained him.
He called Rachel into the post office at a moment when no business was
doing. They had scarcely spoken since three o’clock.
“Do ye stand by what ye said about the—the shares?” he asked her, not
without shame.
“Aye; I’ve promised,” she answered dully.
“They’d be easier on a woman than a man,” he observed, looking away.
“It doesna matter.” She turned to go back to the shop.
“Symington’ll be here to-night,” he pursued. “There ought to ha’ been a
letter from him this morning, so I wired him. Maybe we’ll manage to put
everything right yet. I wish we had your niece’s address.”
She faced him. “If I had it, I wouldna tell ye,” she said quietly.
“It’ll be enough if I ha’ to sacrifice myself. Speak no more to me about
this business, John Corrie, for I ha’ nothing more to say. Only terrible
thoughts.” And with that she left him.