ON the afternoon of the same day, which happened to be the weekly
half-holiday, Rachel Corrie returned from a longish walk undertaken, as
she had announced to her brother at dinner, in the hope of relieving a
severe headache. In these days it was for her a rare occurrence to leave
the house at all, and a common one to have a headache, but Corrie had
been too self-engrossed to be moved by surprise or sympathy.
Entering the cottage, Rachel certainly did not look much the better of
the outing; she seemed, in fact, to be suffering from a faintness, for at
first she leaned awhile against the closed door, and she crept slowly and
unsteadily up the passage, keeping her hand on the wall for support.
Presently she was peering into the darkened shop; listening, also. Ere
long her brother’s voice came indistinctly from the post office beyond;
she gathered that he was checking figures with the assistant. Rachel
appeared to nerve herself, then stepped stealthily into the shop. On a
nail in the wall, just behind the door, she hung a ponderous key—the
spare key of the mill, which had been idle that day for the first time in
several weeks. For fully a minute she stood motionless save for her
breathing, her hand pressed hard to her heart; then, with a heavy sigh,
she stole out and laboriously ascended to her room. She was wholly spent
as she fell upon her bed, yet at the end of an hour she was down in the
kitchen preparing the evening meal, to which her brother would come when
he had finished with the inward evening mail.
Of late John Corrie’s appetite had been indifferent; to-night it seemed
to have failed him altogether. He sat there speechless, now and then
taking a sup of tea, and never once allowing his gaze to fall on his
sister—not that she, poor soul, could have met it for an instant.
Nevertheless, at last she forced herself to speak.
“Can ye no’ eat, John?”
He shook his head impatiently. “Let me be. I’m no’ hungry.”
With her eyes on the cloth she said in a strange gentleness of tone:
“John, dinna trouble over much. Maybe everything ’ll come right yet.
Dinna be vexed wi’ me, but I believe—John, I believe that if ye took pen
now and wrote to Kitty, telling her the truth—” She stopped short, so
dreadful was his expression.
“Let that be,” he growled, “or ye’ll drive me stark mad. Peace!—no’
another word!” He got up and strode from the room.
In his pocket was a letter, the postmark on which would have told that it
had been posted in London about midnight; a letter which he had been
expecting for days, consisting of one pencilled word—“Arrested”—with
neither address nor signature. And by that solitary word Corrie’s soul
was racked, as between a man’s last hope and his final terror.
Alone, Rachel put her hand to her face.
“Oh God,” she murmured, “if only it had been possible. . . . But now the
candle mun be left to burn—burn to the end. . . . Maybe—oh, surely—I’ll
save him yet.”
In her methodical way she cleared the table, washed the dishes, and set
the kitchen in order. Afterwards she sat by the fire and tried to read
the morning’s paper. She noticed that on the previous day Zeniths had
risen to £6, but the sensational advance moved her not at all. Long
after she had ceased to read she kept staring at the printed page. At
seven o’clock, feeling her strength ebbing, and knowing how vital it was
that she should conserve every spark of energy in her, she went up to her
room and lay down. There was still another hour, possibly more, to wait
and endure. . . .
At last—at last the sound of running and excited shouts . . . a
thundering on the door below . . . the opening of the door—
“Mr. Corrie, the mill’s on fire!”
A pause that seemed an age, then her brother’s voice, harsh, yet almost
calm—
“Rachel, the mill’s on fire!”
“I’m coming,” she tried to call, producing naught but a croak.
She got to the window in time to see him hastening away in the failing
light. She made no attempt to follow just then. She lingered, crouching
there behind the curtain, until the heavy silence informed her that
practically the whole population of Dunford had bolted to the scene of
destruction. Then body and wits under control once more, she took the
implements she had prepared, cloaked herself and set out on the road to
the mill. Not a soul was in sight.
Her destination was the White Farm. At the door she knocked, ready to
plead faintness should the unexpected happen. But no one came. She had
gauged pretty accurately the duty sense of housekeeper and servants in
the master’s absence. One and all had incontinently deserted the place
and their occupations to see the fire she had raised. A chained dog
barked wildly; she did not appear to hear it.
The door was not locked. She entered and without hesitation climbed the
stair. She had been welcome in the house in the old and happier days of
Symington’s parents. She had often seen the strong box in its original
place in the sitting-room. Doubtless it was upstairs. She was counting
on that. If he had lately got a safe she had burned the mill to no
purpose. . . . But God would not let her be cheated so, for was it not
all done for her brother’s salvation? . . .
And now she was in the apartment above the sitting-room. The light was
very dim, but she soon found what she sought. In a moment the chintz
cover was off and laid aside. Then in a sort of splendid fury, with
heavy, powerful tools, she attacked the lock, wrenching, twisting,
thrusting, driving, heedless of the attendant noise.
And at last the mauled and shattered thing gave. With a fierce blow of
hammer on sturdy screw-driver she drove it inwards. The heavy lid
yielded. The bundle of Zenith certificates were there for her to take.
She hid them in her dress. . . .
She swept up the smallest trace of her work, closed the lid, and neatly
replaced the chintz cover. There would be no discovery till Symington
himself made it. As she left the house she glimpsed, away to the left, a
smoky glow, over the hollow that hid the mill. Without a second glance
she set out for home along the still deserted road.
Having bolted the cottage door and returned the tools to their place, she
sat down to examine her prize.
“The scoundrel has parted wi’ 500 shares!” she muttered after a careful
recount of the certificates. “Poor John, it was an evil day when ye let
Alec Symington into this house. But Kitty ’ll forgive ye a tenth part o’
her fortune—if she doesna, I’ll offer her every penny I possess. Oh,
John, I think I’ve saved ye; and some day I’ll confess to ye about the
mill. I’ll never regret it. . . . But what’s this?”
She had become conscious of a folded paper, unlike in texture the
certificates, lying on her lap. She must have inadvertently picked it
from the strong box along with the bundle. It was endorsed “Lease of
House at 73 Lester Road, Richmond, Surrey.” She opened it and read. . . .
“So he’s got a house at that place,” she reflected. “Well, it’s none o’
my business. I wonder if John kens. Likely no. . . . I’ll ha’ to try
to put it back in the box—no! I’ll risk nothing for that scoundrel’s
sake! He can want his lease!” She made to toss it into the fire, then
drew back. “I’ll keep it in the meantime along wi’ the shares till the
time comes for telling John. . . . The sooner they’re hid the better.”
She rose, and stood wavering. “Oh, God, but I’m weak,” she whispered.
“Help me to win through.”
* * * * *
It was late when her brother came in, begrimed and drenched. She had a
meal all but ready for him.
“Tell me about it, John,” she said, as he came to the fire in dry
garments. “I couldna gang—couldna bear to see it.”
“Ye would ha’ seen a grand blaze,” he returned bitterly. “There’s
nothing left—new machinery and all!”
“Well, well,” she said soothingly, “it’s a fine thing an insurance
policy.”
“Very fine—when ye’ve paid the premium.”
Stopping short in her hospitable task, she stared at him. “But ye ha’
paid it a month back!”
“Did I? . . . The days o’ grace were up three weeks back, but—but I
had—ower many other things to think about.” A groan burst from him, he
put his hands to his head. “Three thousand pound gone up in three
hours!”
Rachel’s mouth opened, but she was dumb. As if frozen she stood there by
the table, a plate of cut bread in her hand.
“Aye,” he went on heavily, “and I’ll take my oath it was no accident, for
the place where the fire started—”
With a strangled cry the woman tottered and fell crashing across the
table.
Ghastly, Corrie sprang to her assistance. Stumblingly he carried her to
his chair by the hearth. She was not unconscious; her collapse had been
mainly physical. Blood was dropping from a gash in her wrist.
“Dinna heed me,” she murmured; “I’ll be all right in a minute, John.”
He fetched water and cloths, knelt, washed the wound and bandaged it
awkwardly yet with some tenderness. Slow tears ran down her cheeks.
“Am I hurting ye, Rachel?” he asked.
She shook her head.
He spoke again. “I shouldna ha’ told ye so quick about the insurance.
Dinna keep thinking on it.” Then with obviously a great effort—“Ye’ve
been a good sister to me, Rachel. I—I wish I had been a better brother.”
His words left her speechless. What had come to him?
He answered the unspoken question.
“Money’s no everything, after all,” he said hoarsely, shamefacedly.
“When I saw ye fall I thought ye were killed—thought I had killed ye—wi’
ma tongue. And—and just for an instant I saw myself without ye—alone—in
this house—in this place—in the whole world. I had never thought o’ it
that way before.” He sighed, and got to his feet. “We’ll say no more
about it, Rachel, but I’ll try to treat ye better from now.” He cleared
his throat, and averting his gaze said: “I wish I had never set eyes on
Symington.”
Rachel restrained herself then, not for her own sake, but for his. For
his own safety he must not know her secret a moment before the time was
ripe. Moreover, though his kind words had moved her deeply, they had not
healed her wounded trust in him.
All she could say was: “Ye’ll aye find me ready and willing to help ye,
John; and it’s never too late—”
“I doubt it.” He sighed again heavily. “But things mun take their
course now. . . . Ye’d better gang to your bed, or ye’ll be useless in
the morning, and I’ve got to be early at the mill. I’ll get my supper
myself.”
She went without a word.
Corrie sank into his chair.
“Almighty!” he moaned to himself, “what devil started me speculating on
the Stock Exchange? . . . Gone, the savings o’ a lifetime! . . . And
now the mill that would ha’ sold for enough to save me and maybe my
savings likewise—in ashes—just ashes! It’s ruin, black ruin, unless
Symington does all he’s promised. . . . And the postman’s getting
better! . . . God! I’d write to Kitty this night, if it wasna too
late—but now I’m damned in her eyes for ever and ever!”
* * * * *
Small wonder if it were indeed so!
In the study at Aberdare Mansions, Colin, very pale, sat staring at a
sheet of typewritten paper, which Risk had put into his hand, saying—
“My sister, as I’ve already explained, found this on her return to the
flat. Steady, now!”
On the sheet was written, in apparent haste, the following:—
“Dear Hilda,—
“A detective has come to arrest me. He says it’s the Post Office.
I’m not a bit afraid, only sorry to trouble you so. Sam will see me
through. Good-bye for a little while.
“Kitty.”