BORROWING
“It is you—you two!” exclaimed Pepperill, as he reached the summit. He
gasped the words; he could not shout, so short of breath was he. His
face with heat was purple as a blackberry. “What’s the meaning of this?”
He held to a projection of granite, and panted. “Interfering with
law—protecting a scoundrel.” He paused to wipe his face. “A malefactor—a
criminal—guilty”—again gasped like a fish out of water—"guilty of
incendiarism, of arson, of felony!"
“Why, Pasco, you’re hot. Keep cool, old boy,” said Jason, laughing. “Who
has created you constable, or sheriff of the county, that you are so
anxious to apprehend rogues?”
“Rogues? rogues? Only rogues assist rogues in escaping the reward of
their deeds.”
“Is there a warrant out for his apprehension?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then what on earth makes you put yourself in a heat and commotion to
catch him?”
Pasco mopped his brow, and, tearing up some ferns, dry though they were,
proceeded to fan his face.
“Why? Do you ask? For the public security, of course. And now”—again he
puffed—"now I can’t talk; my wind is gone."
Pepperill looked into the ravine. He could see that the men on the
farther side of the stream were at a nonplus. The fugitive had escaped
them, had dived out of their sight into the coppice-wood, and they knew
that pursuit was in vain. He turned sharply on his brother-in-law.
“This is your doing—you and Kate. First you give him work, and then you
let him escape. He who helps a felon is a felon himself.”
“My dear Pasco,” said Jason Quarm, laughing, “what makes you so fiery in
this matter?”
“Fiery? of course I’m fiery. And look there, Jason! There are the
workmen, a dozen of them, doing nothing, and we shall have to pay their
wages for a half day, and nothing to show for it.”
“Whose fault is that? You sent them from their tasks.”
“Yes, to catch a villain.”
“Which was no concern of yours.”
“It is a concern of mine, and of every honest man. How can one be safe
with such a malefactor at large? I have my house, my stores; I shall not
be able to sleep at night with ease, knowing that this fellow is at
large. If anything happens, I shall come on you.”
“You’ll get nothing from me.”
“That is the worst; I know it. Why did you help the man to escape? No
one is safe—no one. And I, least of all; for now he regards me as his
enemy. He has sworn vengeance; he may come on me and cut my throat.”
“Not much throat to be cut, Pasco.”
“There is my money-box”—
“Box, not money.”
“He may set fire to my house—my barns—burn me and my wife—your
sister—Kitty—your daughter. Don’t you care for that?”
“I am not afraid. If you went after him, and have angered him, well, we
helped him, as you suppose, and have won his good-will.”
“As I know. Have I not found you here? Who else could have rolled down
the rocks? Show me your hands. There, I said so!—there is blood on
Kate’s hands; they are cut and bruised. She has been doing what she
could; and you, her father, who ought to have known better, have
encouraged her. Rascals! rogues!—rogues all!”
“And oh, how honest am I!—eh, Pasco?”
“Of course I’m an honest man. I don’t encourage burglars, and murderers,
and incendiaries.”
“I did not know that Redmore was a murderer or a burglar.”
“Who can say but, having been an incendiary, he may go on to murder and
plunder; these things run together. One who can commit arson is capable
of doing the other crimes as well. I shall have to drive back to
Ashburton alone.”
“Kitty returns with you.”
“What help is there in Kitty? That fellow Roger, full of rage and desire
of revenge, is about the woods, and may shoot me.”
“He has not a gun.”
“He may spring upon me with his axe.”
“He has thrown it away,” said Kate.
“You mind your own concerns,” exclaimed the angry man, turning on his
niece. “There are plenty of ways in which he may fall on me and murder
me, and then he will pick my pockets and make off in my clothes, and
Kitty will help him.”
“You are talking nonsense, Pasco. Are you such a weakling that you
cannot defend yourself? But, pshaw! the man will not injure you.”
“He will steal by night to Coombe. His wife is there; his children are
there. He knows where I am. He has sworn revenge against me.”
“When? When he escaped?”
“No; before I set the men after him.”
“Before he knew you would hunt him? A probable story!”
“Probable or improbable, it is true. I threatened him, and I would have
arrested him, but could not. Kate knows I had him by the throat; but he
was armed with his axe, and I could not retain him. Then he swore he
would do me an evil turn, and he will keep his word.”
“He cannot harm you; he is afraid for himself.”
“He can harm me. He can do to my house, my stores, what he did to
Pooke’s rick.”
“Well, that would not hurt you greatly; you are insured over value.”
“Not over value, with the wool in.”
“You were a fool about that wool, Pasco. Why did you not consult me
before dealing with Coaker? I knew of the fall.”
“Oh, you know everything. You knew that the Brimpts oak bark was worth
three times more than it is; and now you are felling, without
considering that the bark at present is practically worthless.”
“The sap doesn’t run.”
“If the sap ran like the Dart, it would not make the bark sell for tan.
You either knew nothing about the conditions, or you wilfully deceived
me; and I dare be sworn it was the latter. I can believe even that of
you now, a favourer of incendiaries.”
“Come, do not be extravagant. What other criminals have I ever
favoured?”
“I am too hot and too angry to argue,” retorted Pasco. “But I want to
know something for certain about this Brimpts wood. It is well enough to
cut it down, but what I want to know is, how will you transport the oak
so as to make it pay?”
“Sell on the spot.”
“To whom?”
“To timber merchants.”
“They will reckon the cost of carriage.”
“We shan’t have to pay for it.”
“We shall sell at a good price.”
“We shall sell! Such oak as Brimpts oak is not to be had every day.”
“Have you offered it to anyone—advertised it?”
“No, I have not. Time for that when it is all felled.”
“You will make as much a misreckoning in this as you have along of the
bark.”
“Trust me. The oak will sell high.”
“You said the same of the bark. All your ducks are swans. I _must_ have
money.”
“So must I,” said Quarm. “I want it as the March fields want April
showers.”
“I am in immediate need,” urged Pepperill.
“In a fortnight I shall require money to pay the men their wages,”
observed Quarm.
“I have nothing. You were right; I have a cash-box, but no cash in it. I
have paid away all I had.”
“Dispose of something,” said Quarm cheerily.
“Dispose of what? Coals? No one wants coals now.”
“Then something else.”
“Wool, and lose on every pound? That were fatal. I have not paid for all
the wool yet. I want money to satisfy the coal-merchant, money to meet
the bill I gave Coaker; and then the agent for the bank which has its
hold on the Brimpts estate says we may not remove a stick till
everything is paid.”
“Then do not remove,” said Quarm. “Sell on the spot.”
“To whom?”
“There are plenty will buy.”
“Why have you not advertised?” asked Pasco testily.
“For one thing, because I did not know you were in immediate need of
cash; for the other, because, till the timber is down, it cannot be
measured. Never sell sticks standing. A timber merchant will always buy
the trees before felled, and many a landowner is fool enough to sell
standing trees. The merchant knows his gain; the landlord does not know
his loss.”
“Felled or unfelled, I must realise. My condition is desperate. I cannot
meet any of the demands on me.”
Pepperill had lost his purple colour. He wiped his brow again, but this
time the drops did not rise from heat, but from uneasiness of mind.
“You have drawn me into this Brimpts venture, and I have now all my
fortunes on one bottom. If this fails, I am ruined; there will remain
nothing for me but to sell Coombe Cellars, and then—I am cast forth as a
beggar into the roads. I have trusted you; you must not fail me.”
“Oh, all will come right in the end.”
“The end—the end! It must come right now. I tell you that I have to meet
the demands of the bank, or I can do nothing with the sale of the oak,
and all now hangs on that. Owing to the ruinous purchase of Coaker’s
fleeces, I am driven to desperate straits. I cannot sell them at a loss.
I calculated it with the schoolmaster—a loss of some hundred and twenty
pounds. You must help me out of my difficulty.”
“I can but suggest one thing. Go to Devonport, and see if the Government
Dockyard will buy the oak. Ship-building can’t go on without material.
If Government will take the timber, you need not concern yourself about
the bank’s demand; it will be satisfied, and more than satisfied, that
the money is safe. Bless you! in these times a man is happy to see his
money within twelve months of him, and know he must have it.”
“I don’t mind; but I’ll go to Devonport at once,” said Pepperill.
Whilst the conversation thus detailed was taking place, the three had
crossed a strip of moor that intervened between Sharpitor and the high
road, walking slowly, for Pasco was fagged with his scramble, and Jason
was crippled.
“I don’t mind,” said Pasco again. “But I shall want a few pounds to take
me there, and my pockets are empty.”
“I can’t help you. Mine wouldn’t yield if wrung out.”
“Here comes the parson,” said Pepperill—"our parson, jogging along as if
nothing were the matter and went contrary in the world. I’ll borrow of
him."
“Oh, uncle,” protested Kate, flushing crimson, “pray do not, if you have
no chance of paying.”
“You impudent hussy, mind your own concerns,” answered Pasco angrily.
“I, with no chance of paying! I’m a man of means. I’ll let you see what
that signifies. How d’ y’ do, parson?”
“What! my churchwarden?” exclaimed Mr. Fielding, drawing rein. “What
brings you to the moors?”
“Business, sir, a trifle with regard to oak timber. I’ve bought the
Brimpts wood—cost me a few hundred, and will bring me a thousand.”
“Glad to hear it, Mr. Pepperill;—and then we shall have a double
subscription to our school.”
“I daresay, Mr. Fielding; I’m a free man with my money, as you and
others have found. And, by the way, talking of that, could you kindly
accommodate me with a little loan of a few pounds. I started from home
without a thought but of returning to-day, and I learn that the
Government has an eye on these oaks—first-rate timber—and I must to
Devonport to strike a bargain. I won’t come to their terms, they must
come to mine. Such timber as this is worth its weight in gold.”
“How much do you want, Mr. Pepperill?”
“How much can you spare, Mr. Fielding?”
“Well, let me see.” The rector of Coombe opened his purse. “I have about
six guineas here. I shall want to retain one for current expenses. When
can you let me have the loan returned.”
“Any day. I’ll drop you a line to my wife—or—on my return. I’m only
going to Devonport to get the best price for the timber, and then I
shall be back. If you can spare me five guineas—or five sovereigns—I
shall be obliged. You know me—a man of substance, a man of means, a warm
man. We represent the Church, do we not, Mr. Fielding? and hang
Dissenters all, say I.”
“I can let you have five pounds,” said the rector; “I see I am short of
silver.”
“That will suffice,” answered Pasco, with dignity. “I will let you have
it back directly I have settled with Government about the oaks.”
Mr. Fielding gave Pepperill the gold, then excused himself, as he
desired to reach home before dark, and rode on his way.
“I had no idea that to borrow was so easy,” said Pasco. “Of course, all
depends on the man who asks. Everyone knows me—sound as the Bank of
England.”
“And same thing,” said Quarm; “all depends on the man solicited.”
Then Pepperill, with his hands in his pockets and head in the air, his
spirits revived as though he had borrowed five hundred pounds in place
of five pounds, walked towards Dart-meet Bridge humming the old harvest
song,—
“We’ve cheated the parson; we’ll cheat him again;
For why should the vicar have one in ten?
One in ten?
We’ll drink off our liquor while we can stand,
And hey for the honour of Old England!
Old England!”