AND YET ANOTHER
Pasco ran on, easily surmounting the hedges which he had clambered over
with difficulty on his way to Coombe Cellars. He reached the track by
the water’s edge, and ran along that without once looking behind him,
and only paused when he arrived at the point at which he must strike
inland, to his left, leaving the river margin to ascend the sloping
shaws in the direction of the shed where tarried Kitty with cob and
cart. Here he halted, and a chill ran through his arteries, making him
shiver and his teeth chatter. He was hot with running, yet withal in an
icy tremor, and with a feeling of swimming in his head and sickness at
his heart.
The thought had risen up in him, an almost tangible thought, like a
great beast coiled in his heart, stretching itself, getting on its feet,
and turning. The thought was this—that it was not too late to save his
brother-in-law. He might return, unlock the store, rush in, and drag the
unconscious man down from the heap of coals, through the smoke and
flame. The fire had not yet reached him; it was tonguing up the heap,
sending the tips of its flames tastingly towards him; the fire was hot
beneath, but the crust still upheld the man in the sack; would it be so
much longer? As the coals were consumed beneath, there would be formed a
great core of red fire, and if Jason moved, the crust would give way,
and then, shrieking, unable to assist himself, he would drop into that
glowing mass, where the cords would be burnt to free him, but only when
it would be too late for him to escape.
Had Jason already woke from his trance, and was he cuddled up in his
sack, watching the approaching flames, crying for help, and getting
none? Was he tearing at his bands with his teeth, writhing—trying to
precipitate himself down the black mound of combustible material, in the
hopes of being able to roll along the floor to the door? And if he
succeeded so far—what more could he do? Nothing but watch the fire grow,
break out in gushes of scarlet and orange, pour forth volumes of
stifling smoke, and then lie with his mouth below the door, gasping for
the air that rushed in beneath.
Shuddering, Pasco Pepperill stood with eyes open, looking into the
night, seeing all this as really as though the vision were unrolled
before his naked eyes. He dared not look behind him, his neck was stiff,
and he could not turn it—he could not even turn his eyes in the
direction of the Cellars.
Should he retrace his course and free Jason? Could he not rely on Jason
to remain silent after this terrible experience? But what if he arrived
too late? What if the fire had already broken out, and had laid hold of
its prey? Why should he give himself the lasting horror of seeing what
he must then see? And of what avail would it be to the burning man?
It was too late. Pasco had taken his line, had cast his lot, and there
was no return. He resumed his run up the hill, through the meadows; the
wind blowing off the river assisted him. When he reached the field in
which was the shed, he knew that Coombe Cellars was no longer visible.
There was a shoulder of hill between.
But though the Cellars might not be visible, the sky overhead might show
redness, might throb with light; and lest he should see this, he fixed
his eyes resolutely in an opposite direction.
In crossing the field he no longer ran. He had lost his breath ascending
the hill; he walked slowly, panting, and ever and anon stopped to wipe
his brow, and remove his hat, that the cool wind might play about his
wet hair.
The qualm of conscience relative to Jason was overpassed, and now
Pepperill congratulated himself on his success. Now—all was as could be
desired, there was nothing to inculpate him, no one to turn evidence
against him, except—
There was one person, and one only, who was a danger to Pasco; one
person, and one only, who knew that he had been to Coombe Cellars after
having ostensibly left it; one, and one only, that he had been on the
spot precisely at the time when, presumably, the fire broke out.
If Kate Quarm were to speak, then what he had done was done in vain; the
Company would refuse to pay the sum for which his stock was insured, and
he might be suspected of having caused the death of his brother-in-law.
Would not Kate speak—when she knew that her father was dead? Might she
not make dangerous admissions should there be an inquest? The charred
corpse or burnt bones would be discovered when the ashes of the store
were removed, and Jason’s cart and ass being in Coombe, would lead to
the conclusion that he, Jason Quarm, had caused the conflagration and
had perished in it. It would be supposed that he had gone to the
Cellars, and, finding it locked and no one within, had taken shelter for
the night in the warehouse, where he had lit his pipe, gone to sleep,
and inadvertently had set fire to the coals and wool.
But then—what might Kate be brought to say if questioned by the coroner?
Pepperill entered the shed and called the girl. He called twice before
he received an answer. Then he struck a light, and as the match flared
he saw before him the drowsy face of Kate.
“Oh, uncle! What a long time you have been away! I fell asleep.”
“Long time? I have not been a quarter of an hour. I ran to the Cellars
and ran back the whole way.”
“It has been more than a quarter of an hour, Uncle Pasco. I waited,
watching for ever such a time, and then I went to sleep.”
“You are mistaken. Because you shut your eyes you think the time was
long.”
“What is that, uncle, you are burning?”
“A lucifer match.”
“How did you get it alight?”
“By striking it on the box.”
"How could that light it? Is there a bit of tiny flint on the match and
steel on the box?
“No, there is not. I don’t know how the fire comes—but it comes
somehow.”
“That must be a very curious contrivance, uncle.”
“Whether curious or not is no concern of yours.”
He struck another match and held it aloft. The girl stood on one side of
the cart, he on the other. The lucifer flame twinkled in her eyes. Her
hair was ruffled with sleep.
As Pasco looked at her by the dying flame, he was considering what to
do. He had no doubt that he was insecure so long as she lived.
Desperate, hardened, projected along an evil course, could he withhold
his hand now and not make himself secure? Would it not be weakness as
well as folly to allow this testimony to remain who could at any moment
reveal his guilt? But if he were to strike her down with a stake or
stone, what could he do with the body?
“Take care, uncle,” said Kate. “There is dry furze here. If the spark
falls, there may be a blaze.”
He extinguished the match with his fingers. He did not desire that his
course should be marked by fires.
“Is there much furze here, Kitty?” he asked in a smothered voice.
“Oh no! only just under foot.”
“No great heap in a corner?”
“None, uncle.”
“Not enough to cover you over if you were asleep.”
Kate laughed and answered, “I would never lie on furze if I could help
it, and be covered with it—I should be tormented with prickles. I sat
down and laid my head against the hedge that makes the back of the
linhay.” He was prodding the bedding of furze with his whip. “It is all
fresh,” said Kate. “I reckon Miller Ash is going to turn his cow in
here, when he has taken away her calf.”
“Ah! she has calved?”
“Yes; last week.”
“True—the cow will be here to-morrow, or in a couple of days.” To
himself he muttered, “It won’t do”—then aloud, “Jump into the cart,
Kitty. We must push on. You drive out, I will open the gate.”
In another minute Pasco Pepperill was in his seat with Kitty at his
side, driving in the direction away from the Cellars.
He feared every moment to hear her say, “Uncle, what is that light
shining over Coombe? Can there be a fire?”
Instead of that she said, “Uncle, did you see nothing of my father? I am
quite sure that was he who drove by after we had got into Mr. Ash’s
field. I heard his voice. I know his way with the donkey. I am quite
certain that was father.”
“Your father?—no. Never set eyes on him. You were mistaken.”
“I am sure it was my father. I know the rattle of the cart wheel.”
“I say it was not; and take care how you say a word about ever having
gone into the field, and about my having returned to the Cellars.”
“Why, uncle?”
“Because Ash will summons me for trespass, and because my horse ate the
grass. That’s one reason; but there’s a better one—I don’t choose that
you should speak.”
Kate was accustomed to his rough manner, and she did not answer.
Then Pasco’s mind began to work on the theme that had occupied it
before. He had been seen driving out of Coombe with Kate at his side.
But what of that? Would it not be a sufficient answer to give, were she
not to be seen again, that he had met Jason Quarm on the road, and that
the man had taken his daughter with him, and that thereupon both had
perished in the flames?
The more he considered the matter, the more essential to his security
did it seem to him that Kate should be got rid of. The only
embarrassment he felt was as to the means to be employed, and the place
where it was to be done. Not till she was removed could the weight now
oppressing his mind be cast off.
“Uncle,” said Kate after a long course in silence, “I cannot think how
that lucifer acts, if there be no flint and no steel. How else can the
match be made to light?”
“How is no matter to me—kindle it does, somehow.” Then, abruptly, “Have
you got your cotton dress on? The wind is from the east and chilly.”
“Oh no, uncle, I have on my thick woollen dress, and am very warm—thank
you kindly for considering me.”
“The thick wool, is it?”
“Yes, uncle—very sure, very thick and warm.”
Then that would not do. It had occurred to him to drop a lighted match
on her frock, set her in flames, and throw her out into the road at a
lonely spot. No, that would not do. He reversed his whip and beat the
cob with the handle.
“Diamond is not going badly, uncle,” said Kate in mild remonstrance.
He was in reality trying the weight of the whip handle and the stiffness
of the stem. That would not effect his purpose; there was no metal to
signify at the butt-end. The horse did not greatly mind a blow dealt it
with a full swing of its master’s arm.
Pasco bore no malice against his niece. In his cold fashion he liked
her. She was useful in the house, and saved him the expense of a maid.
It was doubtful whether any servant would have been as submissive to
Zerah as was Kitty, whether any would have continued so long in service
to her. He had forgotten his momentary resentment at Kate refusing the
offer of John Pooke. He wished the girl ill for no other reason than his
own safety. Had he been able to send her away, out of the country, that
would have satisfied him. But as there was no opportunity for getting
her out of the way without hurt to himself, she must be removed by such
means as were possible to him.
How to do this, and where to do it, remained undecided. Not where he
then was could it be attempted, for he was now approaching Newton. The
lights were twinkling through the trees, cottages were passed with
illumined windows, and sometimes with persons standing in the doors.
On entering Newton, Pepperill turned his horse’s head to make a detour,
so as to avoid passing the inn that had been rebuilt after having been
burnt down. For some reason undefined in his own heart, he shrank from
driving before that house.
In a few minutes the cob was trotting along the Ashburton road. Pasco
looked behind him. He heard the sound of the hoofs of another horse, and
the rattle of other wheels. Some traveller was on the road that night.
“Uncle,” said Kate, “I think the moon is going to rise.”
“I suppose so.”
“Will it not be grand on the moor, with the moon shining over it, and
the Dart flowing like silver below?”
“Silver? I wish it were silver, and I’d pocket it,” growled Pasco. “Dang
it! what is that which is following?”
He slackened his pace, but the conveyance did not pass him; it
approached, and the driver was content to keep in the rear.
“Will you go on?” shouted Pasco, turning his head.
“No, we’ll remain as we are,” answered the driver.
“How far are you going?”
“To Ashburton.”
Well, thought Pasco, the loneliest, wildest part of the road is that
between Ashburton and Brimpts.