LITMIR.BIZ

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turned me out o’ employ all about a bit o’ nonsense I said and never meant, and when I wor sober never remembered to ha’ said; so, mad wi’ sorrow and anger, I--I gone and done it with that there bit o’ candle-end.”

      “Oh, Roger, Roger! you have made matters much worse for yourself, for all.”

      “I might ha’ made it worser still.”

      “You could not--now. Oh, what will become of you, and what of your poor wife and little ones?”

      “For me, as Jan Tottle said, there’s the gallows; and I reckon for my Jane and the childer, there’s the grave.”

      “If you had not fired the rick, Roger!”

      “I tell you I might ha’ done worse than that, and now been a free man.”

      “I cannot see that.”

      “Put your hand down by my right thigh. Do you feel nothing there, hanging to the strap round my waist?”

      Kate felt a string and a knife, a large knife, as she groped.

      “Do you mean this, Roger?”

      “Yes, I does. As Jan Tottle wor a-wrastlin’ wi’ me here in this boat, and trying to overmaster me, the thought came into my head as I might easy take my knife and run it in under his ribs and pierce his heart. Had I done that, he’d ha’ falled dead here, and I’d a’ gotten scot-free away.”

      “Roger!”

      Kate shrank away in horror.

      “I didn’t do it, but I might. I’d no quarrel with young Jan. He’s good enough. It’s the old fayther be the hard and cruel one. I knowed what was afore me, as young Jan twisted and turned and threw me. I must be took to Exeter gaol, and there be hanged by the neck till dead--but I wouldn’t stain my hands wi’ an innocent lad’s blood. I wouldn’t have it said of my little childer they was come o’ a murderin’ villain.”

      Kate shuddered. Still holding fast the cord that constrained the man, and kept him in his position of helplessness, she drew back from him as far as she could without surrendering her hold.

      “I had but to put down my hand and slip open my clasp-knife--and I would have been free, and Jan lying here in his blood.”

      She hardly breathed. A band as of iron seemed to be about her breast and tightening.

      “Kitty,” said the man, “you have fed me with bread out of your hand, and with your hand you have wiped the salt tears from my eyes. With that hand will you give me over to the gallows? If you do, my death will lie on you, and those of my Jane and the little ones.”

      “Roger, I am here in trust.”

      “I spared Jan. Can you not spare me?”

      Kate trembled. She hardly breathed.

      “Let me go, and I swear to you--I swear by all those ten thousand eyes o’ heaven looking down on us--that I will do for you what you have done for me.”

      “That is an idle promise,” said Kate; “you never can do that.”

      “Who can say what is to be, or is not to be? Let me go, for my wife and poor children’s sake.”

      She did not answer.

      “Let me go because I spared Jan Pooke.”

      She did not move.

      “Let me go for the little dead Joan’s sake--that when she lies i’ the churchyard, they may not say of her, ‘Thickey there green mound, wi’ them daisies on it, covers a poor maid whose father were hanged.’”

      Then Kate let go the string, it ran round the rowlock, and the man scrambled to his feet.

      “Cut it with my knife,” he said.

      She took the swinging knife, opened the blade, and with a stroke cut through the cord that held his wrists.

      Then Roger Redmore shook the strings from his hands, and held up his freed arms to heaven, and cried, “The Lord, who sits enthroned above thickey shining stars, reward you and help me to do for you as you ha’ done for me. Amen.”

      He leaped from the boat and was lost in the darkness.

      A minute later, and John Pooke, with a party of men among whom was Pasco Pepperill, came up.

      “John,” said Kate, “he is gone--escaped.”

      She drew the young man aside. “I will not deceive you--I let him go. He begged hard. He might have killed you. His little Joan is dead.”

      John Pooke was at first staggered, and inclined to be angry, but he speedily recovered himself. He was a good-natured lad, and he said in a low tone, “Tell no one else. After all, it is best. I shouldn’t ha’ liked to have appeared against him, and been the occasion of his death.”

      Kate returned with her uncle to Coombe Cellars.

      “I hope my new boat is no worse,” said he. “How is it you’ve been out all night?”

      Kate told her story.

      “The boat is all right, I suppose. She cost me six pounds.”

      “Yes; no harm is done to it. I hope aunt has not been anxious about me.”

      “What, Zerah? Oh, she’s in bed. I waited up, and when there was a cry of fire ran out.”

      “You waited for me, uncle?”

      “I had my accounts.”

      “And father--was he anxious about me?”

      “Your father? You come in, and you’ll hear his snore all over the house. He’s a terrible noisy sleeper.”

      CHAPTER VIII

       AN ATMOSPHERE OF LOVE

       Table of Contents

      After the fierce north-east wind came one from the south-east, whose wings were laden with moisture, and which cast cold showers over the earth. It is said that a breath from this quarter brings a downpour that continues unintermittently for forty-eight hours. On this occasion, however, the rain was not incessant. The sky lowered when it did not send down its showers, and these latter were cold and unfertilising. “February fill dyke, March dry it up,” is the saying, but March this year was one of rain, and February had been a month of warmth and sunshine, which had forced on all vegetation, which March was cutting with its cruel frosts and beating down with its pitiless rains.

      That had come about in Coombe Cellars which might have been anticipated. Kate had been sent across the water with the scantiest provision against cold, and with no instruction as to how to act in the event of delay of the atmospheric train. She was not a strong child, and the bitter cold had cut her to the marrow. On the morning following she was unable to rise, and by night she was in a burning fever.

      Kate had an attic room where there was no grate--a room lighted by a tiny window that looked east across the river.

      Against the panes the rain pattered, and the water dripped from the eaves upon the window-ledge with the monotonous sound of the death-watch. Hard by was the well-head of a fall-pipe, in which birds had made their nests, and had so choked it that the water, unable to descend by the pipe, squirted and plashed heavily on the slates below.

      A candle, brought from the kitchen, stood on the window-shelf guttering in the wind that found its way through the ill-fitting lattice and cracked diamond panes. It cast but an uncertain shimmer over the face of the sick girl.

      On the floor stood an iron rushlight-holder, the sides pierced with round holes. In this a feeble rushlight burned slowly.

      Beside the bed sat Mrs. Pepperill, and the old rector of Coombe-in-Teignhead stood with bowed head, so as not to

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