I felt that I had brought danger not only upon myself but also upon the Trethewys. I was in some doubt whether by going to them again that night I might not be bringing danger nearer them, but the impulse to be beside them if danger were there impelled me to go. I arrived about nightfall. I found Trethewy himself preparing to leave the house. He had been bidden to go and help in repairing a threatening breach of a milldam some way up the stream, and he evidently felt surprised and suspicious about the errand on which he was sent. Replying to a look of enquiry in my face, he said: “Sir, I never disobeyed my master’s orders yet.” “No,” he added, looking suddenly abashed, “I behaved badly enough by my old master, but I never disobeyed orders, and I should not like to begin doing so now.” I said that, if he went I should stay at his house till he returned. He said, “It would be a kindness that I should always remember, sir.” And so he went.
Poor Mrs. Trethewy appeared ill-pleased at my presence. She seemed to guess that my coming was in some way to disturb their peace. I fancied that, in getting the mastery over his drinking and his wrathful ways, Trethewy had become very gentle and submissive to his wife. In her days of difficulty I had been used to admire her for the way in which she brought up her daughter. I now did not think her improved by finding herself more the mistress of her house than she was wont to be. Still she was civil enough, and willing, after the girl had gone to bed in a sort of cupboard off the parlour-kitchen, to entertain me with her best conversation. I interrupted by telling her frankly that I knew she wished to keep her daughter in ignorance of all concerning Peters’ murder, and the suspicion that had arisen about it, but that I feared that she would find it impossible, for I had learned that day that rumour had followed them to their new home. From my heart I pitied her, for she seemed utterly cast down as she began to realise that Ellen must come to hear all, if indeed she had not heard it already.
Suddenly the girl burst into the room and threw her arms round her mother’s neck. “Oh, mother, mother!” she said, “I cannot keep on deceiving you. Dear, kind mother, who wanted to deceive me for my good. I would have given so much that you should not know this, but grandmother told me all.” “Go to bed now, dear,” said her mother; “I cannot bear more tonight.” The mother too went to bed, and I lay down under a rug upon the sofa.
I had no intention of keeping awake all night. Gladly as in my excited state I would have done so, it was a necessity that I should get such rest as I could. I lay on a shakedown which Mrs. Trethewy provided for me, and I thought of Florence and of one whom I had left at Florence. Then I slept, and I dreamed, dreamed that she was ill and wanted me. I woke with a horrid start as someone in my dream pronounced the word “poison.” Thank God, it was a dream. I assured myself of that and slept again to dream more pleasantly.
I dreamed I was a boy and I was swimming in a clear river. Cool, cool river!
There was a fish in the river, and I was swimming after the fish. Cool, cool river!
It was an ugly fish, and I was pursuing it, and the river was warm.
The fish was Vane-Cartwright, and I was pursuing him. Warm, warm river!
The river was gone from my dream, and I was pursuing Vane-Cartwright over a great plain. Warmer and warmer!
I pursued him through thick woodlands. Sultry and stifling!
I pursued him over a great mountain. Burning, burning hot!
I leapt to my feet calling “Fire!”
In waking fact, the thatched cottage was in a blaze.
I called with all my might to Mrs. Trethewy. I told her to run out while I brought out her daughter, and she answered.
I burst into the girl’s little room on the ground floor. It was full of smoke; she was suffocating before she could wake. I tore her from her bed, and bore her through the door and on to the footbridge. I turned my head back towards the house to call again to Mrs. Trethewy, when a hoarse cry of “Fire!” came from the other direction, and a man—he seemed an old grey-bearded rustic—ran on to the bridge towards the door, dashed with full force against us, and overturned me and my half-conscious burden.
I do not know just how we rolled or fell, but we were in the water. I had managed still to hold Ellen Trethewy with my right arm, and with my left hand to catch the edge of the footbridge. I could not by any effort have pulled us both out or raised her on to the bridge, but it was easy to hold our heads above water, for we were against the pier of the bridge, in between the two currents that shot under the arches. Mrs. Trethewy would be there in a moment and could help us out; or—why did not that old rustic help us?
They say that men in moments of extreme peril take in all manner of things with extraordinary rapidity, but I do not know whether I really saw all as I see it in memory now, or whether what I did was from accident and the instinct of fear.
I glanced up, and the old rustic stood over us raising a mighty stick which I thought was not unlike that which Vane-Cartwright had carried in the morning. So much I did see and think.
One good blow and
