or what else, wipe my face with it, will’y. There’s something, the dew or the salt water from the oars, splashed over it.”
The girl passed her shawl over the man’s face.
“Thank’y kindly,” he said. Then he drew a long breath and continued his story. “Well, now, when wife and I saw as little Joan were gone home, then her rose up and never said a word, but laid her on our ragged bed; and I--I had the candle-end in my hand, and I put it into the lantern, and I went out. My heart were full o’ gall and bitterness, and my head were burning. I know’d well who’d killed our Joan; it were Farmer Pooke as 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
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,
