Ray
Penvenen
habits were sufficiently set to make his movements predictable at most hours of the day or night; but tonight, his last night here, be was perversely late going to bed. Ol
d-maidish: mannerisms had grown on him, and final p
reparations for going, took the form of innumerable scribbled notes to be left with this, servant and with that to remind
them
of their duties, Caroline stood it until half-past ten and
then said.
'You are working overlate tonight, Uncle. There's all to morrow morning to spend before we leave, and it would be the greatest pity
i
f you
found
no way of spending it. Are you coming to bed?'
He looked first at the clock and then
at
her over his glasses.
`I h
ave a little more to do, Caroline. An estate in the country is not like a London house, it cannot be locked
up and left unoccupied. It must continue to be looked to or
it will run into chaos.'
'And are not
Girth and the other men you employ capable of doing
this? I should have thought so
or you would not, employ them.'
`Oh, they know what to do within their limitations. But they lack initiative and, since we shall be away a
month. it
is necessary
to supply it. For instance
' He went on to explain some of the decisions which might need to be made. Since she had asked, he supposed her
to be interested in the
answer; but once or twice he caught her eyes straying, and they were stray
ing in the
direction of the: clock. 'Why do you inquire?' he ended quite suddenly, breaking off in the middle.
Her eyes came, quickly
back. 'Why?' Shouldn't I be interested? It's not unladylike, I suppose? But 1 am also interested in your health. I don't think yen have been looking so well of late, and it would be a, woeful pity to wear yourself out with the effort of making ready to ta
k
e a holiday.'
He looked at her suspiciously, but his suspicion was only of
sarcasm not of deeper motive. When he saw no hint of mockery in her eye
s, he patted her, hand and said
: `There, there, 'I
shall
not be above half an hour more. Go to bed if you are tired, my dear. I am grateful to you for your solicitude.'
She turned
away to hide her frustration,'
and for the next ten minutes pottered about the room on one pretext or another. But still he remained seated, making no move to go. At length she carne back to the, desk and said;
`Well, if you will not leave I must, for my eyes will not stay open. You'll come now?'
`Almost finished. Good night, Caroline.'
He put up
his forehead to
be kissed, and she brushed her
lips perfunctorily over it, forgetting in her anxiety that this was her leave-taking of him, certainly for many months, perhaps for, ever.
Out on the landing above the hall she remembered, but now it was too late. Her shadow kept her comp
any along the corridor to her
bedroom, preceding her like a welcoming innkeeper. In the bedroom she lit a candle and stared at her cloak, her hat, her
scarf, her gloves, all waiting
Her bags were downstairs and in the coach, as also was Horace.. She pulled the bell twice to show that she wanted her maid Eleanor.
When the girl came, she said: My uncle is late tonight. We shall have to delay a little while. Tell Baker, will you.
‘
Are the other servants abed?'
`All b
ut Thomas, miss. 'E be waiting,
for the master, to put out the lights and bar the doors, miss. He be grumbling, Baker say, at being kept abroad so late.'
Caroline bit her lip. `Tell Baker to m
ake no move, until he has gone.
It would be a great disaster if Thomas saw the horses being harnessed.'
`Very good, miss.
Will that be all?'
`No. Make a move as if you were going to bed. If you can, slip out of the house unnoticed and sit in the coach. Thomas otherwise may wonder why you are hanging about. Also I'm, afraid Horace will get terrified in the dark. And he yaps loud when fright
ened. Stay there until I come.'
`Very good, miss.' I'll go fetch my bonnet and cloak,'
`But careful! Don't let anyone see you.'
When Eleanor had left, Caroline paced up and down the bedroom a half-doze
n times, still biting her lip.
Then she
abruptly took up her outdoor things, glanced round to see that nothing was left which should not have been left:, propped the letter for her uncle more prominently on her dressingtable, and snuffed out the candle and left the room.
Her shadow was sulking in its corner. As she moved along the passage, it jumped quickly to follow at her heels. The light was still under the door of the big drawing-room, She hesitated and then slipped into the maid's cupboard on the other side, of the landing: Just room for her among the brushes and the dusters, but she was afraid to move lest something should topple over.
So she stayed another ten minutes, stiff and cramped, the door sufficiently ajar to see the lighted angle of drawing-room door. It must be close on eleven by now.
Mr. Penvenen came out. He was carrying a candle, and a leather case unde
r his arm, The room beyond was n
ow in darkness. He closed the door after him and walked to the candle
-
lamp in the corner and put it out. Then he came straight across to the cupboard where Caroline was standing.
Hypno
tised, like a child caught in a
terrible dream, s
he watched him walk towards her.
Then the door slammed shut in her face and she heard his slippers creaking—
away.
In total darkness she let out a slow breath, began to count, determined not to move too soon. At five hundred she lifted the latch and looked out, The landing was in darkness.
Knowing she might yet bump into Thomas on his rounds, she crept along the corridor to the stairs and stole down them. They had never creaked so much before, Once down, she made for the servants' quarters, which directly adjoined she stables. There was a light in the kitchen and the door was ajar. Baker, her coachman, sat before a low fire in h
is shirt sleeves and stockinged
feet, sharpening a piece of wood. He looked sleepy and ready for bed. If it was assumed, he was acting well.
He got up sharply wh
en. she came in. She put a finger
to her lips, b
reathless in spite of herself.
These last minutes were minutes of unexpected tension,
`Thomas?'
`Com
e up, miss, t
hree minutes since. I doubt 'e’ll
be down again.'
`Wait another five
then get the horses.'
'Yes miss.'
`I'll go straight out to the coach. Eleanor is already, there, ' We'll wait for you to come.'
`Very good, miss.'
As she turned to go out of the kitchen: she looked up at the clock, It was five minutes after eleven. Dwight would be waiting.
Louie Kempthorne wakened almost as soon as the cold night air fanned her face. She did not move but saw her father quite close to her at the window, peering out.
She heard his lowered voice. "Tis just a fever and I thought to send for ee, surgeon, but then I thought to wait till cock light afore I give ee the trouble. Maybe tomorrow if you was passing this way-'
A voice outside said
: `I'll see you tonight' ,
`I b'lieve
it has been brought
to an intermission
an' by tomorrow`
..
`Let me in. I want to speak to you.'
When grumbling to himself
her father shut the window and began to pull on his breeches, Lottie still did not stir. She had learned that she mus
t take no heed of her father's c
omings and goings, and a
question now would be likely to earn
her a growl and a cuff. So she lay comfortable enough on
the thin hard bed, listening to
May's quiet breathing beside her.
Father went down taking the candle
and she heard him unbar the door below. (Most people in Sawle never locke
d their doors day or night, but Charlie was an exception.
She heard him talking to the man who came in, and, presently
sat up, scratching herself in the
darkness. She wondered what Dr. Enys could possibly be, wanting calling so very late, and speaking in such a stran
ge voice. Dr. Enys had been so
kind to her and usually he was very gentle. Perhaps s
omething terrible had happened.
Her curiosity would let her rest no longer, and she slid out of bed and crept shivering to
the trap—
door which led down to t
he room below. She lifted it a
couple of inches and peered down. -
Her father was being examined; he was in a
chair, hedging and protesting:
while Dr. Enys stood over him, his face white and hard. The first words that came up to her were
'You have no fever, man, as you well know. Nor have you had any. Why did you tell people that story?'
Maybe 'tis not fever to you, surgeon; but three hours gone 'I was sweaten like a weed. An' what with Lottie just-free of the pox ,... And see now ! ' Feel my 'and. If
that
edn clammy
But the face of Dr. Enys, kind Dr. Enys, did not change. 'This is an excuse,
isn't it, Kempthorne,
this sham illness -
thought up to avoid any part in the tub-carrying, tonight? Why did you want to
have no
part in it?'
Lottie's father, whom Lottie loved, licked his lips and began to button his shirt. 'I was all of a shrim. First it corned on me back like cold water, like ice. Then--'
'For two years or more there's been an informer about, carrying tales for gold. You know that, don't you, Charlie?'
'Course I know.' Everyone d'know. Have you caught him?'
'I rather, think
I have.'
Lottie shifted her cramped feet and lifted the hatch another few inches. Father had got up,
'What, me? Dear life, surgeon; that's a puny notion to get in your head! And not a nice one, I must say! Proper insulting. And all on account of a fever that took me sudden'. Why,
just
afore you came my teeth was rattling'
'Where did you get these
things?' Dr. Enys' asked, pointing angrily about the room, and Lottie was afraid he
might see her. 'How did you pay for them? Curtains, rugs, window
glass; all paid for
out of sail-making? Or out of selling your friends?'
Her father was smiling,
but she who knew him knew it was not
a friendly smile. 'Out of sail-making, surgeon. That's true as my life. An' no one can
show
different. Now ye can go, surgeon, and leave me be, and take your nasty evil suspicion Likewise! Coming here in the dark of the night, casting such sneavy untruths----'
'It is you who'll have to go, Charlie; and go, quickly if you care for your life.
You've informed on your friends
tonight, haven't you? What time is the run to take place? Is there still time to warn them?'
'And what shall I say 'bout you, surgeon? That
you've coveted Rosina ever since ye laid eyes and hands on her, eh? That ye suspicion me to try and stop the wedding, eh? I know. I know all the things ye've done
to her,
all the fingerin'
and fumblin' there's been
on the quiet like, when her mother warn't there. She's telled me, Rosina has. Ye s
hould be grateful that
somebody'lI still marry
her.
'
Dr. Enys made a swift movement, and her father broke off as if he expected violence; but the surgeon
h
ad turned towards a side table where she and May had been playing that evening. She craned her neck to see what he had picked up,
and saw with
astonishment that it was picture book of hers called The History' of Primrose Prettyface.
'Where did you get this, Charlie?' 'I buyed it'
'Where did you buy it?'
'In to Redruth.'
'You lie. This book first belonged to Hubert Vercoe, the
Customs Officer's boy. I saw it first in his house,' The doctor
was s
ipping through the pages.
Nay, that edn clever at all, surgeon. It proves nought.
There's many such books on sale in Redruth. Why-'
'I doubt if there's one. But here is the identification, here on
the first page. Hubert Vercoe coloured the wings of this angel
red, He told me so himself and I saw it in his hands.' Dr. Enys
shut the book and slipped if
in his pocket.
In the silence that followed' Lottie could hear May turn
over in bed and whimper, as if aware that her company and her
warmth had gone. Below the two men watched each other like
dogs Lottie had seen, bristling and tight-muscled.
'What are ee going to do?'
'You shall know when I've done it,'
The doctor picked up his riding crop and made a move
towards the door, but her father was quicker and w
as
there
before him. Even
Dr. Enys couldn't believe that
this
was friendly now, 'Stay, surgeon. What are ee go'
'Get out of my way!' Neither of them moved.
Dr. Enys said : 'What time is the run?'
'Midnight. Ye're late, surgeon. Too late by a long chalk. Go
home and go to bed. That's the proper place for ee.'
‘W
hat made you do it, Charlie? What made you a traitor
to your own folk?'
'Nobody's my folk, surgeon ! Who did ought for me?