“Jim Sanders’s word!” repeated Nora, who as yet had not heard of Jim in connection with the affair. “What has Jim to do with it?”

  Mrs. Chattaway explained. She mentioned all that was said to have passed, Bridget’s declaration, and her own miserable conviction that it was but too true. She just spoke of the suspicion cast on Jim by several doubters, but in a manner which proved the suspicion had no weight with her: and she told of his disappearance from the scene. “I was on my way to search for him,” she continued; “but I don’t know where to search. Oh, Nora, won’t you help me? I would kneel to Jim, and implore him not to come forward against Rupert; I will be ever kind to Jim, and look after his welfare, if he will only hear me! I will try to bring him on in life.”

  Nora, impulsive as Mrs. Chattaway, but with greater calmness of mind and strength of judgment, turned without a word. From that moment she entered heart and soul into the plot. If Jim Sanders could be kept back by mortal means, Nora would keep him. She revolved matters rapidly in her mind as she went along, but had not proceeded many steps when she halted, and laid her hand on the arm of her companion.

  “I had better go alone about this business, Madam Chattaway. If you’ll trust to me, it shall be done — if it can be done. You’ll catch your death, coming out with nothing on, this cold night: and I’m not sure that it would be well for you to be seen in it.”

  “I must go on, Nora,” was the earnest answer. “I cannot rest until I have found Jim. As to catching cold, I have been standing in the open air since the fire broke out, and have not known whether it was cold or hot. I am too feverish to-night for any cold to affect me.”

  Nevertheless, she untied her black silk apron, and folded it over her head, concealing all her fair falling curls. Nora made no further remonstrance.

  The most obvious place to look for Jim was his own home; at least so it occurred to Nora. Jim had the honour of residing with his mother in a lonely three-cornered cottage, which boasted two rooms and a loft. It was a good step to it, and they walked swiftly, exchanging a sentence now and then in hushed tones. As they came within view of it, Nora’s quick sight detected the head (generally a very untidy one) of Mrs. Sanders, airing itself at the open door.

  “You halt here, Madam Chattaway,” she whispered, pointing to a friendly hedge, “and let me go on and feel my way with her. She’ll be a great deal more difficult to deal with than Jim; and the more I reflect, the more I am convinced it will not do for you to be seen in it.”

  So far, Mrs. Chattaway acquiesced. She remained under cover of the hedge, and Nora went on alone. But when she had really gained the door, it was shut; no one was there. She lifted the old-fashioned wooden latch, and entered. The door had no other fastening; strange as that fact may sound to dwellers in towns. The woman had backed against the further wall, and was staring at the intruder with a face of dread. Keen Nora noted the signs, drew a very natural deduction, and shaped her tactics accordingly.

  “Where’s Jim?” began she, in decisive but not unkindly tones.

  “It’s not true what they are saying, Miss Dickson,” gasped the woman. “I could be upon my Bible oath that he never did it. Jim ain’t of that wicked sort, he’d not harm a fly.”

  “But there are such things as accidents, you know, Mrs. Sanders,” promptly answered Nora, who had no doubt as to her course now. “It’s certain that he was in the rick-yard with a lighted torch; and boys, as everyone knows, are the most careless animals on earth. I suppose you have Jim in hiding?”

  “I haven’t set eyes on Jim since night fell,” the woman answered.

  “Look here, Mrs. Sanders, you had better avow the truth to me. I have come as a friend to see what can be done for Jim; and I can tell you that I would rather keep him in hiding — or put him into hiding, for the matter of that — than betray him to the police, and say, ‘You’ll find Jim Sanders so-and-so.’ Tell me the whole truth, and I’ll stand Jim’s friend. He has been about our place from a little chap in petticoats, when he was put to hurrish the crows, and it’s not likely we should want to harm him.”

  Her words reassured the woman, but she persisted in her denial. “I declare to goodness, ma’am, that I know nothing of him,” she said, pushing back her untidy hair. “He come in here after he left work, and tidied hisself a bit, and went off with one of them puppies of his; and he has never been back since.”

  “Yes,” said Nora. “He took the puppy to the Hold, and was showing it to Bridget when the fire broke out — that’s the tale that’s told to me. But Jim had a torch, they say; and torches are dangerous things in rick-yards — —”

  “Jim’s a fool!” was the complimentary interruption of Jim’s mother. “His head’s running wild over that flighty Bridget, as ain’t worth her salt. I asked him what he was bringing on that puppy for, and he said for Bridget — and I told him he was a simpleton for his pains. And now this has come of it!”

  “How did you hear of Jim’s being connected with the fire?”

  “I have had a dozen past here, opening their mouths,” resentfully spoke the woman. “Some of ’em said Mr. Rupert was mixed up in it, and the police were after him as well as after Jim.”

  “It is true that Mr. Rupert is said to be mixed up in it,” said Nora, speaking with a purpose. “And he is taken into custody.”

  “Into custody?” echoed Mrs. Sanders, in a scared whisper.

  “Yes; and Jim must be hidden away for the next four and twenty hours, or they’ll take him. Where’s he to be found?”

  “I couldn’t tell you if you killed me for’t,” protested Mrs. Sanders; and her tones were earnestly truthful. “Maybe he is in hiding — has gone and put himself into ‘t in his fear of Chattaway and the police. Though I’ll take my oath he never did it wilful. If he had a torch, why, a spark of it might have caught a loose bit of hay and fired it: but he never did it wilful. It ain’t a windy night, either,” she added reflectively. “Eh! the fool that there Jim has been ever since he was born!”

  Nora paused. In the uncertainty as to where to look for Jim, she did not see her way very clearly to accomplishing the object in view, and took a few moments’ rapid counsel with herself.

  “Listen, Mrs. Sanders, and pay attention to what I say,” she cried impressively. “I can’t do for Jim what I wanted to do, because he is not to be found. But now mind: should he come in after I am gone, send him off instantly to the farm. Tell him to dodge under the trees and hedges on his way, and take care that no one catches sight of him. When he gets to the farm, he must come to the front-door, and knock gently with his knuckles: I shall be in the room.”

  “And then?” questioned Mrs. Sanders, looking puzzled.

  “I’ll take care what then; I’ll take care of him. Now, do you understand?”

  “Yes, yes,” said the woman. “I’ll be sure to do it, Miss Dickson.”

  “Mind you do,” said Nora. “And now, good-night to you.”

  Mrs. Sanders was officiously coming to the door with the candle, to light her visitor; but Nora peremptorily sent her back, giving her at the same time a piece of advice in rather sharp tones — to keep her cottage dark and silent that night, lest the attention of passers-by might be drawn to it.

  It was not cheering news to carry back to poor Mrs. Chattaway. That timid, trembling, unhappy lady had left the shelter of the hedge — where she probably found her crouching position not a very easy one — and was standing behind the trunk of a tree at a little distance, her whole weight leaning upon it. To stand long, unaided, was almost a physical impossibility to her, for her spine was weak. She saw Nora, and came forward.

  “Where is he?”

  “He is not at home. His mother does not know where he is. She had heard —— Hush! Who’s this?”

  Nora’s voice dropped, and they retreated behind the tree. To be seen in the vicinity of Jim Sanders’s cottage would not have furthered the object they had in view — that of burying the gentleman for a time. The steps advanced, and Nora, stealing a peep, recognised Farmer Apperley.

  He was coming from the direction of the Hold; and they rightly judged, seeing him walking leisurely, that the danger must be over. At the same moment they became conscious of footsteps approaching from another direction. They were crossing the road, bearing rather towards the Hold, and in another moment would meet Mr. Apperley. Footsore, weary, yet excited, and making what haste he could, their owner came into view, disclosing the person of Mr. Jim Sanders. Mrs. Chattaway uttered an exclamation, and would have started forward; but Nora, with more caution, held her back.

  The farmer heard the cry, and looked round, but seeing nothing, probably thought his ears had deceived him. As he turned his head again, there, right in front of him, was Jim Sanders. Quick as lightning his grasp was laid upon the boy’s shoulder.

  “Now then! Where have you been skulking?”

  “Lawk a mercy! I han’t been skulking, sir,” returned Jim, apparently surprised at the salutation. “I be a’most ready to drop with the speed I’ve made.”

  Poor, ill-judged Jim! In point of fact he had done more, indirectly, towards putting out the fire, than Farmer Apperley and ten of the best men at his back. Jim’s horror and consternation when he saw the flames burst forth had taken from him all thought — all power, as may be said — except instinct. Instinct led him to Barbrook, to warn the fire-engine there: he saw it off, and then hastened all the way to Barmester, and actually gave notice to the engines and urged their departure before the arrival of Cris Chattaway on horseback. From Barmester Jim started to Layton’s Heath — a place standing at an acute angle between Barmester and Barbrook — and posted off the engines from there also. And now Jim was toiling back again, footsore and weary, but bending his course to Trevlyn Hold to render his poor assistance in putting out the flames. Rupert Trevlyn had always been a favourite of Jim’s. Rupert in his good-natured way had petted Jim, and the boy in his unconscious gratitude was striving to amend the damage which Rupert had caused. In after-days, this night’s expedition of Jim’s was talked of as a marvel verging on the impossible. Men are apt to forget the marvels that may be done under the influence of great emotion.

  Something of this — of where he had been and for what purpose — Jim explained to the farmer, and Mr. Apperley released his hold upon him.

  “They are saying up there, lad” — indicating the Hold— “that you had a torch in the rick-yard.”

  “So I had,” replied Jim. “But I didn’t do no damage with it.”

  “You told me it was Rupert Trevlyn who had fired the rick.”

  “And so it was,” replied Jim. “He was holding that there torch of mine, when Mr. Chattaway came up; looking at the puppy, we was. And Chattaway had a word or two with him, and then horsewhipped him; and Mr. Rupert caught up the torch, which he had let fall, and pushed it into the rick. I see him,” added Jim, conclusively.

  Mr. Apperley stroked his chin. He also liked Rupert, and very much condemned the extreme chastisement inflicted by Mr. Chattaway. He did not go so far as Nora and deem it an excuse for the mad act; but it is certain he did not condemn it as he would have condemned it in another, or if committed under different circumstances. He felt grieved and uncomfortable; he was conscious of a sore feeling in his mind; and he heartily wished the whole night’s work could be blotted out from the record of deeds done, and that Rupert was free again and guiltless.

  “Well, lad, it’s a bad job altogether,” he observed; “but you don’t seem to have been to blame except for taking a lighted torch into a rick-yard. Never you do such a thing again. You see what has come of it.”

  “We warn’t nigh the ricks when I lighted the torch,” pleaded Jim. “We was yards off ‘em.”

  “That don’t matter. There’s always danger. I’d turn away the best man I have on my farm, if I saw him venture into the rick-yard with a torch. Don’t you be such a fool again. Where are you off to now?” for Jim was passing on.

  “Up to the Hold, sir, to help put out the fire.”

  “The fire’s out — or nigh upon it; and you’d best stop where you are. If you show your face there, you’ll get taken up by the police — they are looking out for you. And I don’t see that you’ve done anything to merit a night’s lodging in the lock-up,” added the farmer, in his sense of justice. “Better pass it in your bed. You’ll be wanted before the Bench to-morrow; but it’s as good to go before them a free lad as a prisoner. The prisoner they have already taken, Rupert Trevlyn, is enough. Never you take a torch near ricks again.”

  With this reiterated piece of advice, Mr. Apperley departed. Jim stood in indecision, revolving in a hazy kind of way the various pieces of information gratuitously bestowed upon him. He himself suspected; in danger of being taken up by the police! — and Mr. Rupert a prisoner! and the fire out, or almost out! It might be better, perhaps, that he went in to his cottage, and got to sleep as Mr. Apperley advised, if he was not too tired to sleep.

  But before Jim saw his way clearly out of the maze, or had come to any decision, he found himself seized from behind with a grasp fast and firm as Mr. Apperley’s. A vision of a file of policemen brought a rush of fear to Jim’s mind, hot blood to his face. But the arms proved to be only Nora Dickson’s, and a soft, gentle voice of entreaty was whispering a prayer into his ear, almost as the prayer of an angel. Jim started in amazement, and looked round.

  “Lawk a mercy!” ejaculated he. “Why, it’s Madam Chattaway!”

  CHAPTER XXXIX

  ANOTHER VISITOR FOR MRS. SANDERS

  A few minutes after his encounter with Jim Sanders, to which interview Mrs. Chattaway and Nora had been unseen witnesses, Farmer Apperley met Policeman Dumps, to whom, you may remember, the superintendent had referred as having been sent after Jim. He came up from the direction of Barbrook.

  “I can’t find him nowhere,” was his salutation to Mr. Apperley. “I have been a’most all over Mr. Ryle’s land, and in every hole and corner of Barbrook, and he ain’t nowhere. I’m going on now to his own home, just for form’s sake; but that’s about the last place he’d hide in.”

  “Are you speaking of Rupert Trevlyn?” asked Mr. Apperley, who knew nothing of the man’s search for Jim.

  “No, sir; Jim Sanders.”

  “Oh, you need not look after him,” replied the farmer. “I have just met him. Jim’s all right. It was not he who did the mischief. He has been after all the fire-engines on foot, and is just come back, dead-beat. He was going on to the Hold to help put out the fire, but I told him it was out, and he could go home. There’s not the least necessity to look after Jim.”

  Mr. Dumps — whose clearness of vision was certainly not sufficient to set the Thames on fire — received the news without any doubt. “I thought it an odd thing for Jim Sanders to do. He haven’t daring enough,” he remarked. “That kitchenmaid was right, I’ll be bound, as to its being Mr. Rupert in his passion. Gone in home, did you say, sir?”

  “In bed by this time, I should say,” replied the farmer. “They have got Mr. Rupert, Dumps.”

  “Have they?” returned Dumps. “It’s a nasty charge, sir. I shouldn’t be sorry that he got off it.”

  The farmer continued his road towards Barbrook; the policeman went the other way. As he came to the cottage inhabited by the Sanders family, it occurred to him that he might as well ascertain the fact of Jim’s safety, and he went to the door and knocked. Mrs. Sanders opened it instantly, believing it to be the wanderer. When she saw policeman Dumps standing there, she thought she should have died with fright.

  “Your son has just come in all right, I hear, Madge Sanders. Farmer Apperley have told me.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied she, dropping a curtsey. The untruthful reply was spoken in her terror, almost unconsciously; but there may have been some latent thought in her heart to mislead the policeman.

  “Is he gone to bed? I don’t want to disturb him if he is.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied she again.

  “Well, they have got Mr. Rupert Trevlyn, so the examination will take place to-morrow morning. Your son had better go right over to Barmester the first thing after breakfast; tell him to make for the police-station, and stop there till he sees me. He’ll have to give evidence, you know.”

  “Very well, sir,” repeated the woman, in an agony of fear lest Jim should make his appearance. “Jim ain’t guilty, sir: he wouldn’t harm a fly.”

  “No, he ain’t guilty; but somebody else is, I suppose; and Jim must tell what he knows. Mind he sets off in time. Or — stop. Perhaps he had better come to the little station at Barbrook, and go over with us. Yes, that’ll be best.”

  “To-night, sir?” asked she timidly.

  “To-night? — no. What should we do with him to-night? He must be there at eight o’clock in the morning; or a little before it. Good night.”

  “Good night, sir.”

  She watched him off, quite unable to understand the case, for she had seen nothing of Jim, and Nora Dickson had not long gone. Mr. Dumps made his way to the headquarters at Barbrook; and when, later on, Bowen came in with Rupert Trevlyn, Dumps informed him that Jim Sanders was all right, and would be there by eight o’clock.

  “Have you got him — all safe?”

  “I haven’t got him,” replied Dumps. “There wasn’t no need for that. He was a-bed and asleep,” he added, improving upon his information. “It was him that went for all the injines, and he was dead tired.”

  “Your orders were to take him,” curtly returned Bowen, who believed in Jim’s innocence as much as Dumps did, but would not tolerate disobedience to orders. “He was seen with a lighted torch in the rick-yard, and that’s enough.”

  Rupert Trevlyn looked round quickly. This conversation had occurred as Bowen was going through the room with his prisoner to consign the latter to a more secure one. “Jim Saunders did no harm with the torch, Bowen. He lighted it to show me a little puppy of his; nothing more. There is no need to accuse Jim — —”

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Trevlyn, but I’d rather not hear anything from you one way or the other,” interrupted Bowen. “Don’t as much as open your mouth about it, sir, unless you’re obliged; and I speak in your interest when I give you this advice. Many a prisoner has brought the guilt home to himself through his own tongue.”

 

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