'
'Miss! please!--I can't, I durstn't!'
Jane pleaded in inarticulate anguish. But Clem had caught her by the
arm, was dragging her on, on, till she was at the very door of that
ghastly death-cellar. Though thirteen years old, her slight frame
was as incapable of resisting Clem Peckover's muscles as an infant's
would have been. The door was open, but at that moment Jane uttered
a shriek which rang and echoed through the whole house. Startled,
Clem relaxed her grasp. Jane tore herself away, fled up the kitchen
stairs, fled upwards still, flung herself at the feet of someone who
had come out on to the landing and held a light.
'Oh, help me! Don't let her! Help me!'
'What's up with you, Jane?' asked Clara, for it was she who, not
being yet in bed, had come forth at once on hearing the scream.
Jane could only cling to her garment, pant hysterically, repeat the
same words of entreaty again and again. Another door opened, and
John Hewett appeared half-dressed.
'What's wrong?' he cried. 'The 'ouse o' fire? Who yelled out like
that?'
Clem was coming up; she spoke from the landing below.
'It's that Jane, just because I gave her a rap as she deserved.
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