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THE SHADOW OF A CRIME

A CUMBRIAN ROMANCE

By Hall Caine

1885


Author of “The Manxman,” “The Deemster” etc.

               “_Whom God's hand rests on, has God
               At his right hand_.”


NEW YORK HURST & COMPANY PUBLISHERS

1895





     TO

     MY ABLE FELLOW-JOURNALIST

     JOHN LOVELL

     WHO IN A DARKER HOUR OF LABOR AND MISGIVING
     CHEERED ME WITH AN ESTIMATE OF THIS NOVEL
     THAT THE PUBLIC HAS SINCE RATIFIED.


CONTENTS


     Chapter

     I. The City of Wythburn

     II. The Crime in the Night

     III. In the Red Lion

     IV. The Outcast

     V. The Empty Saddle

     VI. The House on the Moss

     VII. Sim's Cave

     VIII. Robbie's Redemption

     IX. The Shadow of the Crime

     X. Mattha Branth'et “Flytes” the Parson

     XI. Liza's Wiles

     XII. The Flight on the Fells

     XIII. A 'Batable Point

     XIV. Until the Day Break

     XV. Ralph's Sacrifice

     XVI. At Sunrise on the Raise

     XVII. The Garths: Mother and Son

     XVIII. The Dawn of Love

     XIX. The Betrothal

     XX. “Fool, of Thyself Speak Well”

     XXI. Mrs. Garth at Shoulthwaite

     XXII. The Threatened Outlawry

     XXIII. She Never Told Her Love

     XXIV. Treason or Murder

     XXV. Liza's Device

     XXVI. “Fool, Do Not Flatter”

     XXVII. Ralph at Lancaster

     XXVIII. After Word Comes Weird

     XXIX. Robbie's Quest Begun

     XXX. A Race Against Life

     XXXI. Robbie, Speed On!

     XXXII. What the Snow Gave Up

     XXXIII. Sepulture at Last

     XXXIV. Fate that Impedes, Fall Back

     XXXV. Robbie's Quest Ended

     XXXVI. Rotha's Confession

     XXXVII. Which Indictment?

     XXXVIII. Peine Forte et Dure

     XXXIX. The Fiery Hand

     XL. Garth and the Quakers

     XLI. A Horse's Neigh

     XLII. The Fatal Witness

     XLIII. Love Known at Last

     XLIV. The Clew Discovered

     XLV. The Condemned in Doomsdale

     XLVI. The Skein Unravelled

     XLVII. The Black Camel at the Gate

     XLVIII. “Out, Out, Brief Candle”

     XLIX. Peace, Peace, and Rest

     L. Next Morning

     LI. Six Months After




PREFACE.


The central incident of this novel is that most extraordinary of all
punishments known to English criminal law, the _peine forte et dure_.
The story is not, however, in any sense historical. A sketchy
background of stirring history is introduced solely in order to
heighten the personal danger of a brave man. The interest is domestic,
and, perhaps, in some degree psychological. Around a pathetic piece of
old jurisprudence I have gathered a mass of Cumbrian folk-lore and
folk-talk with which I have been familiar from earliest youth. To
smelt and mould the chaotic memories into an organism such as may
serve, among other uses, to give a view of Cumberland life in little,
has been the work of one year.

The story, which is now first presented as a whole, has already had a
career in the newspapers, and the interest it excited in those
quarters has come upon me as a surprise. I was hardly prepared to find
that my plain russet-coated dalesmen were in touch with popular
sympathy; but they have made me many friends. To me they are very
dear, for I have lived their life. It is with no affected regret that
I am now parting with these companions to make way for a group of
younger comrades.

There is one thing to say which will make it worth while to trouble
the reader with this preface. A small portion of the dialogue is
written in a much modified form of the Cumbrian dialect. There are
four variations of dialect in Cumberland, and perhaps the dialect
spoken on the West Coast differs more from the dialect spoken in the
Thirlmere Valley than the latter differs from the dialect spoken in
North Lancashire. The _patois_ problem is not the least serious of the
many difficulties the novelist encounters. I have chosen to give a
broad outline of Cumbrian dialect, such as bears no more exact
relation to the actual speech than a sketch bears to a finished
picture. It is right as far as it goes.

A word as to the background of history. I shall look for the sympathy
of the artist and the forgiveness of the historian in making two or
three trifling legal anachronisms that do not interfere with the
interest of the narrative. The year of the story is given, but the aim
has been to reflect in these pages the black cloud of the whole period
of the Restoration as it hung over England's remotest solitudes. In my
rude sketch of the beginnings of the Quaker movement I must disclaim
any intention of depicting the precise manners or indicating the exact
doctrinal beliefs of the revivalists. If, however, I have described
the Quakers as singing and praying with the fervor of the Methodists,
it must not be forgotten that Quietism was no salient part of the
Quakerism of Fox; and if I have hinted at Calvinism, it must be
remembered that the “dividing of God's heritage” was one of the causes
of the first schism in the Quaker Society.

H.C.

New Court, Lincoln's Inn.




THE SHADOW OF A CRIME.




CHAPTER I. THE CITY OF WYTHBURN.

     Tar-ry woo', tar-ry woo',
       Tar-ry woo' is ill to spin:
     Card it weel, card it weel,
       Card it weel ere you begin.     _Old Ballad._


The city of Wythburn stood in a narrow valley at the foot of
Lauvellen, and at the head of Bracken Water. It was a little but
populous village, inhabited chiefly by sheep farmers, whose flocks
grazed on the neighboring hills. It contained rather less than a
hundred houses, all deep thatched and thick walled. To the north lay
the mere, a long and irregular water, which was belted across the
middle by an old Roman bridge of bowlders. A bare pack-horse road
wound its way on the west, and stretched out of sight to the north and
to the south. On this road, about half a mile within the southernmost
extremity of Bracken Water, two hillocks met, leaving a natural
opening between them and a path that went up to where the city stood.
The dalesmen called the cleft between the hillocks the city gates; but
why the gates and why the city none could rightly say. Folks had
always given them these names. The wiser heads shook gravely as they
told you that city should be sarnty, meaning the house by the
causeway. The historians of the plain could say no more.

They were rude sons and daughters of the hills who inhabited this
mountain home two centuries ago. The country around them was alive
with ghostly legend. They had seen the lights dance across Deer Garth
Ghyll, and had heard the wail that came from Clark's Loup. They were
not above trembling at the mention of these mysteries when the moon
was flying across a darksome sky, when the wind moaned about the
house, and they were gathered around the ingle nook. They had few
channels of communication with the great world without. The pack-horse
pedler was their swiftest newsman; the pedler on foot was their weekly
budget. Five miles along the pack-horse road to the north stood their
market town of Gaskarth, where they took their wool or the cloth they
had woven from it. From the top of Lauvellen they could see the white
sails of the ships that floated down the broad Solway. These were all
but their only glimpses of the world beyond their mountains. It was a
mysterious and fearsome world.

There was, however, one link that connected the people of Wythburn
with the world outside. To the north of the city and the mere there
lived a family of sheep farmers who were known as the Rays of
Shoulthwaite Moss. The family consisted of husband and wife and two
sons. The head of the house, Angus Ray, came to the district early in
life from the extreme Cumbrian border. He was hardly less than a giant
in stature. He had limbs of great length, and muscles like the gnarled
heads of a beech. Upon settling at Wythburn, he speedily acquired
property of various kinds, and in the course of a few years he was the
largest owner of sheep on the country side. Certainly, fortune favored
Angus Ray, and not least noticeably when in due course he looked about
him for a wife.

Mary Ray did not seem to have many qualities in common with her
husband. She had neither the strength of limb nor the agile grace of
the mountaineer. This was partly the result of the conditions under
which her girlhood had been spent. She was the only child of a
dalesman, who had so far accumulated estate in land as to be known in
the vernacular as a statesman. Her mother had died at her birth, and
before she had attained to young womanhood her father, who had married
late in life, was feeble and unfit for labor. His hand was too
nervous, his eye too uncertain, his breath too short for the constant
risks of mountaineering; so he put away all further thought of adding
store to store, and settled himself peaceably in his cottage under
Castenand, content with the occasional pleasures afforded by his
fiddle, an instrument upon which he had from his youth upward shown
some skill. In this quiet life his daughter was his sole companion.

There was no sight in Wythburn more touching than to see this girl
solacing her father's declining years, meeting his wishes with
anticipatory devices, pampering him in his whims, soothing him in the
imaginary sorrows sometimes incident to age, even indulging him with a
sort of pathetic humor in his frequent hallucinations. To do this she
had to put by a good many felicities dear to her age and condition,
but there was no apparent consciousness of self-sacrifice. She had
many lovers, for in these early years she was beautiful; and she had
yet more suitors, for she was accounted rich. But neither flattery nor
the fervor of genuine passion seemed to touch her, and those who
sought her under the transparent guise of seeking her father usually
went away as they came. She had a smile and the cheeriest word of
welcome for all alike, and so the young dalesmen who wooed her from
the ignoble motive came to think her a little of a coquette, while
those who wooed her from the purer impulse despaired of ruffling with
the gentlest gales of love the still atmosphere of her heart.

One day suddenly, however, the old statesman died, and his fiddle was
heard no more across the valley in the quiet of the evening, but was
left untouched for the dust to gather on it where he himself had hung
it on the nail in the kitchen under his hat. Then when life seemed to
the forlorn girl a wide blank, a world without a sun in it, Angus Ray
went over for the first time as a suitor to the cottage under
Castenand, and put his hand in hers and looked calmly into her eyes.
He told her that a girl could not live long an unfriended life like
hers--that she should not if she could; she could not if she
would--would she not come to him?

It was the force of the magnet to the steel. With swimming eyes she
looked up into his strong face, tender now with a tremor never before
seen there; and as he drew her gently towards him her glistening tears
fell hot and fast over her brightening and now radiant face, and, as
though to hide them from him, she laid her head on his breast. This
was all the wooing of Angus Ray.

They had two sons, and of these the younger more nearly resembled his
mother. Willy Ray had not merely his mother's features; he had her
disposition also. He had the rounded neck and lissom limbs of a woman;
he had a woman's complexion, and the light of a woman's look in his
soft blue eyes. When the years gave a thin curly beard to his cheek
they took nothing from its delicate comeliness. It was as if nature
had down to the last moment meant Willy for a girl. He had been an apt
scholar at school, and was one of the few persons in Wythburn having
claims to education. Willy's elder brother, Ralph, more nearly
resembled his father. He had his father's stature and strength of
limb, but some of his mother's qualities had also been inherited by
him. In manner he was neither so austere and taciturn as his father,
nor so gentle and amiable as his mother. He was by no means a scholar,
and only the strong hand of his father had kept him as a boy in fear
of the penalties incurred by the truant. Courage and resolution were
his distinguishing characteristics.

On one occasion, when rambling over the fells with a company of
schoolfellows, a poor blind lamb ran bleating past them, a black cloud
of ravens, crows, and owl-eagles flying about it. The merciless birds
had fallen upon the innocent creature as it lay sleeping under the
shadow of a tree, had picked at its eyes and fed on them, and now, as
the blood trickled in red beads down its nose, they croaked and cried
and screamed to drive it to the edge of a precipice and then over to
its death in the gulf beneath, there to feast on its carcass. It was
no easy thing to fend off the cruel birds when in sight of their prey,
but, running and capturing the poor lamb, Ralph snatched it up in his
arms at the peril of his own eyes, and swung a staff about his head to
beat off the birds as they darted and plunged and shrieked about him.

It was natural that a boy like this should develop into the finest
shepherd on the hills. Ralph knew every path on the mountains, every
shelter the sheep sought from wind and rain, every haunt of the fox.
At the shearing, at the washing, at the marking, his hand was among
the best; and when the flocks had to be numbered as they rushed in
thousands through the gate, he could count them, not by ones and twos,
but by fours and sixes. At the shearing feasts he was not above the
pleasures of the country dance, the Ledder-te-spetch, as it was
called, with its one, two, three--heel and toe--cut and shuffle. And
his strong voice, that was answered oftenest by the echo of the
mountain cavern, was sometimes heard to troll out a snatch of a song
at the village inn. But Ralph, though having an inclination to
convivial pleasures, was naturally of a serious, even of a solemn
temperament. He was a rude son of a rude country,--rude of hand, often
rude of tongue, untutored in the graces that give beauty to life.

By the time that Ralph had attained to the full maturity of his
manhood, the struggles of King and Parliament were at their height.
The rumor of these struggles was long in reaching the city of
Wythburn, and longer in being discussed and understood there; but, to
everybody's surprise, young Ralph Ray announced his intention of
forthwith joining the Parliamentarian forces. The extraordinary
proposal seemed incredible; but Ralph's mind was made up. His father
said nothing about his son's intentions, good or bad. The lad was of
age; he might think for himself. In his secret heart Angus liked the
lad's courage. Ralph was “nane o' yer feckless fowk.” Ralph's mother
was sorely troubled; but just as she had yielded to his father's will
in the days that were long gone by, so she yielded now to his. The
intervening years had brought an added gentleness to her character;
they had made mellower her dear face, now ruddy and round, though
wrinkled. Folks said she had looked happier and happier, and had
talked less and less, as the time wore on. It had become a saying in
Wythburn that the dame of Shoulthwaite Moss was never seen without a
smile, and never heard to say more than “God bless you!” The tears
filled her eyes when her son came to kiss her on the morning when he
left her home for the first time, but she wiped them away with her
housewife's apron, and dismissed him with her accustomed blessing.

Ralph Ray joined Cromwell's army against the second Charles at Dunbar,
in 1650. Between two and three years afterwards he returned to
Wythburn city and resumed his old life on the fells. There was little
more for the train-bands to do. Charles had fled, peace was restored,
the Long Parliament was dissolved, Cromwell was Lord Protector.
Outwardly the young Roundhead was not altered by the campaign. He had
passed through it unscathed. He was somewhat graver in manner; there
seemed to be a little less warmth and spontaneity in his greeting; his
voice had lost one or two of its cheerier notes; his laughter was less
hearty and more easily controlled. Perhaps this only meant that the
world was doing its work with him. Otherwise he was the same man.

When Ralph returned to Wythburn he brought with him a companion much
older than himself, who forthwith became an inmate of his father's
home, taking part as a servant in the ordinary occupations of the male
members of the household. This man had altogether a suspicious and
sinister aspect which his manners did nothing to belie. His name was
James Wilson, and he was undoubtedly a Scot, though he had neither the
physical nor the moral characteristics of his race. His eyes were
small, quick, and watchful, beneath heavy and jagged brows. He was
slight of figure and low of stature, and limped on one leg. He spoke
in a thin voice, half laugh, half whimper, and hardly ever looked into
the face of the person with whom he was conversing. There was an air
of mystery about him which the inmates of the house on the Moss did
nothing to dissipate. Ralph offered no explanation to the gossips of
Wythburn of Wilson's identity and belongings; indeed, as time wore on,
it could be observed that he showed some uneasiness when questioned
about the man.

At first Wilson contrived to ingratiate himself into a good deal of
favor among the dalespeople. There was then an insinuating smoothness
in his speech, a flattering, almost fawning glibness of tongue, which
the simple folks knew no art to withstand. He seemed abundantly
grateful for some unexplained benefits received from Ralph. “Atweel,”
 Wilson would say, with his eyes on the ground,--“atweel I lo'e the
braw chiel as 'twere my ain guid billie.”

Ralph paid no heed to the brotherly protestations of his admirer, and
exchanged only such words with him as their occupations required. Old
Angus, however, was not so passive an observer of his new and
unlooked-for housemate. “He's a good for nought sort of a fellow,
slenken frae place to place wi' nowt but a sark to his back,” Angus
would say to his wife. Mr. Wilson's physical imperfections were an
offence in the dalesman's eyes: “He's as widderful in his wizzent old
skin as his own grandfather.” Angus was not less severe on Wilson's
sly smoothness of manner. “Yon sneaking old knave,” he would say, “is
as slape as an eel in the beck; he'd wammel himself into crookedest
rabbit hole on the fell.” Probably Angus entertained some of the
antipathy to Scotchmen which was peculiar to his age. “I'll swear he's
a taistrel,” he said one day; “I dare not trust him with a mess of
poddish until I'd had the first sup.”

In spite of this determined disbelief on the part of the head of the
family, old Wilson remained for a long time a member of the household
at Shoulthwaite Moss, following his occupations with constancy, and
always obsequious in the acknowledgment of his obligations. It was
observed that he manifested a peculiar eagerness when through any
stray channel intelligence was received in the valley of the sayings
and doings in the world outside. Nothing was thought of this until one
day the passing pedler brought the startling news that the Lord
Protector was dead. The family were at breakfast in the kitchen of the
old house when this tardy representative of the herald Mercury
arrived, and, in reply to the customary inquiry as to the news he
carried, announced the aforesaid fact. Wilson was alive to its
significance with a curious wakefulness.

“It's braw tidings ye bring the day, man,” he stammered with evident
concern, and with an effort to hide his nervousness.

“Yes, the old man's dead,” said the pedler, with an air of consequence
commensurate with his message. “I reckon,” he added, “Oliver's son
Richard will be Protector now.”

“A sairy carle, that same Richard,” answered Wilson; “I wot th' young
Charles 'ul soon come by his ain, and then ilka ane amang us 'ul see a
bonnie war-day. We've playt at shinty lang eneugh. Braw news,
man--braw news that the corbie's deid.”

Wilson had never before been heard to say so much or to speak so
vehemently. He got up from the table in his nervousness, and walked
aimlessly across the floor.

“Why are you poapan about,” asked Angus, in amazement; “snowkin like a
pig at a sow?”

At this the sinister light in Wilson's eyes that had been held in
check hitherto seemed at once to flash out, and he turned hotly upon
his master, as though to retort sneer for sneer. But, checking
himself, he took up his bonnet and made for the door.

“Don't look at me like that,” Angus called after him, “or, maybe I'll
clash the door in thy face.”

Wilson had gone by this time, and turning to his sons, Angus
continued,--

“Did you see how the waistrel snirpt up his nose when the pedler said
Cromwell was dead?”

It was obvious that something more was soon to be made known relative
to their farm servant. The pedler had no difficulty in coming to the
conclusion that Wilson was some secret spy, some disguised enemy of
the Commonwealth, and perhaps some Fifth Monarchy man, and a rank
Papist to boot. Mrs. Ray's serene face was unruffled; she was sure the
poor man meant no harm. Ralph was silent, as usual, but he looked
troubled, and getting up from the table soon afterwards he followed
the man whom he had brought under his father's roof, and who seemed
likely to cause dissension there.

Not long after this eventful morning, Ralph overheard his father and
Wilson in hot dispute at the other side of a hedge. He could learn
nothing of a definite nature. Angus was at the full pitch of
indignation. Wilson, he said, had threatened him; or, at least, his
own flesh and blood. He had told the man never to come near
Shoulthwaite Moss again.

“An' he does,” said the dalesman, his eyes aflame, “I'll toitle him
into the beck till he's as wankle as a wet sack.”

He was not so old but that he could have kept his word. His great
frame seemed closer knit at sixty than it had been at thirty. His
face, with its long, square, gray beard, looked severer than ever
under his cloth hood. Wilson returned no more, and the promise of a
drenching was never fulfilled.

The ungainly little Scot did not leave the Wythburn district. He
pitched his tent with the village tailor in a little house at
Fornside, close by the Moss. The tailor himself, Simeon Stagg, was
kept pitiably poor in that country, when one sack coat of homespun
cloth lasted a shepherd half a lifetime. He would have lived a
solitary as well as a miserable life but for his daughter Rotha, a
girl of nineteen, who kept his little home together and shared his
poverty when she might have enjoyed the comforts of easier homes
elsewhere.

“Your father is nothing but an ache and a stound to you, lass,” Sim
would say in a whimper. “It'll be well for you, Rotha, when you give
me my last top-sark and take me to the kirkyard yonder,” the little
man would snuffle audibly.

“Hush, father,” the girl would say, putting the palm of her hand
playfully over his mouth, “you'll be sonsie-looking yet.”

Sim was heavily in debt, and this preyed on his mind. He had always
been a grewsome body, sustaining none of the traditions of his craft
for perky gossip. Hence he was no favorite in Wythburn, where few or
none visited him. Latterly Sim's troubles seemed to drive him from his
home for long walks in the night. While the daylight lasted his work
gave occupation to his mind, but when the darkness came on he had no
escape from haunting thoughts, and roamed about the lanes in an effort
to banish them. It was to this man's home that Wilson turned when he
was shut out of Shoulthwaite Moss. Naturally enough, the sinister Scot
was a welcome if not an agreeable guest when he came as lodger, with
money to pay, where poverty itself seemed host.

Old Wilson had not chosen the tailor's house as his home on account of
any comforts it might be expected to afford him. He had his own
reasons for not quitting Wythburn after he had received his very
unequivocal “sneck posset.” “Better a wee bush,” he would say, “than
na bield”. Shelter certainly the tailor's home afforded him; and that
was all that he required for the present. Wilson had not been long in
the tailor's cottage before Sim seemed to grow uneasy under a fresh
anxiety, of which his lodger was the subject. Wilson's manners had
obviously undergone a change. His early smoothness, his slavering
glibness, had disappeared. He was now as bitter of speech as he had
formerly been conciliatory. With Sim and his troubles, real and
imaginary, he was not at all careful to exhibit sympathy. “Weel, weel,
ye must lie heids and thraws wi' poverty, like Jock an' his mither”;
or, “If ye canna keep geese ye mun keep gezlins.”

Sim was in debt to his landlord, and over the idea of ejectment from
his little dwelling the tailor would brood day and night. Folks said
he was going crazed about it. None the less was Sim's distress as
poignant as if the grounds for it had been more real. “Haud thy
bletherin' gab,” Wilson said one day; “because ye have to be cannie
wi' the cream ye think ye must surely be clemm'd.” Salutary as some of
the Scotsman's comments may have been, it was natural that the change
in his manners should excite surprise among the dalespeople. The good
people expressed themselves as “fairly maizelt” by the transformation.
What did it all mean? There was surely something behind it.

The barbarity of Wilson's speech was especially malicious when
directed against the poor folks with whom he lived, and who, being
conscious of how essential he was to the stability of the household,
were largely at his mercy. It happened on one occasion that when
Wilson returned to the cottage after a day's absence, he found Sim's
daughter weeping over the fire.

“What's now?” he asked. “Have ye nothing in the kail?”

Rotha signified that his supper was ready.

“Thou limmer,” said Wilson, in his thin shriek, “how long 'ul thy dool
last? It's na mair to see a woman greet than to see a goose gang
barefit.”

Ralph Ray called at the tailor's cottage the morning after this, and
found Sim suffering under violent excitement, of which Wilson's
behavior to Rotha had been the cause. The insults offered to himself
he had taken with a wince, perhaps, but without a retort. Now that his
daughter was made the subject of them, he was profoundly agitated.

“There I sat,” he cried, as his breath came and went in gusts,--“there
I sat, a poor barrow-back't creature, and heard that old savvorless
loon spit his spite at my lass. I'm none of a brave man, Ralph: no, I
must be a coward, but I went nigh to snatching up yon flail of his and
striking him--aye, killing him!--but no, it must be that I'm a
coward.”

Ralph quieted him as well as he could, telling him to leave this thing
to him. Ralph was perhaps Sim's only friend. He would often turn in
like this at Sim's workroom as he passed up the fell in the morning.
People said the tailor was indebted to Ralph for proofs of friendship
more substantial than sympathy. And now, when Sim had the promise of a
strong friend's shoulder to lean on, he was unmanned, and wept. Ralph
was not unmoved as he stood by the forlorn little man, and clasped his
hands in his own and felt the warm tears fall over them.

As the young dalesman was leaving the cottage that morning, he
encountered in the porch the subject of the conversation, who was
entering in. Taking him firmly but quietly by the shoulder, he led him
back a few paces. Sim had leapt up from his bench, and was peering
eagerly through the window. But Ralph did no violence to his lodger.
He was saying something with marked emphasis, but the words escaped
the tailor's ears. Wilson was answering nothing. Loosing his hold of
him, Ralph walked quietly away. Wilson entered the cottage with a
livid face, and murmuring, as though to himself,--

“Aiblins we may be quits yet, my chiel'. A great stour has begoon, my
birkie. Your fire-flaucht e'e wull na fley me. Your Cromwell's gane,
an' all traitors shall tryste wi' the hangman.”

It was clear that whatever the mystery pertaining to the Scotchman,
Simeon Stagg seemed to possess some knowledge of it. Not that he ever
explained anything. His anxiety to avoid all questions about his
lodger was sufficiently obvious. Yet that he had somehow obtained some
hint of a dark side to Wilson's character, every one felt satisfied.
No other person seemed to know with certainty what were Wilson's means
of livelihood. The Scotchman was not employed by the farmers and
shepherds around Wythburn, and he had neither land nor sheep of his
own. He would set out early and return late, usually walking in the
direction of Gaskarth. One day Wilson rose at daybreak, and putting a
threshing-flail over his shoulder, said he would be away for a week.
That week ensuing was a quiet one for the inmates of the cottage at
Fornside.

Sim's daughter, Rotha, had about this time become a constant helper at
Shoulthwaite Moss, where, indeed, she was treated with the cordiality
proper to a member of the household. Old Angus had but little sympathy
to spare for the girl's father, but he liked Rotha's own cheerfulness,
her winsomeness, and, not least, her usefulness. She could milk and
churn, and bake and brew. This was the sort of young woman that Angus
liked best. “Rotha's a right heartsome lassie,” he said, as he heard
her in the dairy singing while she worked. The dame of Shoulthwaite
loved every one, apparently, but there were special corners in her
heart for her favorites, and Rotha was one of them.

“Cannot that lass's father earn aught without keeping yon sulking
waistrel about him?” asked the old dalesman one day.

It was the first time he had spoken of Wilson since the threatened
ducking. Being told of Wilson's violence to Rotha, he only said, “It's
an old saying, 'A blate cat makes a proud mouse.'” Angus was never
heard to speak of Wilson again.

Nature seemed to have meant Rotha for a blithe, bird-like soul, but
there were darker threads woven into the woof of her natural
brightness. She was tall, slight of figure, with a little head of
almost elfish beauty. At milking, at churning, at baking, her voice
could be heard, generally singing her favorite border song:--

    “Gae tak this bonnie neb o' mine,
       That pecks amang the corn,
     An' gi'e't to the Duke o' Hamilton
       To be a touting horn.”

“Robin Redbreast has a blithe interpreter,” said Willy Ray, as he
leaned for a moment against the open door of the dairy in passing out.
Rotha was there singing, while in a snow-white apron, and with arms
bare above the elbows, she weighed the butter of the last churning
into pats, and marked each pat with a rude old mark. The girl dropped
her head and blushed as Willy spoke. Of late she had grown unable to
look the young man in the face. Willy did not speak again. His face
colored, and he went away. Rotha's manner towards Ralph was different.
He spoke to her but rarely, and when he did so she looked frankly into
his face. If she met him abroad, as she sometimes did when carrying
water from the well, he would lift her pails in his stronger hands
over the stile, and at such times the girl thought his voice seemed
softer.

“I am thinking,” said Mrs. Ray to her husband, as she was spinning in
the kitchen at Shoulthwaite Moss,--“I am thinking,” she said, stopping
the wheel and running her fingers through the wool, “that Willy is
partial to the little tailor's winsome lass.”

“And what aboot Ralph?” asked Angus.




CHAPTER II. THE CRIME IN THE NIGHT.


On the evening of the day upon which old Wilson was expected back at
Fornside, Ralph Ray turned in at the tailor's cottage. Sim's distress
was, if possible, even greater than before. It seemed as if the gloomy
forebodings of the villagers were actually about to be realized, and
Sim's mind was really giving way. His staring eyes, his unconscious,
preoccupied manner as he tramped to and fro in his little work-room,
sitting at intervals, rising again and resuming his perambulations,
now gathering up his tools and now opening them out afresh, talking
meantime in fitful outbursts, sometimes wholly irrelevantly and
occasionally with a startling pertinency,--all this, though no more
than an excess of his customary habit, seemed to denote a mind
unstrung. The landlord had called that morning for his rent, which was
long in arrears. He must have it. Sim laughed when he told Ralph this,
but it was a shocking laugh; there was no heart in it. Ralph would
rather have heard him whimper and shuffle as he had done before.

“You shall not be homeless, Sim, if the worst comes to the worst,” he
said.

“Homeless, not I!” and the little man laughed again. Ralph felt
unease. This change was not for the better. Rotha had been sitting at
the window to catch the last glimmer of daylight as she spun. It was
dusk, but not yet too dark for Ralph to see the tears standing in her
eyes. Presently she rose and went out of the room.

“Never fear that I shall be clemm'd,” said Sim. “No, no,” he said,
with a grin of satisfied assurance.

“God forbid!” said Ralph, “but things should be better soon. This is
the back end, you know.”

“Aye,” answered the tailor, with a shrug that resembled a shiver.

“And they say,” continued Ralph, “the back end is always the bare
end.”

“And they say, too,” said Sim, “change is leetsome, if it's only out
of bed into the beck!”

The tailor laughed loud, and then stopped himself with a suddenness
quite startling. The jest sounded awful on his lips. “You say the back
end's the bare end,” he said, coming up to where Ralph sat in pain and
amazement; “mine's all bare end. It's nothing but 'bare end' for some
of us. Yesterday morning was wet and cold--you know how cold it was.
Well, Rotha had hardly gone out when a tap came to the door, and what
do you think it was? A woman, a woman thin and blear-eyed. Some one
must have counted her face bonnie once. She was scarce older than my
own lass, but she'd a poor weak barn at her breast and a wee lad that
trudged at her side. She was wet and cold, and asked for rest and
shelter for herself and the children-rest and shelter,” repeated the
tailor in a lower tone, as though muttering to himself,--“rest and
shelter, and from me.”

“Well?” inquired Ralph, not noticing Sim's self-reference.

“Well?” echoed Sim, as though Ralph should have divined the sequel.

“Had the poor creature been turned out of her home?”

“That and worse,” said the little tailor, his frame quivering with
emotion. “Do you know the king's come by his own again?” Sim was
speaking in an accent of the bitterest mockery.

“Worse luck,” said Ralph; “but what of that?”

“Why,” said Sim, almost screaming, “that every man in the land who
fought for the Commonwealth eight years ago is like to be shot as a
traitor. Didn't you know that, my lad?” And the little man put his
hands with a feverish clutch on Ralph's shoulders, and looked into his
face.

For an instant there was a tremor on the young dalesman's features,
but it lasted only long enough for Sim to recognize it, and then the
old firmness returned.

“But what of the poor woman and her barns?” Ralph said, quietly.

“Her husband, an old Roundhead, had fled from a warrant for his
arrest. She had been cast homeless into the road, she and all her
household; her aged mother had died of exposure the first bitter
night, and now for two long weeks she had walked on and on--on and
on--her children with her--on and on--living Heaven knows how!”

A light now seemed to Ralph to be cast on the great change in his
friend; but was it indeed fear for his (Ralph's) well-being that had
goaded poor Sim to a despair so near allied to madness?

“What about Wilson?” he asked, after a pause.

The tailor started at the name.

“I don't know--I don't know at all,” he answered, as though eager to
assert the truth of a statement never called into dispute.

“Does he intend to come back to Fornside to-night, Sim?”

“So he said.”

“What, think you, is his work at Gaskarth?”

“I don't know--I know nothing--at least--no, nothing.”

Ralph was sure now. Sim was too eager to disclaim all knowledge of his
lodger's doings. He would not recognize the connection between the
former and present subjects of conversation.

The night had gathered in, and the room was dark except for the
glimmer of a little fire on the open hearth. The young dalesman looked
long into it: his breast heaved with emotion, and for the first time
in his manhood big tears stood in his eyes. It must be so; it must be
that this poor forlorn creature, who had passed through sufferings of
his own, and borne them, was now shattered and undone at the prospect
of disaster to his friend. Did he know more than he had said? It was
vain to ask. Would he--do anything? Ralph glanced at the little man:
barrow-backed he was, as he had himself said. No, the idea seemed
monstrous. The young man rose to go; he could not speak, but he took
Sim's hand in his and held it. Then he stooped and kissed him on the
cheek.

       *       *       *       *       *

Next morning, soon after daybreak, all Wythburn was astir. People were
hurrying about from door to door and knocking up the few remaining
sleepers. The voices of the men sounded hoarse in the mist of the
early morning; the women held their heads together and talked in
whispers. An hour or two later two or three horsemen drove up to the
door of the village inn. There was a bustle within; groups of boys
were congregated outside. Something terrible had happened in the
night. What was it?

Willie Ray, who had left home at early dawn, came back to Shoulthwaite
Moss with flushed face and quick-coming breath. Ralph and his mother
were at breakfast. His father, who had been at market the preceding
day, had not risen.

“Dreadful, dreadful!” cried Willy. “Old Wilson is dead. Found dead in
the dike between Smeathwaite and Fornside. Murdered, no doubt, for his
wages; nothing left about him.”

“Heaven bless us!” cried Mrs. Ray, “to kill a poor man for his week's
wage!” And she sank back into the chair from which she had risen in
her amazement.

“They've taken his body to the Red Lion, and the coroner is there from
Gaskarth.”

Willy was trembling in every limb.

Ralph rose as one stupefied. He said nothing, but taking down his hat
he went out. Willy looked after him, and marked that he took the road
to Fornside.

When he got there he found the little cottage besieged. Crowds of
women and boys stood round the porch and peered in at the window.
Ralph pushed his way through them and into the house. In the kitchen
were the men from Gaskarth and many more. On a chair near the cold
hearth, where no fire had been kindled since he last saw it, sat Sim
with glassy eyes. His neck was bare and his clothes disordered. At his
back stood Rotha, with her arms thrown round her father's neck. His
long, thin fingers were clutching her clasped hands as with a vise.

“You must come with us,” said one of the strangers, addressing the
tailor. He was justice and coroner of the district.

Sim said nothing and did not stir. Then the young girl's voice broke
the dreadful silence.

“Come, father; let us go.”

Sim rose at this, and walked like one in a dream. Ralph took his arm,
and as the people crowded upon them, he pushed them aside, and they
passed out.

The direction of the company through the gray mist of that morning was
towards the place where the body lay. Sim was to be accused of the
crime. After the preliminaries of investigation were gone through, the
witnesses were called. None had seen the murder. The body of the
murdered man had been found by a laborer. There was a huge sharp stone
under the head, and death seemed to have resulted from a fracture of
the skull caused by a heavy fall. There was no appearance of a blow.
As to Sim, the circumstantial evidence looked grave. Old Wilson had
been seen to pass through Smeathwaite after dark; he must have done so
to reach his lodgings at the tailor's house. Sim had been seen abroad
about the same hour. This was not serious; but now came Sim's
landlord. He had called on the tailor the previous morning for his
rent and could not get it. Late the same night Sim had knocked at his
door with the money.

“When I ax't him where he'd come from so late,” said the man, “he
glower't at me daiztlike, and said nought.”

“What was his appearance?”

“His claes were a' awry, and he keep't looking ahint him.”

At this there was a murmur among the bystanders. There could not be a
doubt of Sim's guilt.

At a moment of silence Ralph stepped out. He seemed much moved. Might
he ask the witnesses some questions? Certainly. It was against the
rule, but still he might do so. Then he inquired exactly into the
nature of the wound that had apparently caused death. He asked for
precise information as to the stone on which the head of the deceased
was found lying.

It lay fifty yards to the south of the bridge.

Then he argued that as there was no wound on the dead man other than
the fracture of the skull, it was plain that death had resulted from a
fall. How the deceased had come by that fall was now the question. Was
it not presumable that he had slipped his foot and had fallen? He
reminded them that Wilson was lame on one leg. If the fall were the
result of a blow, was it not preposterous to suppose that a man of
Sim's slight physique could have inflicted it? Under ordinary
circumstances, only a more powerful man than Wilson himself could have
killed him by a fall.

At this the murmur rose again among the bystanders, but it sounded to
Ralph like the murmur of beasts being robbed of their prey.

As to the tailor having been seen abroad at night, was not that the
commonest occurrence? With the evidence of Sim's landlord Ralph did
not deal.

It was plain that Sim could not be held over for trial on evidence
such as was before them. He was discharged, and an open verdict was
returned. The spectators were not satisfied, however, to receive the
tailor back again as an innocent man. Would he go upstairs and look at
the body? There was a superstition among them that a dead body would
bleed at a touch from the hand of the murderer. Sim said nothing, but
stared wildly about him.

“Come, father,” said Rotha, “do as they wish.”

The little man permitted himself to be led into the room above. Ralph
followed with a reluctant step. He had cleared his friend, but looked
more troubled than before. When the company reached the bedside, Ralph
stood at its head while one of the men took a cloth off the dead man's
face.

There was a stain of earth on it.

Then they drew Sim up in front of it. When his eyes fell on the white,
upturned face, he uttered a wild cry and fell senseless to the floor.
Ha! The murmur rose afresh. Then there was a dead silence. Rotha was
the first to break the awful stillness. She knelt over her father's
prostrate form, and said amid stifling sobs,--

“Tell them it is not true; tell them so, father.”

The murmur came again. She understood it, and rose up with flashing
eyes.

“_I_ tell them it is not true,” she said. Then stepping firmly to the
bedside, she cried, “Look you all! I, his daughter, touch here this
dead man's hand, and call on God to give a sign if my father did this
thing.”

So saying, she took the hand of the murdered man, and held it
convulsively in her own.

The murmur died to a hush of suspense and horror. The body remained
unchanged. Loosing her grip, she turned on the bystanders with a look
of mingled pride and scorn.

“Take this from heaven for a witness that my father is innocent.”

The tension was too much for the spectators, and one by one they left
the room. Ralph only remained, and when Sim returned to consciousness
he raised him up, and took him back to Fornside.




CHAPTER III. IN THE RED LION.

     What hempen homespuns have we swaggering here?
                                       _Midsummer Night's Dream._


Time out of mind there had stood on the high street of Wythburn a
modest house of entertainment, known by the sign of the Red Lion.
Occasionally it accommodated the casual traveller who took the valley
road to the north, but it was intended for the dalesmen, who came
there after the darkness had gathered in, and drank a pot of
home-brewed ale as they sat above the red turf fire.

This was the house to which Wilson's body had been carried on the
morning it was found on the road. That was about Martinmas. One night,
early in the ensuing winter, a larger company than usual was seated in
the parlor of the little inn. It was a quaint old room, twice as long
as it was broad, and with a roof so low that the taller shepherds
stooped as they walked under its open beams.

From straps fixed to the rafters hung a gun, a whip, and a horn. Two
square windows, that looked out over the narrow causeway, were covered
by curtains of red cloth. An oak bench stood in each window recess.
The walls throughout were panelled in oak, which was carved here and
there in curious archaic devices. The panelling had for the most part
grown black with age; the rosier spots, that were polished to the
smoothness and brightness of glass, denoted the positions of
cupboards. Strong settles and broad chairs stood in irregular places
about the floor, which was of the bare earth, grown hard as stone, and
now sanded. The chimney nook spanned the width of one end of the room.
It was an open ingle with seats in the wall at each end, and the fire
on the ground between them. A goat's head and the horns of an ox were
the only ornaments of the chimney-breast, which was white-washed.

On this night of 1660 the wind was loud and wild without. The
snowstorm that had hung over the head of Castenand in the morning had
come down the valley as the day wore on. The heavy sleet rattled at
the windows. In its fiercer gusts it drowned the ring of the lusty
voices. The little parlor looked warm and snug with its great cobs of
old peat glowing red as they burnt away sleepily on the broad hearth.
At intervals the door would open and a shepherd would enter. He had
housed his sheep for the night, and now, seated as the newest corner on
the warmest bench near the fire, with a pipe in one hand and a pot of
hot ale in the other, he was troubled by the tempest no more.

“At Michaelmas a good fat goose, at Christmas stannen' pie, and good
yal awt year roond,” said an old man in the chimney corner. This was
Matthew Branthwaite, the wit and sage of Wythburn, once a weaver, but
living now on the husbandings of earlier life. He was tall and slight,
and somewhat bent with age. He was dressed in a long brown sack coat,
belted at the waist, below which were pockets cut perpendicular at the
side. Ribbed worsted stockings and heavy shoes made up, with the
greater garment, the sum of his visible attire. Old Matthew had a vast
reputation for wise saws and proverbs; his speech seemed to be made of
little else; and though the dalespeople had heard the old sayings a
thousand times, these seemed never to lose anything of their piquancy
and rude force.

“It's a bad night, Mattha Branthet,” said a new-comer.

“Dost tak me for a born idiot?” asked the old man. “Dost think I
duddent known that afore I saw thee, that thou must be blodderen oot,'
It's a bad neet, Mattha Branthet?'” There was a dash of rustic spite
in the old man's humor which gave it an additional relish.

“Ye munnet think to win through the world on a feather bed, lad,” he
added.

The man addressed was one Robbie Anderson, a young fellow who had for
a long time indulged somewhat freely in the good ale which the sage
had just recommended for use all the year round. Every one had said he
was going fast to his ruin, making beggars of himself and of all about
him. It was, nevertheless, whispered that Robbie was the favored
sweetheart among many of Matthew Branthwaite's young daughter Liza;
but the old man, who had never been remarkable for sensibility, had
said over and over again, “She'll lick a lean poddish stick, Bobbie,
that weds the like of thee.” Latterly the young man had in a silent
way shown some signs of reform. He had not, indeed, given up the good
ale to which his downfall had been attributed; but when he came to the
Red Lion he seemed to sleep more of his time there than he drank. So
the village philosopher had begun to pat him on the back, and say,
encouragingly, “There's nowt so far aslew, Bobbie, but good manishment
may set it straight.”

Robbie accepted his rebuff on this occasion with undisturbed
equanimity, and, taking a seat on a bench at the back, seemed soon to
be lost in slumber.

The dalesmen are here in strength to-night. Thomas Fell, the miller of
Legberthwaite, is here, with rubicund complexion and fully developed
nose. Here, too, is Thomas's cousin, Adam Rutledge, fresh from an
adventure at Carlisle, where he has tasted the luxury of Doomsdale, a
noisome dungeon reserved for witches and murderers, but sometimes
tenanted by obstreperous drunkards. Of a more reputable class here is
Job Leathes, of Dale Head, a tall, gaunt dalesman, with pale gray
eyes. Here is Luke Cockrigg, too, of Aboonbeck Bank; and stout John
Jackson, of Armboth, a large and living refutation of the popular
fallacy that the companionship of a ghost must necessarily induce such
appalling effects as are said to have attended the apparitions which
presented themselves to the prophets and seers of the Hebrews. John
has slept for twenty years in the room at Armboth in which the
spiritual presence is said to walk, and has never yet seen anything
more terrible than his own shadow. Here, too, at Matthew Branthwaite's
side, sits little blink-eyed Reuben Thwaite, who _has_ seen the
Armboth bogle. He saw it one night when he was returning home from the
Red Lion. It took the peculiar form of a lime-and-mould heap, and,
though in Reuben's case the visitation was not attended by convulsions
or idiocy, the effect of it was unmistakable. When Reuben awoke next
morning he found himself at the bottom of a ditch.

“A wild neet onyways, Mattha,” says Reuben, on Robbie Anderson's
retirement. “As I com alang I saw yan of Angus Ray haystacks blown
flat on to the field--doon it went in a bash--in ya bash frae top to
bottom.”

“That minds me of Mother Garth and auld Wilson haycocks,” said
Matthew.

“Why, what was that?” said Reuben.

“Deary me, what thoo minds it weel eneuf. It was the day Wilson was
cocking Angus hay in the low meedow. Mistress Garth came by in the
evening, and stood in the road opposite to look at the north leets.
'Come, Sarah,' says auld Wilson, 'show us yan of thy cantrips; I
divn't care for thee.' But he'd scarce said it when a whirlblast came
frae the fell and owerturn't iv'ry cock. Then Sarah she laughed oot
loud, and she said, 'Ye'll want na mair cantrips, I reckon.' She was
reet theer.”

“Like eneuf,” said several voices amid a laugh.

“He was hard on Mother Garth was Wilson,” continued Matthew; “I nivver
could mak ought on it. He called her a witch, and seurly she is a laal
bit uncanny.”

“Maybe she wasn't always such like,” said Mr. Jackson.

“Maybe not, John,” said Matthew; “but she was olas a cross-grained yan
sin the day she came first to Wy'burn.”

“I thought her a harmless young body with her babby,' said Mr.
Jackson.

“Let me see,” said Reuben Thwaite; “that must be a matter of
six-and-twenty year agone.”

“Mair ner that,” said Matthew. “It was long afore I bought my new
loom, and that's six-and-twenty year come Christmas.”

“Ey, I mind they said she'd run away frae the man she'd wedded
somewhere in the north,” observed Adam Rutledge through the pewter
which he had raised to his lips. “Ower fond of his pot for Sarah.”

“Nowt o' t' sort,” said Matthew. “He used to pommel and thresh her up
and doon, and that's why she cut away frae him, and that's why she's
sic a sour yan.”

“Ey, that's reets on it,” said Reuben.

“But auld Wilson's spite on her olas did cap me a laal bit,” said
Matthew again. “He wanted her burnt for a witch. 'It's all stuff and
bodderment aboot the witches,' says I to him ya day; 'there be none.
God's aboon the devil!' 'Nay, nay,' says Wilson, 'it'll be past
jookin' when the heed's off. She'll do something for some of us yit.'”

“Hush,” whispered Reuben, as at that moment the door opened and a
tall, ungainly young dalesman, with red hair and with a dogged
expression of face, entered the inn.

A little later, amid a whirl of piercing wind, Ralph Ray entered,
shaking the frozen snow from his cloak with long skirts, wet and cold,
his staff in his hand, and his dog at his heels. Old Matthew gave him
a cheery welcome.

“It's like ye'd as lief be in this snug room as on the fell to-neet,
Ralph?” There was a twinkle in the old man's eye; he had meant more
than he said.

“I'd full as soon be here as in Sim's cave, Matthew, if that's what
you mean,” said Ralph, as he held the palms of his hands to the fire
and then rubbed them on his knees.

“Thou wert nivver much of a fool, Ralph,” Matthew answered. And with a
shovel that facetious occupant of the hearth lifted another cob of
turf on to the fire.

“It's lang sin' Sim sat aboon sic a lowe as that,” he added, with a
motion of his head downwards.

“Worse luck,” said Ralph in a low tone, as though trying to avoid the
subject.

“Whear the pot's brocken, there let the sherds lie, lad,” said the old
man; “keep thy breath to cool thy poddish, forby thy mug of yal, and
here't comes.”

As he spoke the hostess brought up a pot of ale, smoking hot, and put
it in Ralph's hand.

“Let every man stand his awn rackups, Ralph. Sim's a bad lot, and reet
serv'd.”

“You have him there, Mattha Branthet,” said the others with a laugh,
“a feckless fool.” The young dalesman leaned back on the bench, took a
draught of his liquor, rested the pot on his knee, and looked into the
fire with the steady gaze of one just out of the darkness. After a
pause he said quietly,--

“I'll wager there's never a man among you dare go up to Sim's cave
to-night. Yet you drive him up there every night of the year.”

“Bad dreams, lad; bad dreams,” said the old man, shaking his head with
portentous gravity, “forby the boggle of auld Wilson--that's maybe
what maks Sim ga rakin aboot the fell o' neets without ony eerand.”

“Ay, ay, that's aboot it,” said the others, removing their pipes
together and speaking with the gravity and earnestness of men who had
got a grip of the key to some knotty problem. “The ghost of auld
Wilson.”

“The ghost of some of your stout sticks, I reckon,” said Ralph,
turning upon them with a shadow of a sneer on his frank face.

His companions laughed. Just then the wind rose higher than before,
and came in a gust down the open chimney. The dogs that had been
sleeping on the sanded floor got up, walked across the room with
drooping heads, and growled. Then they lay down again and addressed
themselves afresh to sleep. The young dalesman looked into the mouth
of his pewter and muttered, as if to himself,--

“Because there was no evidence to convict the poor soul, suspicion,
that is worse than conviction, must so fix upon him that he's afraid
to sleep his nights in his bed at home, but must go where never a
braggart loon of Wythburn dare follow him.”

“Aye, lad,” said the old man, with a wink of profound import, “foxes
hev holes.”

The sally was followed by a general laugh.

Not noticing it, Ralph said,--

“A hole, indeed! a cleft in the bare rock, open to nigh every wind,
deluged by every rain, desolate, unsheltered by bush or bough--a hole
no fox would house in.”

Ralph was not unmoved, but the sage in the chimney corner caught
little of the contagion of his emotion. Taking his pipe out of his
mouth, and with the shank of it marking time to the doggerel, he
said,--

    “Wheariver there's screes
     There's mair stones nor trees.”

The further sally provoked a louder laugh. Just then another gust came
down the chimney and sent a wave of mingled heat and cold through the
room. The windows rattled louder with the wind and crackled sharper
with the pelting sleet. The dogs rose and growled.

“Be quiet there,” cried Ralph. “Down, Laddie, down.” Laddie, a
large-limbed collie, with long shaggy coat still wet and matted and
glistening with the hard unmelted snow, had walked to the door and put
his nose to the bottom of it.

“Some one coming,” said Ralph, turning to look at the dog, and
speaking almost under his breath.

Robbie Anderson, who had throughout been lounging in silence on the
bench near the door, got up sleepily, and put his great hand on the
wooden latch. The door flew open by the force of the storm outside. He
peered for a moment into the darkness through the blinding sleet. He
could see nothing.

“No one here!” he said moodily.

And, putting his broad shoulder to the stout oak door, he forced it
back. The wind moaned and hissed through the closing aperture. It was
like the ebb of a broken wave to those who had heard the sea. Turning
about, as the candles on the table blinked, the young man lazily
dashed the rain and sleet from his beard and breast, and lay down
again on the settle, with something between a shiver and a yawn.
“Cruel night, this,” he muttered, and so saying, he returned to his
normal condition of somnolence.

The opening and the closing of the door, together with the draught of
cold air, had awakened a little man who occupied that corner of the
chimney nook which faced old Matthew. Coiled up with his legs under
him on the warm stone seat, his head resting against one of the two
walls that bolstered him up on either hand, beneath a great flitch of
bacon that hung there to dry, he had lain asleep throughout the
preceding conversation, only punctuating its periods at intervals with
somewhat too audible indications of slumber. In an instant he was on
his feet. He was a diminutive creature, with something infinitely
amusing in his curious physical proportions. His head was large and
well formed; his body was large and ill formed; his legs were short
and shrunken. He was the schoolmaster of Wythburn, and his name Monsey
Laman. The dalesmen found the little schoolmaster the merriest comrade
that ever sat with them over a glass. He had a crack for each of them,
a song, a joke, a lively touch that cut and meant no harm. They called
him “the little limber Frenchman,” in allusion to a peculiarity of
gait which in the minds of the heavy-limbed mountaineers was somehow
associated with the idea of a French dancing master.

With the schoolmaster's awakening the conversation in the inn seemed
likely to take a livelier turn. Even the whistling sleet appeared to
become less fierce and terrible. True, the stalwart dalesman on the
door bench yawned and slept as before; but even Ralph's firm lower lip
began to relax, and he was never a gay and sportive elf. The rest of
the company charged their pipes afresh and called on the hostess for
more spiced ale.

“'Blessing on your heart,' says the proverb, 'you brew good ale.' It's
a Christian virtue, eh, Father?” said Monsey, addressing Matthew in
the opposite corner.

“Praise the ford as ye find it,” said that sage; “I've found good yal
maks good yarn. Folks that wad put doon good yal ought to be
theirselves putten doon.”

“Then you must have been hanged this many a long year, Father
Matthew,” said Monsey, “for you've put down more good ale than any man
in Wythburn.”

Old Matthew had to stand the laugh against himself this time. In the
midst of it he leaned over to Ralph, and, as though to cover his
discomfiture, whispered, “He's gat a lad's heart, the laal man has.”

Then, with the air of one about to communicate a novel idea,--

“And sic as ye gie, sic will ye get, frae him.”

“Well, well,” he added aloud, “ye munnet think I cannot stand my
rackups.”

The old man, despite this unexpected fall, was just beginning to show
his mettle. The sententious graybeard was never quite so happy, never
looked quite so wise, never shook his head with such an air of
good-humored consequence, never winked with such profundity of
facetiousness, as when “the laal limber Frenchman” was giving a “merry
touch.” Wouldn't Monsey sing summat and fiddle to it too; aye, that he
would, Mattha knew reet weel.

“Sing!” cried the little man,--“sing! Monsieur, the dog shall try me
this conclusion. If he wag his tail, then will I sing; if he do not
wag his tail, then--then will I not be silent. What say you Laddie?”
 The dog responded to the appeal with an opportune if not an
intelligent wag of that member on which so momentous an issue hung.
From one of the rosy closets in the wall a fiddle was forthwith
brought out, and soon the noise of the tempest was drowned in the
preliminary tuning of strings and running of scales.

“You shall beat the time, my patriarch,” said Monsey.

“Nay, man; it's thy place to kill it,” answered Matthew.

“Then you shall mark the beat, or beat the mark, or make your mark.
You could never write, you know.”

It was a sight not to be forgotten to see the little schoolmaster
brandishing his fiddlestick, beating time with his foot, and breaking
out into a wild shout when he hit upon some happy idea, for he
rejoiced in a gift of improvisation. A burst of laughter greeted the
climax of his song, which turned on an unheroic adventure of old
Matthew's. The laughter had not yet died away when a loud knocking
came to the door. Ralph jumped to his feet.

“I said some one was coming; and he's been here before, whoever he
is.”

At that he walked to the door and opened it. Laddie was there before
him.

“Is Ralph Ray here?”

It was the voice of a woman, charged with feeling.

Ralph's back had been to the light, and hence his face had not been
recognized. But the light fell on the face of the new-comer.

“Rotha!” he said. He drew her in, and was about to shut out the storm
behind her.

“No,” she said almost nervously. “Come with me; some one waits outside
to see you; some one who won't--can't come in.”

She was wet; her hair was matted over her forehead, the sleet lying in
beads upon it. A hood that had been pulled hurriedly over her head was
blown partly aside. Ralph would have drawn her to the fire.

“Not yet,” she said again. Her eyes looked troubled, startled,
denoting pain.

“Then I will go with you at once,” he said.

They turned; Laddie darted out before them, and in a moment they were
in the blackness of the night.




CHAPTER IV. THE OUTCAST.


The storm had abated. The sleet and rain had ceased, but the wind
still blew fierce and strong, driving black continents of cloud across
a crescent moon. It was bitingly cold. Rotha walked fast and spoke
little. Ralph understood their mission. “Is he far away?” he said.

“Not far.”

Her voice had a tremor of emotion, and as the wind carried it to him
it seemed freighted with sadness. But the girl would have hidden her
fears.

“Perhaps he's better now,” she said.

Ralph quickened his steps. The dog had gone on in front, and was lost
in the darkness.

“Give me your hand, Rotha; the sleet is hard and slape.”

“Don't heed me, Ralph; go faster; I'll follow.”

Just then a sharp bark was heard close at hand, followed by another
and another, but in a different key. Laddie had met a friend.

“He's coming,” Rotha said, catching her breath.

“He's here.”

With the shrill cry of a hunted creature that has got back, wounded,
to its brethren, Sim seemed to leap upon them out of the darkness.

“Ralph, take me with you--take me with you; do not let me go back to
the fell to-night. I cannot go--no, believe me, I cannot--I dare not.
Take me, Ralph; have mercy on me; do not despise me for the coward
that I am; it's enough to make me curse the great God--no, no; not
that neither. But, Ralph, Ralph--”

The poor fellow would have fallen breathless and exhausted at Ralph's
feet, but he held him up and spoke firmly but kindly to him,--

“Bravely, Sim; bravely, man; there,” he said, as the tailor regained
some composure.

“You sha'n't go back to-night. How wet you are, though! There's not a
dry rag to your body, man. You must first return with me to the fire
at the Red Lion, and then we'll go--”

“No, no, no!” cried Sim; “not there either--never there; better the
wind and rain, aye, better anything, than that.”

And he turned his head over his shoulder as though peering into the
darkness behind. Ralph understood him. There were wilder companions
for this poor hunted creature than any that lived on the mountains.

“But you'll never live through the night in clothes like these.”

Sim shivered with the cold; his teeth chattered; his lank hands shook
as with ague.

“Never live? Oh, but I must not die, Ralph; no not yet--not yet.”

Was there, then, something still left in life that a poor outcast like
this should cling to it?

“I'll go back with you,” he said more calmly. They turned, and with
Sim between them Ralph and Rotha began to retrace their steps. They
had not far to go, when Sim reeled like a drunken man, and when they
were within a few paces he stopped.

“No,” he said, “I can't.” His breath was coming quick and fast.

“Come, man, they shall give you the ingle bench; I'll see to that.
Come now,” said Ralph soothingly.

“I've walked in front of this house for an hour to-night, I have,”
 said Sim, “to and fro, to and fro, waiting for you; waiting, waiting;
starting at my own shadow cast from the dim lowe of the windows, and
then flying to hide when the door did at last--at long last--open or
shut.”

Ralph shuddered. It had been as he thought. Then he said,--

“Yes, yes; but you'll come now, like a brave fellow--'a braw chiel,'
you know.”

Sim started at the pleasantry with which Ralph had tried to soothe his
spirits. It struck a painful memory. Ralph felt it too.

“Come,” he said, in an altered tone.

“No,” cried Sim, clasping his hands over his head. “They're worse than
wild beasts, they are. To-night I went up to the cave as usual. The
wind was blowing strong and keen in the valley; it had risen to a
tempest on the screes. I went in and turned up the bracken for my bed.
Then the rain began to fall; and the rain became hail, and the hail
became sleet, and pelted in upon me, it did. The wind soughed about my
lone home--my home!”

Again Sim reeled in the agony of his soul.

“This is peace to that wind,” he continued; “yes, peace. Then the
stones began to rumble down the rocks, and the rain to pour in through
the great chinks in the roof of the cave. Yet I stayed there--I
stayed. Well, the ghyll roared louder and louder. It seemed to
overflow the gullock, it did. I heard the big bowders shifted from
their beds by the tumbling waters. They rolled with heavy thuds down
the brant sides of the fell--down, down, down. But I kept closer,
closer. Presently I heard the howl of the wolves--”

“No, Sim; not that, old friend.” “Yes, the pack from Lauvellen. They'd
been driven out of their caves--not even they could live in their
caves tonight.” The delirium of Sim's spirit seemed to overcome him.

“No more now, man,” said Ralph, putting his arm about him. “You're
safe, at least, and all will be well with you.”

“Wait. Nearer and nearer they came, nearer and nearer, till I knew
they were above me, around me. Yet I kept close, I did, I almost felt
their breath. Well, well, at last I saw two red eyes gleaming at me
through the darkness--”

“You're feverish to-night, Sim,” interrupted Ralph.

“Then a great flash of lightning came. It licked the ground afore
me--ay, licked. Then a burst of thunder--it must have been a
thunderbolt--I couldn't hear the wind and sleet and water. I fainted,
that must have been it. When I came round I groped about me where I
lay--”

“A dream, Sim.”

“No, it was no dream! What was it I touched? I was delivered! Thank
heaven, _that_ death was not mine. I rose, staggered out, and fled.”

By the glimmering light from the windows of the inn--there came the
sound of laughter from within--Ralph could see that hysterical tears
coursed down the poor tailor's cheeks. Rotha stood aside, her hands
covering her face.

“And, at last, when you could not meet me here, you went to Fornside
for Rotha to seek me?” asked Ralph.

“Yes, I did. Don't despise me--don't do that.” Then in a supplicating
tone he added,--

“I couldn't bear it from you, Ralph.”

The tears came again. The direful agony of Sim's soul seemed at length
to conquer him, and he fell to the ground insensible. In an instant
Rotha was on her knees in the hardening road at her father's side; but
she did not weep.

“We have no choice now,” she said in a broken voice.

“None,” answered Ralph. “Let me carry him in.”

When the door of the inn had closed behind Ralph as he went out with
Rotha, old Matthew Branthwaite, who had recovered his composure after
Monsey's song, and who had sat for a moment with his elbow on his
knee, his pipe in his hand and his mouth still open, from which the
shaft had just been drawn, gave a knowing twitch to his wrinkled face
as he said,--

“So, so, that's the fell the wind blows frae!”

“Blow low, my black feutt,” answered Monsey, “and don't blab.”

“When the whins is oot of blossom, kissing's oot o' fashion--nowt will
come of it,” replied the sage on reflection.

“Wrong again, great Solomon!” said Monsey. “Ralph is not the man to
put away the girl because her father is in disgrace.”

“Do ye know he trystes with the lass?”

“Not I.”

“Maybe ye'r like the rest on us: ye can make nowt on him, back ner
edge.”

“Right now, great sage; the sun doesn't shine through him.”

“He's a great lounderan fellow,” said one of the dalesmen, speaking
into the pewter at his mouth. He was the blacksmith of Wythburn.

“What do you say?” asked Monsey.

“Nowt!” the man growled sulkily.

“So ye said nowt?” inquired Matthew.

“Nowt to you, or any of you.”

“Then didst a nivver hear it said, 'He that talks to himsel' clatters
to a fool'?”

The company laughed.

“No,” resumed Matthew, turning to the schoolmaster, “Ralph will nivver
tryste with the lass of yon hang-gallows of a tailor. The gallows
rope's all but roond his neck already. It's awesome to see him in his
barramouth in the fell side. He's dwinnelt away to a atomy.

“It baffles me where he got the brass frae to pay his rent,” said one
of the shepherds. “Where did he get it, schoolmaster?”

Monsey answered nothing. The topic was evidently a fearsome thing to
him. His quips and cracks were already gone.

“Where did he get it, _I_ say?” repeated the man; with the air of one
who was propounding a trying problem.

Old Matthew removed his pipe.

“A fool may ask mair questions ner a doctor can answer.”

The shepherd shifted in his seat.

“That Wilson was na shaks nowther,” continued Matthew quietly. “He was
accustomed to 'tummel' his neighbors, and never paused to inquire into
their bruises. He'd olas the black dog on his back--leastways
latterly. Ey, the braizzant taistrel med have done something for Ralph
an he lived langer. He was swearing what he'd do, the ungratefu' fool;
auld Wilson was a beadless body.”

“They say he threatened Ralph's father, Angus,” said Monsey, with a
perceptible shiver.

“Ay, but Angus is bad to bang. I mind his dingin' ower a bull on its
back. A girt man, Angus, and varra dreadfu' when he's angert.”

“Dus'ta mind the fratch thoo telt me aboot atween Angus and auld
Wilson?” said Reuben Thwaite to Matthew Branthwaite.

“What quarrel was that?” asked Monsey.

“Why, the last fratch of all, when Wilson gat the sneck posset frae
Shoulthwaite,” said Matthew.

“I never heard of it,” said the schoolmaster.

“There's nowt much to hear. Ralph and mysel' we were walking up to the
Moss together ya day, when we heard Angus and Wilson at a bout of
words. Wilson he said to Angus with a gay, bitter sneer, 'Ye'll fain
swappit wi' me yet,' said he. 'He'll yoke wi' an unco weird. Thy braw
chiel 'ul tryste wi' th' hangman soon, I wat.' And Angus he was fair
mad, I can tell ye, and he said to Wilson, 'Thoo stammerin' and
yammerin' taistrel, thoo; I'll pluck a lock of thy threep. Bring the
warrant, wilt thoo? Thoo savvorless and sodden clod-heed! I'll whip
thee with the taws. Slipe, I say, while thoo's weel--slipe!'”

“And Angus would have done it, too, and not the first time nowther,”
 said little Reuben, with a knowing shake of the head.

“Well, Matthew, what then?” said Monsey.

“Weel, with that Angus he lifted up his staff, and Wilson shrieked oot
afore he gat the blow. But Angus lowered his hand and said to him,
says he, 'Time eneuf to shriek when ye're strucken.'”

“And when the auld one did get strucken, he could not shriek,” added
Reuben.

“We know nowt of that reetly,” said Matthew, “and maybe nivver will.”

“What was that about a warrant?” said Monsey.

“Nay, nay, laal man, that's mair ner ony on us knows for certain.”
 “But ye have a notion on it, have ye not?” said Reuben, with a twinkle
which was intended to flatter Matthew into a communicative spirit.

“I reckon I hev,” said the weaver, with a look of self-satisfaction.

“Did Ralph understand it?” asked Monsey.

“Not he, schoolmaister. If he did, I could mak' nowt on him, for I
asked him theer and then.”

“But ye knows yersel' what the warrant meant, don't ye?” said Reuben
significantly.

“Weel, man, it's all as I telt ye; the country's going to the dogs,
and young Charles he's cutting the heed off nigh a'most iv'ry man as
fought for Oliver agen him. And it's as I telt ye aboot the spies of
the government, there's a spy ivrywhear--maybe theer's yan here
now--and auld Wilson he was nowt ner mair ner less ner a spy, and he
meant to get a warrant for Ralph Ray, and that's the lang and short on
it.”

“I reckon Sim made _the_ short on it,” said Reuben with a smirk. “He
scarce knew what a good turn he was doing for young Ralph yon neet in
Martinmas.”

“But don't they say Ralph saved Wilson's life away at the wars?” said
Monsey. “Why could he want to inform against him and have him hanged?”

“A dog winnet yowl an ye hit him with a bone, but a spy is worse ner
ony dog,” answered Matthew sententiously.

“But _why_ could he wish to do it?”

“His fratch with Angus, that was all.”

“There must have been more than that, Matthew, there must.”

“I never heeard on it, then.”

“Old Wilson must have had money on him that night,” said Monsey, who
had been looking gravely into the fire, his hands clasped about his
knees. Encouraged by this support of the sapient idea he had hinted
at, the shepherd who had spoken before broke in with, “Where else did
he get it _I_ say?”

“Ye breed of the cuckoo,” said Matthew, “ye've gat no rhyme but yan.”

Amid the derisive laughter that followed, the door of the inn was
again opened, and in a moment more Ralph Ray stood in the middle of
the floor with Simeon Stagg in his arms. Rotha was behind, pale but
composed. Every man in the room rose to his feet. The landlord stepped
forward, with no pleasant expression on his face; and from an inner
room his wife came bustling up. Little Monsey stood clutching and
twitching his fingers. Old Matthew had let the pipe drop out of his
mouth, and it lay broken on the hearth.

“He has fainted,” said Ralph, still holding his burden; “turn that
bench to the fire.”

No one stirred. Every one stood for the moment as if stupefied. Sim's
head hung over Ralph's arm: his face was as pale as death.

“Out of the way,” said Ralph, brushing past a great lumbering fellow,
with his mouth agape.

The company found their tongues at last. Were they to sit with “this
hang-gallows of a tailor”? The landlord, thinking himself appealed to,
replied that he “couldn't hev na brulliment” in his house.

“There need be no broil,” said Ralph, laying the insensible form on a
seat and proceeding to strip off the wet outer garments. Then turning
to the hostess, he said,--

“Martha, bring me water, quick.”

Martha turned about and obeyed him without a word.

“He'll be better soon,” said Ralph to Robbie Anderson. He was
sprinkling water on the white face that lay before him. Robbie had
recovered his wakefulness, and was kneeling at Sim's feet, chafing his
hands.

Rotha stood at her father's side, motionless.

“There, he's coming to. Martha,” said Ralph, “hadn't you better take
Rotha to the kitchen fire?”

The two women left the room.

Sim's eyes opened; there was a watery humor in them which was not
tears. The color came back to his cheeks, but with the return of
consciousness his face grew thinner and more haggard. He heaved a
heavy sigh, and seemed to realize his surroundings. With the only hand
disengaged (Robbie held one of them) he clutched at Ralph's belt.

“I'm better--let me go,” he said in a hoarse voice, trying to rise.

“No!” said Ralph,--“no!” and he gently pushed him back into his
recumbent position.

“You had best let the snuffling waistrel go,” said one of the men in a
surly tone. “Maybe he never fainted at all.”

It was the blacksmith who had growled at the mention of Ralph's name
in Ralph's absence. They called him Joe Garth.

“Be silent, you loon,” answered Robbie Anderson, turning upon the last
speaker.

Ralph seemed not to have heard him.

“Here,” he said, tossing Sim's coat to Matthew, who had returned with
a new pipe to his seat in the chimney corner, “dry that at the fire.”
 The coat had been growing hard with the frost.

“This wants the batling stone ower it,” said the old weaver, spreading
it out before him.

“See to this, schoolmaster,” said Ralph, throwing Sim's cap into his
lap.

Monsey jumped, with a scream, out of his seat as though stung by an
adder.

Ralph looked at him for a moment with an expression of pity.

“I might have known you were timid at heart, schoolmaster. Perhaps
you're gallant over a glass.”

There could be no doubt of little Monsey's timidity. All his jests had
forsaken him.

Sim had seen the gesture that expressed horror at contact even with
his clothes. He was awake to every passing incident with a feverish
alertness.

“Let me go,” he said again, with a look of supplicatory appeal.

Old Matthew got up and opened the door.

“Sista, there's some betterment in the weather, now; it teem't awhile
ago.”

“What of that?” asked Ralph; but he understood the observation.

“For God's sake let me go,” cried Sim in agony, looking first at one
face and then at another.

“No,” said Ralph, and sat down beside him. Robbie had gone back to his
bench.

“Ye'll want the bull-grips to keep _him_ quiet,” said old Matthew to
Ralph, with a sneer.

“And the ass's barnicles to keep your tongue in your mouth,” added
Ralph sternly.

“For fault of wise men fools sit on the bench, or we should hev none
of this,” continued Matthew. “I reckon some one that's here is nigh
ax't oot by Auld Nick in the kirk of the nether world.”

“Then take care you're not there yourself to give something at the
bridewain.”

Old Mathew grumbled something under his breath.

There was a long silence. Ralph had rarely been heard to speak so
bitterly. It was clear that opposition had gone far enough. Sim's
watery eyes were never for an instant still. Full of a sickening
apprehension, they cast furtive glances into every face. The poor
creature seemed determined to gather up into his wretched breast the
scorn that was blasting it. The turf on the hearth gave out a great
heat, but the tailor shivered as with cold. Then Ralph reached the
coat and cap, and, after satisfying himself that they were dry, he
handed them back to Sim, who put them on. Perhaps he had mistaken the
act, for, rising to his feet, Sim looked into Ralph's face
inquiringly, as though to ask if he might go.

“Not yet, Sim,” said Ralph. “You shall go when I go. You lodge with me
to-night.”

Monsey in the corner looked aghast, and crept closer under the flitch
of bacon that hung above him.

“Men,” said Ralph, “hearken here. You call it a foul thing to kill a
man, and so it is.”

Monsey turned livid; every one held his breath. Ralph went on,--

“Did you ever reflect that there are other ways of taking a man's life
besides killing him?”

There was no response. Ralph did not seem to expect one, for he
continued,--

“You loathe the man who takes the blood of his fellow-man, and you're
right so to do. It matters nothing to you that the murdered man may
have been a worse man than the murderer. You're right there too. You
look to the motive that inspired the crime. Is it greed or revenge?
Then you say, 'This man must die.' God grant that such horror of
murder may survive among us.” There was a murmur of assent.

“But it is possible to kill without drawing blood. We may be murderers
and never suspect the awfulness of our crime. To wither with
suspicion, to blast with scorn, to dog with cruel hints, to torture
with hard looks',--this is to kill without blood. Did you ever think
of it? There are worse hangmen than ever stood on the gallows.”

“Ay, but _he's_ shappin' to hang hissel',” muttered Matthew
Branthwaite. And there was some inaudible muttering among the others.

“I know what you mean,” Ralph continued. “That the guilty man whom the
law cannot touch is rightly brought under the ban of his fellows. Yes,
it is Heaven's justice.”

Sim crept closer to Ralph, and trembled perceptibly.

“Men, hearken again,” said Ralph. “You know I've spoken up for Sim,”
 and he put his great arm about the tailor's shoulders; “but you don't
know that I have never asked him, and he has never said whether he is
innocent or not. The guilty man may be in this room, and he may not be
Simeon Stagg. But if he were my own brother--my own father--”

Old Matthew's pipe had gone out; he was puffing at the dead shaft. Sim
rose up; his look of abject misery had given place to a look of
defiance; he stamped on the floor.

“Let me go; let me go,” he cried.

Robbie Anderson came up and took him by the hand; but Sim's brain
seemed rent in twain, and in a burst of hysterical passion he fell
back into his seat, and buried his head in his breast.

“He'll be hanged with the foulest collier yet,” growled one of the
men. It was Joe Garth again. He was silenced once more. The others had
begun to relent.

“I've not yet asked him if he is innocent,” continued Ralph; “but this
persecution drives me to it, and I ask him now.”

“Yes, yes,” cried Sim, raising his head, and revealing an awful
countenance. A direful memory seemed to haunt every feature.

“Do you know the murderer?”

“I do--that is--what am I saying?--let me go.”

Sim had got up, and was tramping across the floor. Ralph got up too,
and faced him.

“It is your duty, in the sight of Heaven, to give that man's name.”

“No, no; heaven forbid,” cried Sim.

“It is your duty to yourself and to--”

“I care nothing for myself.”

“And to your daughter--think of that. Would you tarnish the child's
name with the sin laid on the father's--”

“God in heaven help me!” cried Sim, tremulous with emotion. “Ralph,
Ralph, ask me no more--you don't know what you ask.”

“It is your duty to Heaven, I say.”

He put his hand on Sim's shoulder, and looked steadily in his eyes.
With a fearful cry Sim broke from his grasp, sprung to the door, and
in an instant was lost in the darkness without. Ralph stood where Sim
had left him, transfixed by some horrible consciousness. A slow
paralysis seemed to possess all his senses. What had he read in those
eyes that seemed to live before him still?

“Good neet,” said old Matthew as he got up and trudged out. Most of
the company rose to go. “Good night,” said more than one, but Ralph
answered nothing. Robbie Anderson was last.

“Good night, Ralph,” he said. His gruff voice was thick in his throat.

“Aye, good night, lad,” Ralph answered vacantly.

Robbie had got to the door, and was leaning with one hand on the
door-frame. Coming back, he said,--

“Ralph, where may your father be to-night?”

“At Gaskarth--it's market day--he took the last shearing.”

He spoke like one in a sleep. Then Robbie left him.

“Is Rotha ready to go?” he asked.




CHAPTER V. THE EMPTY SADDLE.

     The night has been unruly:...
     Lamentings heard i' the air; strange screams of death.
                                       _Macbeth_.


The storm was now all but over. The moon shone clear, and the clouds
that scudded across its face were few. Lauvellen, to the east, was
visible to the summit; and Raven Craig, to the west, loomed black
before the moon. A cutting wind still blew, and a frost had set in
sharp and keen. Already the sleet that had fallen was frozen in sheets
along the road, which was thereby made almost impassable even to the
sure footsteps of the mountaineer. The trees no longer sighed and
moaned with the wind; on the stiffening firs lay beads of frozen snow,
and the wind as it passed through them soughed. The ghylls were fuller
and louder, and seemed to come from every hill; the gullocks
overflowed, but silence was stealing over the streams, and the deeper
rivers seemed scarcely to flow.

Ralph and Rotha walked side by side to Shoulthwaite Moss. It was
useless for the girl to return to Fornside, Ralph had said. Her father
would not be there, and the desolate house was no place for her on a
night like this. She must spend the night under his mother's charge.

They had exchanged but few words on setting out. The tragedy of her
father's life was settling on the girl's heart with a nameless misery.
It is the first instinct of the child's nature to look up to the
parent as its refuge, its tower of strength. That bulwark may be
shattered before the world, and yet to the child's intuitive feeling
it may remain the same. Proudly, steadfastly the child heart continues
to look up to the wreck that is no wreck in the eyes of its love. Ah!
how well it is if the undeceiving never comes! But when all that
seemed strong, when all that seemed true, becomes to the unveiled
vision weak and false, what word is there that can represent the
sadness of the revealment?

“Do you think, Ralph, that I could bear a terrible answer if I were to
ask you a terrible question?”

Rotha broke the silence between them with these words. Ralph replied
promptly,--

“Yes, I do. What would you ask?”

The girl appeared powerless to proceed. She tried to speak and
stopped, withdrawing her words and framing them afresh, as though
fearful of the bluntness of her own inquiry. Her companion perceived
her distress, and coming to her relief with a cheerier tone, he
said,--

“Don't fear to ask, Rotha. I think I can guess your question. You want
to know if--”

“Ralph,” the girl broke in hurriedly--she could better bear to say the
word herself than to hear him say it--“Ralph, he is my father, and
that has been enough. I could not love him the less whatever might
happen. I have never asked him--anything. He is my father, and though
he be--whatever he may be--he is my father _still_, you know. But,
Ralph, tell me--you say I can bear it--and I can--I feel I can
now--tell me, Ralph, _was_ it poor father after all?”

Rotha had stopped and covered up her face in her hands. Ralph stopped
too. His voice was deep and thick as he answered slowly,--

“No, Rotha, it was not.”

“_Not_ father?” cried the girl; “you know it was not?”

“I _know_ it was not.”

The voice again was not the voice of one who brings glad tidings, but
the words were themselves full of gladness for the ear on which they
fell, and Rotha seemed almost overcome by her joy. She clutched
Ralph's arm with both hands.

“Heaven be praised!” she said; “now I can brave anything--poor, poor
father!”

After this the girl almost leapt over the frozen road in the ecstasy
of her new-found delight. The weight of weary months of gathering
suspense seemed in one moment to have fallen from her forever. Half
laughing, half weeping, she bounded along, the dog sporting beside
her. Her quick words rippled on the frosty air. Occasionally she
encountered a flood that swept across the way from the hills above to
the lake beneath, but her light foot tripped over it before a hand
could be offered her. Their path lay along the pack-horse road by the
side of the mere, and time after time she would scud down to the
water's edge to pluck the bracken that grew there, or to test the thin
ice with her foot. She would laugh and then be silent, and then break
out into laughter again. She would prattle to herself unconsciously
and then laugh once more. All the world seemed made anew to this happy
girl to-night.

True enough, nature meant her for a heartsome lass. Her hair was dark,
and had a tangled look, as though lately caught in brambles or still
thick with burrs. Her dark eyebrows and long lashes shaded the darkest
of black-brown eyes. Her mouth was alive with sensibility. Every shade
of feeling could play upon her face. Her dress was loose, and somewhat
negligently worn; one never felt its presence or knew whether it were
poor or fine. Her voice, though soft, was generally high-pitched, not
like the whirl of wind through the trees, but like its sigh through
the long grass, and came, perhaps, to the mountain girl from the
effort to converse above the sound of these natural voices. There was
a tremor in her voice sometimes, and, when she was taken unawares, a
sidelong look in her eyes. There was something about her in these
serious moods that laid hold of the imagination. She had surely a well
of strength which had been given for her own support and the solace of
others at some future moment, only too terrible. But not to-night, as
she tripped along under the moonlight, did the consciousness of that
moment overshadow her.

And what of Ralph, who strode solemnly by her side? A change had come
over him of late. He spoke little, and never at all of the scenes he
had witnessed in his long campaign--never of his own share in them. He
had become at once an active and a brooding man. The shadow of a
supernatural presence seemed to hang over everything. Tonight that
shadow was blacker than before.

In the fulness of her joy Rotha had not marked the tone in which Ralph
spoke when he gave her in a word all the new life that bounded in her
veins. But that tone was one of sadness, and that word had seemed to
drain away from veins of his some of the glad life that now pulsated
in hers. Was it nothing that the outcast among men whom he alone, save
this brave girl, had championed, had convinced him of his innocence?
Nothing that the light of a glad morning had broken on the long night
of the blithe creature by his side, and brightened her young life with
the promise of a happier future?

“Look, Ralph, look at the withered sedge, all frost-covered!” said
Rotha in her happiness, tripping up to his side, with a sprig newly
plucked in her hand. Ralph answered her absently, and she rattled on
to herself, “Rotha shall keep you, beautiful sedge! How you glisten in
the moonlight!” Then the girl broke out with a snatch of an old Border
ballad,--

     Dacre's gane to the war, Willy,
     Dacre's gane to the war;
     Dacre's lord has crossed the ford,
     And left us for the war.

“Poor father,” she said more soberly, “poor father; but he'll come
back home now--come back to our _own_ home again”; and then,
unconscious of the burden of her song, she sang,--

     Naworth's halls are dead, Willy,
     Naworth's halls are dead;
     One lonely foot sounds on the keep,
     And that's the warder's tread.

The moon shone clearly; the tempest had lulled, and the silvery voice
of the girl was all that could be heard above the distant rumble of
the ghylls and the beat of Ralph's heavy footsteps. In a moment Rotha
seemed to become conscious that her companion was sad as well as
silent. How had this escaped her so long? she thought.

“But you don't seem quite so glad, Ralph,” she said in an altered
tone, half of inquiry, half of gentle reproach, as of one who felt
that her joy would have been the more if another had shared it.

“Don't I? Ah, but I _am_ glad--that is, I'm glad your father won't
need old Mattha's bull-grips,” he said, with an attempt to laugh at
his own pleasantry.

How hollow the laugh sounded on his own ears! It was not what his
father would have called heartsome. What was this sadness that was
stealing over him and stiffening every sense? Had he yet realized it
in all its fulness? Ralph shook himself and struck his hand on his
breast, as though driving out the cold. He could not drive out the
foreboding that had taken a seat there since Sim looked last in his
eyes and cried, “Let me go.”

Laddie frisked about them, and barked back at the echo of his own
voice, that resounded through the clear air from the hollow places in
the hills. They had not far to go now. The light of the kitchen window
at Shoulthwaite would be seen from the turn of the road. Only through
yonder belt of trees that overhung the “lonnin,” and they would be in
the court of Angus Ray's homestead.

“Ralph,” said Rotha--she had walked in silence for some little
time--“all the sorrow of my life seems gone. You have driven it all
away.” Her tremulous voice belied the light laugh that followed.

He looked down at her tear-dimmed eyes. Was her great sorrow indeed
gone? Had he driven it away from her? If so, was it not all, and more,
being gathered up into his own heart instead? Was it not so?

“You have borne it bravely, Rotha--very bravely,” he answered. “Do you
think, now, that I could have borne it as you have done?”

There was a tremor in his tone and a tenderness of expression in his
face that Rotha had never before seen there.

“Bear it as I have done?” she repeated. “There is nothing you could
not bear.” And her radiant face was lit up in that white moonlight
with a perfect sunshine of beauty.

“I don't know, Rotha, my girl,” he answered falteringly; “I don't
know--yet.” The last words were spoken with his head dropped on to his
breast.

Rotha stepped in front of him, and, putting her hand on his shoulder,
stopped him and looked searchingly in his face.

“What is this sadness, Ralph? Is there something you have not told
me--something behind, which, when it comes, will take the joy out of
this glad news you give me?”

“I could not be so cruel as that, Rotha; do you think I could?”

A smile was playing upon his features as he smoothed her hair over her
forehead and drew forward the loose hood that had fallen from it.

“And there is nothing to come after--nothing?”

“Nothing that need mar your happiness, my girl, or disturb your love.
You love your father, do you not?”

“Better than all the world!” Rotha answered impulsively. “Poor
father!”

“Better than all the world,” echoed Ralph vacantly, and with something
like a sigh. Her impetuous words seemed to touch him deeply, and he
repeated them once more, but they died away on his lips. “Better than
all the--” Then they walked on.

They had almost reached the belt of trees that overhung the road.

“Ralph,” said Rotha, pausing, “may I--kiss you?”

He stooped and kissed her on the forehead. Then the weight about his
heart seemed heavier than before. By that kiss he felt that between
him and the girl at his side there was a chasm that might never be
bridged. Had he loved her? He hardly knew; he had never put it to
himself so. Did she not love him? He could not doubt it. And her kiss!
yes, it was the kiss of love; but _what_ love? The frank, upturned
face answered him but too well.

They were within the shadow of the trees now, and could see the lights
at Shoulthwaite. In two minutes more their journey would be done.

“Take my hand, Rotha; you might slip on the frosty road in darkness
like this.”

The words were scarcely spoken, when Rotha gave a little cry and
stumbled. “In an instant Ralph's arm was about her, and she had
regained her feet.

“What is that?” she said, trembling with fear, and turning backwards.

“A drift of frozen sleet, no doubt,” Ralph said, kicking with his foot
at the spot where Rotha slipped.

“No, no,” she answered, trembling now with some horrible apprehension.

Ralph had stepped back, and was leaning over something that lay across
the road. The dog was snuffling at it.

“What is it?” said Rotha nervously.

He did not answer. He was on his knees beside it; his hands were on
it. There was a moment of agonizing suspense.

“What is it?” Rotha repeated.

Still there came no reply. Ralph had risen, but he knelt again. His
breath was coming fast. Rotha thought she could hear the beating of
his heart.

“Oh, but I must know!” cried the girl. And she stepped backward as
though to touch for herself the thing that lay there.

“Nothing,” said Ralph, rising and taking her firmly by the hand that
she had outstretched,--“nothing--a sack of corn has fallen from the
wagon, nothing more.” He spoke in a hoarse whisper.

He drew her forward a few paces, but she stopped. The dog was standing
where Ralph had knelt, and was howling wofully.

“Laddie, come here,” Ralph said; “Rotha, come away.”

“I could bear the truth, Ralph--I think I could,” she answered.

He put his arm about her, and drew her along without a word. She felt
his powerful frame quiver and his strong voice die within him. She
guessed the truth. She knew this man as few had known him, as none
other could know him.

“Go back, Ralph,” she said; “I'll hurry on.” And still the dog howled
behind them.

Ralph seemed not to hear her, but continued to walk by her side. Her
heart sank, and she looked piteously into his face.

And now the noise reached them of hurrying footsteps in front. People
were coming towards them from the house. Lanterns were approaching
them. In another moment they were in the court. All was astir. The
whole household seemed gathered there, and in the middle of the yard
stood the mare Betsy, saddled but riderless, her empty wool-creels
strapped to her sides.

“Thank Heaven, here is Ralph,” said Willy. He was standing bareheaded,
with the bridle in his hand.

“Bless thee!” cried Mrs. Ray as her son came up to her. “Here is the
mare back home, my lad, but where is thy father?”

“The roads are bad to-night, mother,” Ralph said, with a violent
effort to control the emotion that was surging up to his throat.

“God help us, Ralph; you can't mean that!” said Willy, catching his
brother's drift.

“Give me the lantern, boy,” said Ralph to a young cowherd that stood
near. “Rotha, my lass, take mother into the house.” Then he stepped up
to where his mother stood petrified with dismay, and kissed her
tenderly. He had rarely done so before. The good dame understood him
and wept. Rotha put her arms about the mother's neck and kissed her
too, and helped her in.

Willy was unmanned. “You don't mean that you know that father--”

He could say no more. Ralph had raised the lantern to the level of the
mare's creels to remove the strap that bound them, and the light had
fallen on his face.

“Ralph, is he hurt--much hurt?”

“He is--dead!”

Willy fell back as one that had been dealt a blow.

“God help me! O God, help me!” he cried.

“Give me the reins,” said Ralph, “and be here when I come back. I
can't be long. Keep the door of the kitchen shut--mother is there. Go
into his room, and see that all is ready.”

“No, no, I can't do that.” Willy was shuddering visibly.

“Remain here, at least, and give no warning when I return.”

“Take me with you, Ralph; I can't stay here alone.”

“Take the lantern, then,” said Ralph.

And the brothers walked, with the mare between them, to where the path
was, under the shadow of the trees. What shadow had fallen that night
on their life's path, which Time might never raise? Again and again
the horse slipped its foot on the frozen road. Again and again Willy
would have stopped and turned back; but he went on-he dared not to
leave his brother's side. The dog howled in front of them. They
reached the spot at last.

Angus Ray lay there, his face downwards. The mighty frame was still
and cold and stiff as the ice beneath it. The strong man had fallen
from the saddle on to his head, and, dislocating his neck, had met
with instant death. Close at hand were the marks of the horse's
sliding hoofs. She had cast one of her shoes in the fall, and there it
lay. Her knees, too, were still bleeding.

“Give me the lantern, Willy,” said Ralph, going down on his knees to
feel the heart. He had laid his hand on it before, and knew too well
it did not beat. But he opened the cloak and tried once more. Willy
was walking to and fro across the road, not daring to look down. And
in the desolation of that moment the great heart of his brother failed
him too, and he dropped his head over the cold breast beside which he
knelt, and from eyes unused to weep the tears fell hot upon it.

“Take the lantern again, Willy,” Ralph said, getting up. Then he
lifted the body on to the back of the mare that stood quietly by their
side.

As he did so a paper slipped away from the breast of the dead man.

Willy picked it up, and seeing “Ralph Ray” written on the back of it,
he handed it to his brother, who thrust it into a pocket unread.

Then the two walked back, their dread burden between them.




CHAPTER VI. THE HOUSE ON THE MOSS.


When the dawn of another day rose over Shoulthwaite, a great silence
had fallen on the old house on the moss. The man who had made it what
it was--the man who had been its vital spirit--slept his last deep
sleep in the bedroom known as the kitchen loft. Throughout forty years
his had been the voice first heard in that mountain home when the
earliest gleams of morning struggled through the deep recesses of the
low mullioned windows. Perhaps on the day following market day he
sometimes lay an hour longer; but his stern rule of life spared none,
and himself least of all. If at sixty his powerful limbs were less
supple than of old, if his Jove-like head with its flowing beard had
become tipped with the hoar frost, he had relaxed nothing of his rigid
self-government on that account. When the clock in the kitchen had
struck ten at night, Angus had risen up, whatever his occupation,
whatever his company, and retired to rest. And the day had hardly
dawned when he was astir in the morning, rousing first the men and
next the women of his household. Every one had waited for his call.
There had been no sound more familiar than that of his firm footstep,
followed by the occasional creak of the old timbers, breaking the
early stillness. That footstep would be heard no more.

Dame Ray sat in a chair before the kitchen fire. She had sat there the
whole night through, moaning sometimes, but speaking hardly at all.
Sleep had not come near her, yet she scarcely seemed to be awake. Last
night's shock had more than half shattered her senses, but it had
flashed upon her mind a vision of her whole life. Only half conscious
of what was going on about her, she saw vividly as in a glass the
incidents of those bygone years, that had lain so long unremembered.
The little cottage under Castenand; her old father playing his fiddle
in the quiet of a summer evening; herself, a fresh young maiden,
busied about him with a hundred tender cares; then a great sorrow and
a dead waste of silence,--all this appeared to belong to some earlier
existence. And then the sun had seemed to rise on a fuller life that
came later. A holy change had come over her, and to her transfigured
feeling the world looked different. But that bright sun had set now,
and all around was gloom. Slowly she swayed herself to and fro hour
after hour in her chair, as one by one these memories came back to
her--came, and went, and came again.

On Rotha the care of the household had fallen. The young girl had sat
long by the old dame overnight, holding her hand and speaking softly
to her between the outbursts of her own grief. She had whispered
something about brave sons who would yet be her great stay, and then
the comforter herself had needed comfort and her voice of solace had
been stilled. When the daylight came in at the covered windows, Rotha
rose up unrefreshed; but with a resolute heart she set herself to the
duties that had dropped so unexpectedly upon her. She put the
spinning-wheel into the neuk window-stand and the woo-wheel against
the wall. They would not be wanted now. She cleared the sconce and
took down the flitches that hung from the rannel-tree to dry. Then she
cooked the early breakfast of oatmeal porridge, and took the milk that
the boy brought from the cow shed and put it into the dishes that she
had placed on the long oak table which stretched across the kitchen.

Willy Ray had been coming and going most of the night from the kitchen
to his own room--a little carpeted closet of a bedroom that went out
from the first landing on the stairs, and looked up to the ghyll at
the back. The wee place was more than his sleeping-room; he had his
books there, but he had neither slept nor read that night. He wandered
about aimlessly, with the eyes of one walking in his sleep, breaking
out sometimes into a little hysterical scream, followed by a shudder,
and then a sudden disappearance. Death had come to him for the first
time, and in a fearful guise. Its visible presence appalled him. He
was as feeble as a child now. He was ready to lean on the first strong
human arm that offered; and though Rotha understood but vaguely the
troubles that beset his mind, her quick instinct found a sure way to
those that lay heavy at his heart. She comforted him with what good
words she could summon, and he came again and again to her with his
odd fancies and his recollections of the poor feeble philosophy which
he had gleaned from books. The look in the eyes of this simple girl
and the touch of her hand made death less fearsome than anything
besides. Willy seemed to lean on Rotha, and she on her part appeared
to grow stronger as she felt this.

Ralph had gone to bed much as usual the night before--after he had
borne upstairs what lay there. He was not seen again until morning,
and when he came down and stood for a moment over his mother's chair
as she sat gazing steadfastly into the fire, Rotha was stooping over
the pan, with the porridge thivle in her hand. She looked up into his
face, while his hand rested with a speechless sympathy on his mother's
arm, and she thought that, mingled with a softened sorrow, there was
something like hope there. The sadness of last night was neither in
his face nor in his voice. He was even quieter than usual, but he
appeared to have grown older in the few hours that had intervened.
Nevertheless, he went through his ordinary morning's work about the
homestead with the air of one whose mind was with him in what he did.
After breakfast he took his staff out of the corner and set out for
the hills, his dog beside him.

During the day, Rotha, with such neighborly help as it was the custom
to tender, did all the little offices incident to the situation. She
went in and out of the chamber of the dead, not without awe, but
without fear. She had only once before looked on death, or, if she had
seen it twice before this day, her first sight of it was long ago, in
that old time of which memory scarcely held a record, when she was
carried in her father's arms into a darkened room like this and held
for a moment over the white face that she knew to be the face of her
mother. But, unused as she had been to scenes made solemn by death,
she appeared to know her part in this one.

Intelligence of the disaster that had fallen on the household at
Shoulthwaite Moss was not long in circulating through Wythburn. One
after another, the shepherds and their wives called in, and were taken
to the silent room upstairs. Some offered such rude comfort as their
sympathetic hearts but not too fecund intellects could devise, and as
often as not it was sorry comfort enough. Some stood all but
speechless, only gasping out at intervals, “Deary me.” Others, again,
seemed afflicted with what old Matthew Branthwaite called “doddering”
 and a fit of the “gapes.”

It was towards nightfall when Matthew himself came to Shoulthwaite.
“I'm the dame's auldest neighbor,” he had said at the Red Lion that
afternoon, when the event of the night previous had been discussed.
“It's nobbut reet 'at I should gang alang to her this awesome day.
She'll be glad of the neighborhood of an auld friend's crack.” They
were at their evening meal of sweet broth when Matthew's knock came to
the door, followed, without much interval, by his somewhat gaunt
figure on the threshold.

“Come your ways in,” said Mrs. Ray. “And how fend you, Mattha?”

“For mysel', I's gayly. Are ye middlin' weel?” the old man said.

“I'm a lang way better, but I'm going yon way too. It's far away the
bainer way for me now.” And Mrs. Ray put her apron to her eyes.

“Ye'll na boune yit, Mary,” said Matthew. “Ye'll na boune yon way for
mony a lang year yit. So dunnet ye beurt, Mary.”

Mattha's blubbering tones somewhat discredited his stoical advice.

Rotha had taken down a cup, and put the old man to sit between herself
and Willy, facing Mrs. Ray.

“I met Ralph in the morning part,” said Matthew; “he telt me all the
ins and outs aboot it. I reckon he were going to the kirk garth aboot
the berryin'.”

Mrs. Ray raised her apron to her eyes again. Willy got up and left the
room. He at least was tortured by this kind of comfort.

“He's of the bettermer sort, _he_ is,” said Matthew with a motion of
his head towards the door at which Willy had gone out. “He taks it
bad, does Willy. Ralph was chapfallen a laal bit, but not ower much.
Deary me, but ye've gat all sorts of sons though you've nobbut two.
Weel, weel,” he added, as though reconciling himself to Willy's
tenderness and Ralph's hardness of heart, “if there were na fells
there wad be na dales.”

Matthew had turned over his cup to denote that his meal was finished.
The dame rose and resumed her seat by the fire. During the day she had
been more cheerful, but with the return of the night she grew again
silent, and rocked herself in her chair.

“It's just t'edge o' dark, lass,” said Matthew to Rotha while filling
his pipe. “Wilt thoo fetch the cannels?”

The candles were brought, and the old man lit his pipe from one of
them and sat down with Mrs. Ray before the fire.

“Dus'ta mind when Angus coomt first to these parts?” he said. “_I_ do
reet weel. I can a' but fancy I see him now at the manor'al court at
Deer Garth Bottom. What a man he was, to be sure! Ralph's nobbut a bit
boy to what his father was then. Folks say father and son are as like
as peas, but nowt of the sort. Ye could nivver hev matched Angus in
yon days for limb and wind. Na, nor sin' nowther. And there was yan o'
the lasses frae Castenand had set een on Angus, but she nivver let
wit. As bonny a lass as there was in the country side, she was. They
say beauty withoot bounty's but bauch, but she was good a' roond. She
was greetly thought on. Dus'ta mind I was amang the lads that went
ahint her--I was, mysel'. But she wad hev nowt wi' me; she trysted wid
Angus; so I went back home and broke the click reel of my new loom
straight away. And it's parlish odd I've not lived marraless iver
sin'.”

This reminiscence of his early and all but only love adventure seemed
to touch a sensitive place in the old man's nature, and he pulled for
a time more vigorously at his pipe.

Mrs. Ray Still sat gazing into the fire, hardly heeding the old
weaver's garrulity, and letting him chatter on as he pleased.
Occasionally she would look anxiously over her shoulder to ask Rotha
if Ralph had got back, and on receiving answer that he had not yet
been seen she would resume her position, and, with an absent look in
her eyes, gaze back into the fire. When a dog's bark would be heard in
the distance above the sound of the wind, she would break into
consciousness afresh, and bid Rotha prepare the supper. But still
Ralph did not come. Where could he be?

It was growing late when Matthew got up to go. He had tried his best
to comfort his old neighbor in her sorrow. He had used up all his saws
and proverbs that were in the remotest degree appropriate to the
occasion, and he had thrown in a few that were not remarkable for
appositeness or compatibility. All alike had passed by unheeded. The
dame had taken the good will for the good deed, and had not looked the
gift-horses too closely in the mouth.

“Good night, Mattha Branthet,” she said, in answer to his good by;
“good night, and God bless thee.”

Matthew had opened the door, and was looking out preparatory to his
final leavetaking.

“The sky's over-kessen to-neet,” he said. “There's na moon yit, and
t'wind's high as iver. Good neet, Mary; it's like ye'll be a' thrang
eneuf to-morrow wi' the feast for the berryin', and it's like eneuf ma
mistress and laal Liza will be ower at the windin'.”

The dame sighed audibly.

“And keep up a blithe heart, Mary. Remember, he that has gude crops
may thole some thistles.”

When the door had closed behind the weaver, Willy came back to the
kitchen from his little room.

“Ralph not home yet?” he said, addressing Rotha.

“Not yet,” the girl answered, trying vainly to conceal some
uneasiness.

“I wonder what Robbie Anderson wanted with him? He was here twice, you
know, in the morning. And the schoolmaster--what could little Monsey
have to say that he looked so eager? It is not his way.”

“Be sure it was nothing out of the common,” said Rotha. “What happened
last night makes us all so nervous.”

“True; but there was a strange look about both of them--at least I
thought so, though I didn't heed it then. They say misfortunes never
come singly. I wish Ralph were home.”

Mrs. Ray had risen from her seat at the fire, and was placing one of
the candles upon a small table that stood before the neuk window.

With her back to the old dame, Rotha put her finger on her lip as a
motion to Willy to say no more.




CHAPTER VII. SIM'S CAVE.


When Ralph retired to his own room on the night of his father's death
there lay a heavier burden at his heart than even that dread
occurrence could lodge there. To such a man as he was, death itself
was not so terrible but that many passions could conquer the fear of
it. As for his father, he had not tasted death; he had not seen it;
his death was but a word; and the grave was not deep. No, the grave
was not deep. Ah, what sting lay in that thought!--what fresh sting
lay there!

Ralph called up again the expression on the face of Simeon Stagg as he
asked him in the inn that night (how long ago it seemed!) to give the
name of the man who had murdered Wilson. “It's your duty in the sight
of Heaven,” he had said; “would you tarnish the child's name with the
guilt laid on the father's?” Then there had come into Sim's eyes
something that gave a meaning to his earlier words, “Ralph, you don't
know what you ask.” Ah, did he not know now but too well? Ralph walked
across the room with a sense as of a great burden of guilt weighing
him down. The grave was not deep--oh, would it were, would it were!
Would that the grave were the end of all! But no, it was as the old
book said: when one dies, those who survive ask what he has left
behind; the angel who bends above him asks what he has sent before.
And the father who had borne him in his arms--whom he had borne--what
had he sent before?

Ralph tramped heavily to and fro. His dog slept on the mat outside his
door, and, unused to such continued sounds within, began to scrape and
growl.

After all, there was no certain evidence yet. To-morrow morning he
would go up the fell and see Sim alone. He must know the truth. If it
concerned him as closely as he divined, the occasion to conceal it was
surely gone by with this night's event. Then Robbie Anderson,--what
did he mean? Ralph recalled some dim memory of the young dalesman
asking about his father. Robbie was kind to Sim, too, when the others
shunned him. What did it all mean?

With a heavy heart Ralph began to undress. He had unbelted himself and
thrown off his jerkin, when he thought of the paper that had fallen
from his father's open breast as he lifted him on to the mare. What
was it? Yes, there it was in his pocket, and with a feverish anxiety
Ralph opened it.

Had he clung to any hope that the black cloud that appeared to be
hanging over him would not, after all, envelop him? Alas! that last
vestige of hope must leave him. The paper was a warrant for his own
arrest on a charge of treason. It had been issued at the court of the
high constable at Carlisle, and set forth that Ralph Ray had conspired
to subvert the government of his sovereign while a captain in the
trained bands of the rebel army of the “late usurper.” It was signed
and countersigned, and was marked for the service of James Wilson,
King's agent. It was dated too; yes, two days before Wilson's death.

All was over now; this was the beginning of the end; the shadow had
fallen. By that paradox of nature which makes disaster itself less
hard to bear than the apprehension of disaster, Ralph felt relieved
when he knew the worst. There was much of the mystery still
unexplained, but the morrow would reveal it; and Ralph lay down to
sleep, and rose at daybreak, not with a lighter, but with an easier
heart.

When he took up his shepherd's staff that morning, he turned towards
Fornside Fell. Rising out of the Vale of Wanthwaite, the fell half
faced the purple heights of Blencathra. It was brant from side to
side, and as rugged as steep. Ralph did not ascend the screes, out
went up by Castle Rock, and walked northwards among the huge bowlders.
The frost lay on the loose fragments of rock, and made a firm but
perilous causeway. The sun was shining feebly and glinting over the
frost. It had sparkled among the icicles that hung in Styx Ghyll as he
passed, and the ravine had been hard to cross. The hardy black sheep
of the mountains bleated in the cold from unseen places, and the wind
carried their call away until it died off into a moan.

When Ralph got well within the shadow cast on to the fell from the
protruding head of the Castle Rock, he paused and looked about him.
Yes, he was somewhat too high. He began to descend. The rock's head
sheltered him from the wind now, and in the silence he could hear the
thud of a pick or hammer, and then the indistinct murmur of a man's
voice singing. It was Sim's voice; and here was Sim's cave. It was a
cleft in the side of the mountain, high enough and broad enough for a
man to pass in. Great bowlders stood above and about it.

The sun could never shine into it. A huge rock stood alone and
apparently unsupported near its mouth, as though aeons long gone by an
iceberg had perched it there. The dog would have bounded in upon Sim
where he sat and sang at his work, but Ralph checked him with a look.
Inexpressibly eerie sounded the half-buried voice of the singer in
that Solitary place. The weird ditty suited well with both.

     She lean'd her head against a thorn,
      _The sun shines fair on Carlisle wa'_;
     And there she has her young babe born,
      _And the lyon shall be lord of a'_.

     She's howket a grave by the light o' the moon,
      _The sun shines fair on Carlisle wa'_;
     And there she's buried her sweet babe in,
      _And the lyon shall be lord of a'_.

The singer stopped, as though conscious of the presence of a listener,
and looking up from where he sat on a round block of timber, cutting
up a similar block into firewood, he saw Ralph Ray leaning on his
staff near the cave's mouth. He had already heard of the sorrow that
had fallen on the household at Shoulthwaite. With an unspeakable look
of sympathy in his wild, timid eyes, as though some impulse of
affection urged him to throw his arms about Ralph and embrace him,
while some sense of shame impelled him to kneel at his feet, Sim
approached him, and appeared to make an effort to speak. But he could
say nothing. Ralph understood his silence and was grateful for it.
They went into the cave, and sat down in the dusk.

“You can tell me all about it, now,” Ralph said, without preamble of
any sort, for each knew well what lay closest at the other's heart.
“He is gone now, and we are here together, with none but ourselves to
hear.”

“I knew you must know it one day,” Sim said, “but I tried hard to hide
it from you--I did, believe me, I tried hard--I tried, but it was not
to be.”

“It is best so,” Ralph answered; “you must not bear the burden of
guilt that is not your own.”

“I'm no better than guilty myself,” said Sim. “I don't reckon myself
innocent; not I. No, I don't reckon myself innocent.”

“I think I understand you, Sim; but you were not guilty of the deed?”

“No, but I might have been--I might but for an accident--the accident
of a moment; but I've thought sometimes that the crime is not in the
deed, but the intention. No, Ralph, I _am_ the guilty man, after all:
your father had never thought of the crime, not he, but I had brooded
over it.”

“Did you go out that night intending to do it?” Ralph said.

“Yes; at least I think I did, but I don't feel sure; my mind was in a
broil; I hardly knew what I meant to do. If Wilson had told me as I
met him in the road--as I intended to meet him--that he had come back
to do what he had threatened to do so often--then--yes, _then_, I must
have done it--I _must_.”

“What had he threatened?” Ralph asked, but there was no note of
inquiry in his voice. “Whom did it concern?”

“It concerned yourself, Ralph,” said Sim, turning his head aside. “But
no matter about that,” he added. “It's over now, it is.”

Ralph drew out of his pocket the paper that had fallen from his
father's breast.

“Is this what you mean?” he said, handing it to Sim.

Sim carried it to the light to read it. Returning to where Ralph sat,
he cried in a shrill voice,--

“Then he _had_ come back to do it. O God, why should it be murder to
kill a scoundrel?”

“Did you know nothing of this until now?”

“Nothing. Wilson threatened it, as I say; he told me he'd hang you on
the nearest gibbet, he did--you who'd saved his life--leastways, so
they say--the barren-hearted monster!”

“It's ill-luck to serve a bad man, Sim. Well?”

“I never quite thought he'd do it; no, I never did quite think it. Why
is it not a good deed to kill a bad man?”

“How did it happen, Sim?” said Ralph.

“I hardly know--that's the truth. You mind well enough it was the day
that Abraham Coward, my landlord, called for his rent. It was the day
the poor woman and her two wee barns took shelter with me. You looked
in on me that night, you remember. Well, when you left me--do you
recollect _how_?”

“Yes, Sim.”

“My heart was fair maizlet before, but that--that--kiss infected my
brain. I must have been mad, Ralph, that's the fact, when I thought of
what the man meant to do to the only friend I had left in the
world--my own friend and my poor little girl's. I went out to the
lanes and wandered about. It was very dark. Suddenly the awful thought
came back upon me, it did. I was standing at the crossways, where the
road goes off to Gaskarth. I knew Wilson must come by that road.
Something commanded me to walk on. I had been halting, but now a
dreadful force compelled me to go--ay, compelled me. I don't know what
it was, but it seemed as if I'd no power against it, none. It stifled
all my scruples, all of them, and I ran--yes, ran. But I was weak, and
had to stop for breath. My heart was beating loud, and I pressed my
hand hard upon it as I leaned against the wall of the old bridge
yonder. It went thump, thump. Then I could hear him coming. I knew his
step. He was not far off, but I couldn't stir; no, not stir. My breath
seemed all to leave me when I moved. He was coming closer, he was, and
in the distance beyont him I could hear the clatter of a horse's feet
on the road. The man on the horse was far off, but he galloped, he
galloped. It must be done now, I thought; now or not at all. I--I
picked up a stone that lay near, I did, and tried to go forward, but
fell back, back. I was powerless. That weakness was agony, it was.
Wilson had not reached the spot where I stood when the man on the
horse had overtaken him. I heard him speak as the man rode past. Then
I saw it was your father, and that he turned back. There were high
words on his side, and I could hear Wilson's bitter laugh--you
recollect that laugh?”

“Yes, yes; well?”

“In a moment Angus had jumped from the horse's back--and then I heard
a thud--and that's all.”

“Is that all you know?”

“Not all; no, not all, neither. Your father had got up into the saddle
in an instant, and I labored out into the middle of the road. He saw
me and stopped. 'Ye've earned nowt of late,' he said; 'tak this, my
man, and gae off and pay your rent.' Then he put some money into my
hand from his purse and galloped on. I thought he'd killed Wilson, and
I crept along to look at the dead man. I couldn't find him at first,
and groped about in the darkness till my hand touched his face. Then I
thought he was alive, I did. The touch flayt me, and I fled away--I
don't know how. Ralph, I saw the mark of my hand on his face when they
drew me up to it next day in the bedroom of the inn. That night I paid
my rent with your father's money, and then I went home.”

“It was my father's money, then--not Wilson's?” said Ralph.

“It was as I say,” Sim answered, as though hurt by the implication.

Ralph put his hand on Sim's shoulder. Self-condemned, this poor man's
conscience was already a whirlpool that drew everything to itself.

“Tell me, Sim--that is, if you can--tell me how you came to suspect
Wilson of these dealings.”

As he said this Ralph tapped with his fingers the warrant which Sim
had returned to him.

“By finding that James Wilson was not his name.”

“So you found that, did you; how?”

“It was Mother Garth's doings, not mine,” said Sim.

“What did she tell you?”

“Nothing; that is, nothing about Wilson going by a false name. No; I
found that out for myself, though it was all through her that I found
it.”

“You knew it all that bad night in Martinmas, did you not?”

“That's true enough, Ralph. The old woman, she came one night and
broke open Wilson's trunk, and carried off some papers--leastways one
paper.”

“You don't know what it was?”

“No. It was in one of Wilson's bouts away at--at Gaskarth, so he said.
Rotha was at the Moss: she hadn't come home for the night. I had
worked till the darknin', and my eyes were heavy, they were, and then
I had gone into the lanes. The night came on fast, and when I turned
back I heard men singing and laughing as they came along towards me.”

“Some topers from the Red Lion, that was all?”

“Yes, that was all. I jumped the dike and crossed the fields instead
of taking the road. As I came by Fornside I saw that there was a light
in the little room looking to the back. It was Wilson's room; he would
have no other. I thought he had got back, and I crept up--I don't know
why--I crept up to the window and looked in. It was not Wilson who was
there. It was Mrs. Garth. She had the old man's trunk open, and was
rummaging among some papers at the bottom of it.”

“Did you go in to her?”

“I was afeart of the woman, Ralph; but I did go in, dotherin' and
stammerin'.”

“What did she say?”

“She was looking close at a paper as I came upon her. She started a
little, but when she saw who it was she bashed down the lid of the
trunk and brushed past me, with the paper in her hand. 'You can tell
him, if you like, that I have been here.' That was all she said, and
before I had turned about she had gone, she had. What was that paper,
Ralph; do you know?”

“Perhaps time will tell, perhaps not.”

“There was something afoot atween those two; what was it?”

“Can't you guess? You discovered his name.”

“Wilson Garth, that was it. That was the name I found on his papers.
Yes, I opened the trunk and looked at them when the woman had gone;
yes, I did that.”

“You remember how she came to these parts? That was before my time of
remembrance, but not before yours, Sim.”

“I think they said she'd wedded a waistrel on the Borders.”

“Did they ever say the man was dead?”

“No, I can't mind that they ever did. I can't mind it. He had beaten
her and soured her into the witch that she is now, and then she had
run away frae him with her little one, Joe that now is. That was what
they said, as I mind it.”

“Two and two are easily put together, Sim. Wilson Garth, not James
Wilson, was the man's name.”

“And he was Mrs. Garth's husband and the father of Joe?”

“The same, I think.”

Sim seemed to stagger under the shock of a discovery that had been
slow to dawn upon him.

“How did it come, Ralph, that you brought him here when you came home
from the wars? Everything seems, someways, to hang on that.”

“Everything; perhaps even this last disaster of all.” Ralph passed his
fingers through his hair, and then his palm across his brow. Sim
observed a change in his friend's manner.

“It was wrong of me to say that, it was,” he said. “I don't know that
it's true, either. But tell me how it came about.”

“It's a short story, old friend, and easily told, though it has never
been told till now. I had done the man some service at Carlisle.”

“Saved his life, so they say.”

“It was a good turn, truly, but I had done it--at least, the first
part of it--unawares. But that's _not_ a short story.”

“Tell me, Ralph.”

“It's dead and done with, like the man himself. What remains is not
dead, and cannot soon be done with. Some of us must meet it face to
face even yet. Wilson--that was his name in those days--was a Royalist
when I encountered him. What he had been before, God knows. At a
moment of peril he took his life at the hands of a Roundhead. He had
been guilty of treachery to the Royalists, and he was afraid to return
to his friends. I understood his position and sheltered him. When
Carlisle fell to us he clung closer to me, and when the campaign was
over he prayed to be permitted to follow me to these parts. I yielded
to him reluctantly. I distrusted him, but I took his anxiety to be
with me for gratitude, as he said it was. It was not that, Sim.”

“Was it fear? Was he afeart of being hanged by friends or foes? Hadn't
he been a taistrel to both?”

“Partly fear, but partly greed, and partly revenge. He was hardly a
week at Shoulthwaite before I guessed his secret--I couldn't be blind
to that. When he married his young wife on the Borders, folks didn't
use to call her a witch. She had a little fortune coming to her one
day, and when she fled the prospect of it was lost to her husband.
Wilson was in no hurry to recover her while she was poor-a vagrant
woman with his child at her breast. The sense of his rights as a
husband became keener a little later. Do you remember the time when
young Joe Garth set himself up in the smithy yonder?”

“I do,” said Sim; “it was the time of the war. The neighbors told of
some maiden aunt, an old crone like herself, who had left Joe's mother
aboon a hundred pound.”

“Wilson knew that much better than our neighbors. He knew, too, where
his wife had hidden herself, as she thought, though it had served his
turn to seem ignorant of it until then. Sim, he used _me_ to get to
Wythburn.”

“Teush!”

“Once here, it was not long before he had made his wife aware of his
coming. I had kept an eye on him, and I knew his movements. I saw that
he meant to ruin the Garths, mother and son, to strip them and leave
them destitute. I determined that he should not do it. I felt that
mine was the blame that he was here to molest them. 'Tamper with
them,' I said, 'show once more by word or look that you know anything
of them, and I'll hand you over as a traitor to the nearest sheriff.'”

“Why didn't you do it anyhow, why didn't you?” said Sim eagerly.

“That would have been unwise. He now hated me for defeating his
designs.

“You had saved his life.”

“He hated me none the less for that. There was only one way now to
serve either the Garths or myself, and that was to keep the man in
hand. I neither sent him away nor let him go.”

“You were more than a match for him to the last,” said Sim, “and you
saved me and my lass from him too. But what about Joe Garth and his
old mother? They don't look over-thankful to you, they don't.”

“They think that I brought Wilson back to torment them. No words of
mine would upset the notion. I'm sorry for that, but leave such
mistakes for time to set right. And when the truth comes in such a
case it comes to some purpose.”

“Aye, when it comes--_when_ it comes.”

Sim spoke in an undertone, and as though to himself.

“It's long in the coming sometimes, it is.”

“It seems long, truly.” The dalesman had caught Sim's drift, and with
his old trick of manner, more expressive than his words, he had put
his hand on Sim's arm.

“And now there is but one chance that has made it quite worth the
while that we should have talked frankly on the subject, you and I,
and that is the chance that others may come to do what Wilson tried to
do. The authorities who issued this warrant will hardly forget that
they issued it. There was a stranger here the day after the inquest. I
think I know what he was.”

Sim shuddered perceptibly.

“He went away then, but we'll see him once more, depend upon it.”

“Is it true, as Wilson said, that Oliver's men are like to be taken?”

“There's a spy in every village, so they say, and blank warrants, duly
signed, in every sheriff's court, ready to be filled in with any name
that malice may suggest. These men mean that Puritanism shall be
rooted out of England. We cannot be too well prepared.”

“I wish I could save you, Ralph; leastways, I wish it were myself
instead, I do.”

“You thought to save me, old friend, when you went out to meet Wilson
that night three months ago. My father, too, he thought to save me
when he did what he did. You were both rash, both wrong. You could not
have helped me at all in that way. Poor father! How little he has
helped me, Heaven knows--Heaven alone knows--yet.”

Ralph drew his hand across his eyes.




CHAPTER VIII. ROBBIE'S REDEMPTION.


Sim accompanied Ralph half-way down the hill when he rose to go.
Robbie Anderson could be seen hastening towards them. His mission must
be with Ralph, so Sim went back.

“I've been to Shoulthwaite to look for you,” said Robbie. “They told
me you'd taken the hills for it, so I followed on.”

“You look troubled, my lad,” said Ralph; “has anything happened to
you?”

“No, Ralph, but something may happen to you if you don't heed me what
I say.”

“Nothing that will trouble me much, Robbie--nothing of that kind can
happen now.”

“Yon gommarel of a Joe Garth, the blacksmith, has never forgotten the
thrashing you gave him years ago for killing your dog--Laddie's mother
that was.”

“No, he'll never forgive me; but what of that? I've not looked for his
forgiveness.”

“But, I'm afeared, Ralph, he means to pay you back more than four to
the quarter. Do you know he has spies lodging with him? They've come
down here to take you off. Joe has been at the Red Lion this
morning--drunk, early as it is. He blurted it out about the spies, so
I ran off to find you.”

“It isn't Joe that has done the mischief, my lad, though the spies, or
whatever they are, may pay him to play underspy while it serves their
turn.”

“Joe or not Joe, they mean to take you the first chance. Folks say
everything has got upside down with the laws and the country now that
the great man himself is dead. Hadn't you best get off somewhere?

“It was good of you, Robbie, to warn me; but I can't leave home yet;
my father must be buried, you know.”

“Ah!” said Robbie in an altered tone, “poor Angus!”

Ralph looked closely at his companion, and thought of Robbie's
question last night in the inn.

“Tell me,” he said, glancing searchingly into Robbie's eyes, “did you
know anything about old Wilson's death?”

The young dalesman seemed abashed. He dropped his head, and appeared
unable to look up.

“Tell me, Robbie; I know much already.”

“I took the money,” said the young man; “I took it, but I threw it
into the beck the minute after.”

“How was it, lad? Let me know.”

Robbie was still standing, with his head down, pawing the ground as he
said,--

“I'd been drinking hard--you know that. I was drunk yon night, and I
hadn't a penny in my pouch. On my way home from the inn I lay down in
the dike and fell asleep. I was awakened by the voices of two men
quarrelling. You know who they were. Old Wilson was waving a paper
over his head and laughing and sneering. Then the other snatched it
away. At that Wilson swore a dreadful oath, and flung himself on--the
other. It was all over in a moment. He'd given the little waistrel the
cross-buttock, and felled him on his head. I saw the other ride off,
and I saw Simeon Stagg. When all was still, I crept out and took
Wilson's money--yes, I took it; but I flung it into the next beck. For
the moment, when I touched him I thought he was alive. I've not been
drinking hard since then, Ralph; no, nor never will again.”

“Ey, you'll do better than that, Robbie.”

Ralph said no more. There was a long silence between the two men,
until Robbie, unable to support it any longer, broke in again with, “I
took it, but I flung it into the next beck.”

The poor fellow seemed determined to dwell upon the latter fact as in
some measure an extenuation of his offence. In his silent hours of
remorse he had cherished it as one atoning circumstance. It had been
the first fruits of a sudden resolution of reform. Sobered by the
sense of what part he had played in crime, the money that had lain in
his hand was a witness against him; and when he had flung it away he
had only the haunting memory left of what he would have done in
effect, but had, in fact, done only in name.

“Why did you not say this at the inquest?” asked Ralph. “You might
have cleared Simeon Stagg. Was it because you must have accused my
father?”

“I can't say it was that. I felt guilty myself. I felt as if half the
crime had been mine.”

There was another pause.

“Robbie,” Ralph said at length, “would you, if I wished it, say no
more about all this?”

“I've said nothing till now, and I need say nothing more.”

“Sim will be as silent--if I ask him. There is my poor mother, my lad;
she can't live long, and why should she be stricken down? Her dear old
head is bowed low enough already.”

“I promise you, Ralph,” said Robbie. He had turned half aside, and was
speaking falteringly. He remembered one whose head had been bowed
lower still--one whose heart had been sick for his own misdeeds, and
now the grass was over her.

“Then that is agreed.”

“Ralph, there's something I should have said before, but I was afeared
to say it. Who would have believed the word of a drunkard? That's what
I was, God forgive me! Besides, it would have done no good to say it,
that I can see, and most likely some harm.”

“What was it?”

“Didn't they say they found Wilson lying fifty yards below the river?”

“They did; fifty yards to the south of the bridge.”

“It was as far to the north that I left him. I'm sure of it. I was
sobered by what happened. I could swear it in heaven, Ralph. It was
full fifty yards on the down side of the bridge from the smithy.”

“Think again, my lad; it's a serious thing that you say.”

“I've thought of it too much. It has tormented me day and night.
There's no use in trying to persuade myself I must be wrong. Fifty
yards on the down side of the beck from the smithy--that was the
place, Ralph.”

The dalesman looked grave. Then a light crossed his face as if a wave
of hope had passed through him. Sim had said he was leaning against
the bridge. All that Angus could have done must have been done to the
north of it. Was it possible, after all, that Angus had not killed
Wilson by that fall?

“You say that for the moment, when you touched him, you thought Wilson
was not dead?”

“It's true, I thought so.”

Sim had thought the same.

“Did you see any one else that night?”

“No.”

“Nor hear other footsteps?”

“No, none but my own at last--none.”

It was no clew. Unconsciously Ralph put his hand to his breast and
touched the paper that he had placed there. No, there was no hope. The
shadow that had fallen had fallen forever.

“Perhaps the man recovered enough to walk a hundred yards, and then
fell dead. Perhaps he had struggled to reach home?”

“He would be going the wrong way for that, Ralph.”

“True, true; it's very strange, very, if it is as you say. He was
fifty yards beyond the smithy--north of it?”

“He was.”

The dalesmen walked on. They had got down into the road, when the
little schoolmaster ran up against them almost before he had been
seen.

“Oh, here you are, are you?” he gasped.

“Are they coming?” said Robbie Anderson, jumping on to the turf hedge
to get a wider view.

“That they are.”

The little man had dropped down on to a stone, and was mopping his
forehead. When he had recovered his breath, he said,--

“I say, Monsieur the Gladiator, why didn't you kill when you were
about it? I say, why didn't you kill?” and Monsey held his thumbs
down, as he looked in Ralph's face.

“Kill whom?” said Ralph. He could not help laughing at the
schoolmaster's ludicrous figure and gesture.

“Why, that Garth--a bad garth--a kirk-garth--a kirk-warner's garth-a
devil's garth--_Joe_ Garth?”

“I can't see them,” said Robbie, and he jumped down again into the
road.

“Oh, but you will, you will,” said Monsey; and stretching his arm out
towards Ralph with a frantic gesture, he cried, “You fly, fly, fly,
fly!”

“Allow me to point out to you,” observed Ralph, smiling, “that I do
not at all fly, nor shall I know why I should not remain where I am
until you tell me.”

“Then know that your life's not worth a pin's fee if you remain here
to be taken. Oh, that Garth--that devil's garth--that--that--_Joe_
Garth!”

There was clearly no epithet that suited better with Monsey's mood
than the said monster's proper name.

“Friends,” said Ralph, more seriously, “it's clear I can't leave
before I see my father buried, and it's just as clear I can't see him
buried if I stay. With your help I may do both--that is, seem to do
both.”

“How? how? unfold--I can interpret you no conundrums,” said Monsey.
“To go, and yet not to go, that is the question.”

“Can I help you?” said Robbie with the simplicity of earnestness.

“Go back, schoolmaster, to the Lion.”

“I know it--I've been there before--well?”

“Say, if your conscience will let you--I know how tender it is--say
you saw me go over Lauvellen in the direction of Fairfield. Say this
quietly--say it to old Matthew in a whisper and as a secret; that will
be enough.”

“I've shared with that patriarch some secrets before now, and they've
been common property in an hour--common as the mushrooms on the
common--common as his common saws--common--”

“Robbie, the burial will take place the day after to-morrow, at three
in the afternoon, at the kirk-garth--”

“Oh, that Garth,--that devil's garth--that Joe--”

“At the kirk-garth at Gosforth,” continued Ralph. “Go round the city
and the dale, and bid every master and mistress within the warning to
Shoulthwaite Moss at nine o'clock in the morning. Be there yourself as
the representative of the family, and see all our old customs
observed. The kirk-garth is twenty miles away, across rugged mountain
country, and you must follow the public pass.”

“Styehead Pass?”

Ralph nodded assent. “Start away at eleven o'clock; take the old mare
to bear the body; let the boy ride the young horse, and chain him to
the mare at the bottom of the big pass. These men, these spies, these
constables, whatever they may be, will lie in wait for me about the
house that morning. If they don't find me at my father's funeral
they'll then believe that I must have gone. Do _you_ hold the mare's
head, Robbie--mind that. When you get to the top of the pass, perhaps
some one will relieve you--perhaps so, perhaps not. You understand?”

“I do.”

“Let nothing interfere with this plan as I give it you. If you fail in
any single particular, all may be lost.”

“I'll let nothing interfere. But what of Willy? What if he object?

“Tell him these are my wishes--he'll yield to that.”

There was a moment's silence.

“Robbie, that was a noble resolve you told me of; and you can keep it,
can you not?”

“I can--God help me.”

“Keep it the day after to-morrow--you remember our customs, sometimes
more honored, you know, in the breach than the observance--you can
hold to your resolve that day; you _must_ hold to it, for everything
hangs on it. It is a terrible hazard.”

Robbie put his hand in Ralph's, and the two stalwart dalesmen looked
steadily each into the other's face. There was a dauntless spirit of
resolution in the eyes of the younger man. His resolve was
irrevocable. His crime had saved him.

“That's enough,” said Ralph. He was satisfied.

“Why, you sleep--you sleep,” cried the little schoolmaster. During the
preceding conversation he had been capering to and fro in the road,
leaping on to the hedge, leaping back again, and putting his hands to
the sides of his eyes to shut away the wind that came from behind him,
while he looked out for the expected enemy.

“You sleep--you sleep--that Garth--that devil's garth--that worse than
kirk-garth--that--that--!”

“And now we part,” said Ralph, “for the present. Good by, both!” And
he turned to go back the way he came.

Monsey and Robbie had gone a few paces in the other direction, when
the little schoolmaster stopped, and, turning round, cried in a loud
voice, “O yes, I know it--the Lion. I've been there before. I'll
whisper Father Matthew that you've gone--”

Robbie had put his arm on Monsey's shoulder and swung him round, and
Ralph heard no more.




CHAPTER IX. THE SHADOW OF THE CRIME.

     But yester-night I prayed aloud
     In anguish and in agony.           Coleridge.


The night was far advanced, and yet Ralph had not returned to
Shoulthwaite. It was three hours since Matthew Branthwaite had left
the Moss. Mrs. Ray still sat before the turf fire and gazed into it in
silence. Rotha was by her side, and Willy lay on the settle drawn up
to the hearth. All listened for the sound of footsteps that did not
come.

The old clock ticked out louder and more loud; the cricket's measured
chirp seemed to grow more painfully audible; the wind whistled through
the leafless boughs without, and in the lulls of the abating storm the
low rumble of the ghyll could be heard within. What kept Ralph away?
It was no unusual thing for him to be abroad from dawn to dusk, but
the fingers of the clock were approaching eleven, and still he did not
come. On this night, of all others, he must have wished to be at home.

Earlier in the evening Rotha had found occasion to go on some errand
to the neighboring farm, and there she had heard that towards noon
Ralph had been seen on horseback crossing Stye Head towards Wastdale.
Upon reporting this at the Moss, the old dame had seemed to be
relieved.

“He thinks of everything,” she had said. All that day she had
cherished the hope that it would be possible to bury Angus over the
hills, at Gosforth. It was in the old churchyard there that her father
lay-her father, her mother, and all her kindred. It was twenty miles
to those plains and uplands, that lay beyond the bleak shores of
Wastdale. It was a full five hours' journey there and back. But when
twice five hours had been counted, and still Ralph had not returned,
the anxiety of the inmates of the old house could no longer be
concealed. In the eagerness of their expectation the clock ticked
louder than ever, the cricket chirped with more jubilant activity, the
wind whistled shriller, the ghylls rumbled longer, but no welcomer
sound broke the stillness.

At length Willy got up and put on his hat. He would go down the lonnin
to where it joined the road, and meet Ralph on the way. He would have
done so before, but the horror of walking under the shadow of the
trees where last night his father fell had restrained him. Conquering
his fear, he sallied out.

The late moon had risen, and was shining at full. With a beating heart
he passed the dreaded spot, and reached the highway beyond. He could
hear nothing of a horse's canter. There were steps approaching, and he
went on towards whence they came. Two men passed close beside him, but
neither of them was Ralph. They did not respond to his greeting when,
in accordance with the custom of the country, he bade them “Good
night.” They were strangers, and they looked closely--he thought
suspiciously--at him as they went by.

Willy walked a little farther, and then returned. As he got back to
the lane that led to the house, the two men passed him again. Once
more they looked closely into his face. His fear prompted him to
speak, but again they went on in silence. As Willy turned up towards
home, the truth flashed upon him that these men were the cause of
Ralph's absence. He knew enough of what was going on in the world to
realize the bare possibility that his brother's early Parliamentarian
campaign might bring him into difficulties even yet. It seemed certain
that the lord of Wythburn Manor would be executed. Only Ralph's
obscurity could save him.

When Willy got back into the kitchen, the impression that Ralph was
being pursued and dogged was written on his face. His mother
understood no more of his trouble than that his brother had not
returned; she looked from his face back to the fire, that now died
slowly on the hearth. Rotha was quicker to catch the significance of
Willy's nervous expression and fitful words. To her the situation now
appeared hardly less than tragic. With the old father lying dead in
the loft above, what would come to this household if the one strong
hand in it was removed? Then she thought of her own father. What would
become of him? Where was he this night? The sense of impending
disaster gave strength to her, however. She rose and put her hand on
Willy's arm as he walked to and fro across the earthen floor. She was
the more drawn to him from some scarce explicable sense of his
weakness.

“Some one coming now,” he said in eager tones--his ears were awake
with a feverish sensitiveness--“some one at the back.” It was Ralph at
last. He had come down the side of the ghyll, and had entered the
house from behind. All breathed freely.

“God bless thee!” said Mrs. Ray.

“You've been anxious. It was bad to keep you so,” he said, with an
obvious effort to assume his ordinary manner.

“I reckon thou couldst not have helped it, my lad,” said Mrs. Ray.
Relieved and cheerful, she was bustling about to get Ralph's supper on
the table.

“Well, no,” he answered. “You know, I've been over to Gosforth--it's a
long ride--I borrowed Jackson's pony from Armboth; and what a wild
country it is, to be sure! It blew a gale on Stye Head. It's bleak
enough up there on a day like this, mother. I could scarce hold the
horse.”

“I don't wonder, Ralph; but see, here's thy poddish--thou must be fair
clemm'd.”

“No, no; I called at Broom Hill.”

“How did you come in at the back, lad? Do you not come up the lonnin?”

“I thought I'd go round by the low meadow and see all safe, and then
the nearest way home was on the hill side, you know.”

Willy and Rotha glanced simultaneously at Ralph as he said this, but
they found nothing in his face, voice, or manner to indicate that his
words were intended to conceal the truth.

“But look how late it is!” he said as the clock struck twelve; “hadn't
we better go off to bed, all of us?”

“I think I must surely go off,” said Mrs. Ray, and with Rotha she left
the kitchen. Willy soon followed them, leaving Ralph to eat his supper
alone. Laddie, who had entered with his master, was lying by the
smouldering fire, and after the one had finished eating, the other
came in for his liberal share of the plain meal. Then Ralph rose, and,
lifting up his hat and staff, walked quietly to his brother's room.
Willy was already in bed, but his candle was still burning. Sitting on
an old oak chest that stood near the door of the little room, Ralph
said,--

“I shall perhaps be off again before you are awake in the morning, but
all will be done in good time. The funeral will be on the day after
to-morrow. Robbie Anderson will see to everything.”

“Robbie Anderson?” said Willy in an accent of surprise.

“You know it's the custom in the dale for a friend of the family to
attend to these offices.”

“Yes; but Robbie Anderson of all men!”

“You may depend upon him,” said Ralph.

“This is the first time I've heard that he can depend upon himself,
said Willy.

“True--true--but I'm satisfied about Robbie. No, you need fear
nothing. Robbie's a changed man, I think.”

“Changed he must be, Ralph, if you would commit to his care what could
not be too well discharged by the most trustworthy friend of the
family.”

“Yes, but Robbie will do as well as another--better. You know, Willy,
I have an old weakness for a sheep that strays. When I get it back I
fancy, somehow, it's the best of the flock.”

“May your straggler justify your odd fancy this time, brother!”

“Rotha will see to what has to be done at home,” said Ralph, rising
and turning to go.

“Ralph,” said Willy, “do you know I--” He faltered and began again,
obviously changing the subject. “Have you been in there to-night?”
 with a motion of the head towards the room wherein lay all that
remained of their father.

“No; have you?”

“No; I dare not go. I would not if I could. I wish to remember him as
he lived, and one, glance at his dead face would blot out the memory
forever.”

Ralph could not understand this. There was no chord in his nature that
responded to such feelings; but he said nothing in reply.

“Ralph,” continued Willy, “do you know I think Rotha--I almost
thin--do you not think that Rotha rather cares for me?”

A perceptible tremor passed over Ralph's face. Then he said, with
something like a smile, “Do you think she does, my lad?”

“I do--I almost do think so.”

Ralph had resumed his seat on the oak chest. The simple, faltering
words just spoken had shaken him to the core. Hidden there--hidden
even from himself--had lain inert for months a mighty passion such as
only a great heart can know. In one moment he had seen it and known it
for what it was. Yes, he had indeed loved this girl; he loved her
still. When he spoke again his voice seemed to have died inwards; he
appeared to be speaking out of his breast.

“And what of yourself, Willy?” he asked.

“I think I care for her, too,--I think so.”

How sure was the other of a more absolute affection than the most
positive words could express! Ralph sat silent for a moment, as was
his wont when under the influence of strong feeling. His head inclined
downwards, and his eyes were fixed on the floor. A great struggle was
going on within him. Should he forthwith make declaration of his own
passion? Love said, Yes! love should be above all ties of kindred, all
claims of blood. But the many tongues of an unselfish nature said, No!
If this thing were wrong, it would of itself come to nought; if right,
it would be useless to oppose it. The struggle was soon over, and the
impulse of self-sacrifice had conquered. But at what a cost--at what a
cost!

“Yet there is her father, you know,” Willy added. “One dreads the
thought of such a match. There may be something in the blood--at
least, one fears--”

“You need have no fear of Rotha that comes of her relation to Simeon
Stagg. Sim is an innocent man.”

“So you say--so you say. Let us hope so. It's a terrible thought-that
of marriage with the flesh and blood of--of a murderer.”

“Rotha is as free from taint of crime as--you are. She is a noble
girl, and worthy of you, worthy of any man, whatever her father may
be,” said Ralph.

“Yes, yes, I know; I thought you'd say so. I'm glad, Ralph--I can't
tell you how glad I am--to hear you say so. And if I'm right--if Rotha
really loves me--I know you'll be as glad as I am.”

Ralph's face trembled slightly at this, but he nodded his head and
smiled.

“Not that I could think of it for a long time,” Willy continued. “This
dreadful occurrence must banish all such thoughts for a very long
time.”

Willy seemed to find happiness in the prospect, remote as it might be.
Ralph's breast heaved as he looked upon his brother's brightening
face. That secret of his own heart must lie forever buried there. Yes,
he had already resolved upon that. He should never darken the future
that lay pictured in those radiant eyes. But this was a moment of
agony nevertheless. Ralph was following the funeral of the mightiest
passion of his soul. He got up and opened the door.

“Good night, and God bless you!” he said huskily.

“One moment, Ralph. Did you see two men, strangers, on the road
to-night? Ah, I remember, you came in at the back.”

“Two friends of Joe Garth's,” said Ralph, closing the door behind him.

When he reached his own room he sat for some minutes on the bed. What
were the feelings that preyed upon him? He hardly knew. His heart was
desolate. His life seemed to be losing its hope, or his hope its
object. And not yet had he reached the worst. Some dread forewarning
of a sterner fate seemed to hang above him.

Rising, Ralph threw off his shoes, and drew on a pair of stouter ones.
Then he laced up a pair of leathern leggings, and, taking down a heavy
cloak from behind the door, he put it across his arm. He had no light
but the light of the moon.

Stepping quietly along the creaky old corridor to the room where his
father lay, Ralph opened the door and entered. A clod of red turf
smouldered on the hearth, and the warm glow from it mingled with the
cold blue of the moonlight. How full of the odor of a dead age the
room now seemed to be! The roof was opened through the rude timbers to
the whitened thatch. Sheepskins were scattered about the black oaken
floor. Ralph walked to the chimney-breast, and stood on one of the
skins as he leaned on the rannel-tree shelf. How still and cheerless
it all was!

The room stretched from the front to the back of the house, and had a
window at each end. The moon that shone through the window at the
front cast its light across the foot of the bed. Ralph had come to bid
his last good-night to him who lay thereon. It was in this room that
he himself had been born. He might never enter it again.

How the strong man was laid low! All his pride of strength had shrunk
to this! “The lofty looks of men shall be humbled, and the haughtiness
of men shall be bowed down.” What indeed was man, whose breath was in
his nostrils!

The light was creeping up the bed. Silent was he who lay there as the
secret which he had never discharged even to his deaf pillow. Had that
secret mutinied in the heart that knew its purple war no more? Ah! how
true it was that conscience was a thousand swords. With no witness
against him except himself, whither could he have fled from the
accusation that burned within him as a fire! Not chains nor cells
could have spoken to this strong man like the awful voice of his
solitary heart. How remorse must have corroded that heart! How he must
have numbered the hours of that remorse! How one sanguinary deed must
have trampled away all joyous memories! But the secret agony was over
at last: it was over now.

The moonlight had crept up to the head. It was silvering the gray
hairs that rested there. Ralph stepped up to the bedside and uncovered
the face. Was it changed since he looked on it last? Last night it was
his father's face: was it laden with iniquity now? How the visible
phantom of one horrible moment must have stood up again and again
before these eyes! How sternly fortune must have frowned on these
features! Yet it was his father's face still.

And what of that father's great account? Who could say what the final
arbitrament would be? Had he who lay there, the father, taken up all
this load of guilt and remorse for love of him, the son? Was he gone
to a dreadful audit, too, and all for love of him? And to know nothing
of it until now--until it was too late to take him by the hand or to
look into his eyes! Nay, to have tortured him unwittingly with a
hundred cruel words! Ralph remembered how in days past he had spoken
bitterly in his father's presence of the man who allowed Simeon Stagg
to rest under an imputation of murder not his own. That murder had
been done to save his own life--however unwisely, however rashly,
still to save his (Ralph's) own life.

Ralph dropped to his knees at the bedside. What barrier had stood
between the dead man and himself that in life the one had never
revealed himself to the other? They were beyond that revealment now,
yet here was everything as in a glass. “Oh, my father,” cried Ralph as
his head fell between his hands, “would that tears of mine could scald
away your offence!”

Then there came back the whisper of the old words, “The lofty looks of
men shall be humbled, and the haughtiness of men shall be bowed down.”

Ralph knelt long at his father's side, and when he rose from his knees
it was with a calmer but a heavier heart.

“Surely God's hand is upon me,” he murmured. The mystery would yield
no other meaning. “Gone to his account with the burden, not of my
guilt, but of my fate, upon him.”

Ralph walked to the fire and turned over the expiring peat. It gave a
fitful flicker. He took from his pocket the paper that had fallen from
his father's breast, and looked long at it in the feeble light. It was
all but the only evidence of the crime, and it must be destroyed. He
put the paper to the light. Drawing it away, he paused and reflected.
He thought of his stricken mother, and his resolve seemed fixed. He
must burn this witness against his father; he must crush the black
shadow of it in his hand. Could he but crush as easily the black
shadow of impending doom! Could he but obliterate as completely the
dread reckoning of another world!

The paper that hung in his hand had touched the flickering peat. It
was already ignited, but he drew it once more away, and crushed the
burning corner to ashes in his palm.

No, it must not be destroyed. He thought of how Rotha had stood over
her father's prostrate form in the room of the village inn, and cried
in her agony, “Tell them it is not true.” Who could say what this
paper might yet do for him and her?

Ralph put the warrant back, charred and crumbled, into the breast
pocket of the jerkin he wore.

The burning of the paper had for a moment filled the chamber with
light. After the last gleam of it had died away, and the ash of the
burnt portion lay in his palm, Ralph walked to the front window and
looked out. All was still. Only the wind whistled. How black against
the moon loomed the brant walls of the Castle Rock across the vale!

Turning about, Ralph re-covered the face and said, “Death is kindest;
how could I look into this face alive?”

And the whisper of the old words came back once more: “The lofty looks
of men shall be humbled, and the haughtiness of men shall be bowed
down.”

Ralph walked to the window at the back and gently pushed it open. It
overlooked the fell and the Shoulthwaite Ghyll. A low roof went down
from it almost to the ground. He stepped out on to this, and stood for
a moment in the shadow that lay upon it.

He must take his last look now. He must bid his last good-night. The
moon through the opposite window still shone on the silvery hair. The
wind was high. It found its way through the open casement. It
fluttered the face-cloth above the face. Ralph pushed back the sash,
and in a moment he was gone.




CHAPTER X. MATTHA BRANTH'ET “FLYTES” THE PARSON.


The household on the Moss were early astir on the morning appointed
for the funeral of Angus Ray. Matthew Branthwaite's wife and daughter
were bustling about the kitchen of the old house soon after daybreak.

Mrs. Branthwaite was a fragile little body, long past her best, with
the crow's feet deeply indented about her eyes, which had the timid
look of those of a rabbit, and were peculiarly appropriate to a good
old creature who seemed to be constantly laboring against the idea
that everything she did was done wrongly. Her daughter Liza was a neat
little thing of eighteen, with the bluest of blue eyes, the plumpest
of plump cheeks, and the merriest of merry voices. They had walked
from their home in the gray dawn in order to assist at the
preliminaries to the breakfast which had to be eaten by a large
company of the dalesmen before certain of them set out on the long
journey across the fells.

The previous day had been the day of the “winding,” a name that
pointed to the last offices of Abraham Strong, the Wythburn carpenter.
In the afternoon of the winding day the mistresses of the houses
within the “warning” had met to offer liberal doses of solace and to
take equally liberal doses of sweet broth, a soup sweetened with
raisins and sugar, which was reserved for such melancholy occasions.

According to ancient custom, the “maister men” of the dale were to
assemble at nine o'clock on the morning following the winding, and it
was to meet their needs that old Mrs. Branthwaite and her daughter had
walked over to assist Rotha. The long oak table had to be removed from
the wall before the window, and made to stand down the middle of the
floor. Robbie Anderson had arrived early at the Moss in order to
effect this removal. After his muscles had exercised themselves upon
the ponderous article of furniture, and had placed the benches called
skemmels down each side and chairs at each end, he went into the
stable to dress down the mare and sharpen her shoes preparatory to her
long journey.

The preliminaries in the kitchen occupied a couple of hours, and
during this time Mrs. Ray and Willy sat together in a room above. The
reason of Ralph's absence had been explained to his mother by Rotha,
who had received her information from Robbie Anderson. The old dame
had accepted the necessity with characteristic resignation. What Ralph
thought well to do she knew would be best. She did not foresee evil
consequences.

Willy had exhibited more perturbation. Going into his brother's room
on the morning after their conversation, he saw clearly enough that
the bed had not been slept upon. The two friends of Joe Garth's, of
whom Ralph had spoken with so much apparent unconcern, had obviously
driven him away from home in the depth of the night. Then came Rotha's
explanation.

His worst fears were verified. Was it conceivable that Ralph could
escape the machinations of those who had lain a web that had already
entangled the lord of Wythburn himself? Every one who had served in
the trained bands of the Parliament was at the mercy of any man, who,
for the gratification of personal spite, chose to become informer
against him.

The two strangers had been seen in the city during the preceding day.
It was obviously their purpose to remain until time itself verified
the rumor that Ralph had left these parts to escape them. The
blacksmith had bragged in his cups at the Red Lion that Wilfrey Lawson
of the constable's court at Carlisle would have Ralph Ray in less than
a week. Robbie Anderson had overheard this, and had reported it at the
Moss. Robbie professed to know better, and to be able to laugh at such
pretensions. Willy was more doubtful. He thought his better education,
and consequently more intimate acquaintance with the history of such
conflicts with the ruling powers, justified him in his apprehensions.
He sat with his mother while the business was going on downstairs,
apparently struggling with an idea that it was his duty to comfort
her, but offering such curious comfort that the old dame looked up
again and again with wide eyes, which showed that her son was
suggesting to her slower intellect a hundred dangers and a hundred
moods of sorrow that she could neither discover for herself nor cope
with.

Towards nine the “maister men” of Wythburn began to arrive at
Shoulthwaite. Such of them as intended to accompany the remains of
their fellow-dalesman to their resting place at Gosforth came on
mountain ponies, which they dismounted in the court and led into a
spare barn. Many came on foot, and of these by much the larger part
meant to accompany the _cortège_ only to the top of the Armboth Fell,
and, having “sett” it so far, to face no more of the more than twenty
miles of rough country that lay between the valley and the churchyard
on the plains by the sea.

Matthew Branthwaite was among the first to arrive. The old weaver was
resplendent in the apparel usually reserved for “Cheppel Sunday.” The
external elevation of his appearance from the worn and sober brown of
his daily “top-sark” seemed to produce a corresponding elevation of
the weaver's spirit. Despite the solemnity of the occasion, he seemed
tempted to let fall a sapient proverb of anything but a funereal tone.
On stepping into the kitchen and seeing the provision that had been
made for a repast, he did indeed intimate his intention of assisting
at the ceremony in the language of the time-honored wren who cried “I
helps” as she let a drop of water fall into the sea. At this moment
the clergyman from the chapel-of-ease on the Raise arrived at the
Moss, and Matthew prepared to put his precept into practice.

The priest, Nicholas Stevens by name, was not a Cumbrian. He had kept
his office through three administrations, and to their several forms
of legislation he had proved equally tractable. His spirit of
accommodation had not been quite so conspicuous in his dealings with
those whom he conceived to be beneath him. But in truth he had left
his parishioners very largely to their own devices. When he was moved
to come among them, it was with the preoccupied air not so much of the
student or visionary as of a man who was isolated from those about him
by combined authority, influence, and perhaps superior blood. He now
took his seat at the head of the table with the bearing of one to whom
it had never occurred to take a lower place. He said little at first,
and when addressed he turned his face slowly round to him who spoke
with an air of mingled abstraction and self-satisfaction, through
which a feeble smile of condescension struggled and seemed to say in a
mild voice, “Did you speak?”

Matthew sat at the foot of the table, and down each side were seated
the dalesmen, to the number of twenty-four. There were Thomas Fell and
Adam Rutledge, Job Leathes and Luke Cockrigg, John Jackson of Armboth,
and little Reuben Thwaite.

His reverence cut up the ham into slices as formal as his creed, while
old Matthew poured out the contents of two huge black jacks. Robbie
Anderson carried the plates to and fro; Mrs. Branthwaite and Liza
served out the barley and oaten bread.

The breakfast was hardly more than begun when the kitchen door was
partially opened, and the big head of a little man became visible on
the inner side of it, the body and legs of the new-comer not having
yet arrived in the apartment.

“Am I late?” the head said in a hoarse whisper from its place low down
on the door-jamb. It was Monsey Laman, red and puffing after a sharp
run.

“It's the laal Frenchman. Come thy ways in,” said Matthew. Rotha, who
was coming and going from the kitchen to the larder, found a chair for
the schoolmaster, and he slid into it with the air of one who was
persuading himself that his late advent was unobserved.

“I met that Garth--that--Joe Garth on the road, and he kept me,”
 whispered Monsey apologetically to Matthew across the table. The
presence of Death somewhere in the vicinity had banished the
schoolmaster's spirit of fun.

While this was going on at one end of the table, Rotha had made her
way to the other end, with the ostensible purpose of cutting up the
cheese, but with the actual purpose of listening to a conversation in
which his reverence Nicholas Stevens was beginning to bear an
unusually animated part. Some one had made allusion to the sudden and,
as was alleged, the unseemly departure of Ralph Ray on the eve of his
father's funeral. Some one else had deplored the necessity for that
departure, and had spoken of it as a cruel outrage on the liberties of
a good man. From this generous if somewhat disloyal sentiment his
reverence was expressing dissent. He thought it nothing but just that
the law should take its course.

This might involve the mortification of our private feelings; it would
certainly be a grief to him, loving, as he did, the souls committed to
his care; but individual affections must be sacrificed to the general
weal. The young man, Ralph Ray, had outraged the laws of his country
in fighting and conspiring against his anointed King. It was hard, but
it was right, that he should be punished for his treason.

His reverence was speaking in cold metallic tones, that fell like the
clank of chains on Rotha's ears.

“Moreover, we should all do our best for the King,” said the
clergyman, “to bring such delinquents to justice.”

“Shaf!” cried Matthew Branthwaite from the other end of the table. The
little knots of talkers had suddenly become silent.

“Shaf!” repeated Matthew; “what did ye do yersel for the King in
Oliver's days? Wilt thoo mak me tell thee? Didst thoo not tak what
thoo called the oath of abjuration agen the King five years agone?
Didst thoo not? Ey? And didst thoo not come round and ask ivery man on
us to do the same?”

The clergyman looked confounded. He dropped his knife and, unable to
make a rejoinder, turned to those about him and said, in a tone of
amazement, “Did you ever hear the like?”

“Nay,” cried Matthew, following up his advantage, “ye may hear it
agen, an ye will.”

Poor Mrs. Branthwaite seemed sorely distressed. Standing by her
husband's chair, she appeared to be struggling between impulse and
fear in an attempt to put her hand on the mouth of her loquacious
husband, in order to avert the uncertain catastrophe which she was
sure must ensue from this unexpected and uncompromising defiance of
the representative in Wythburn of the powers that be.

Rotha gave Matthew a look of unmistakable gratitude, which, however,
was wasted on that infuriated iconoclast. Fixing his eyes steadily on
the priest, the weaver forthwith gave his reverence more than one
opportunity of hearing the unwelcome outburst again, telling him by
only too palpable hints that the depth of his loyalty was his stipend
of £300 a year, and the secret of his willingness to see Ralph in the
hands of the constable of Carlisle was the fact that the young man had
made no secret of his unwillingness to put off his hat to a priest who
had thrice put off his own hat to a money-bag.

“Gang yer gate back to yer steeple-house, Nicholas Stevens,” said
Matthew, “and mortify yer fatherly bosom for the good of the only soul
the Almighty has geàn to yer charge, and mind the auld saying, 'Nivver
use the taws when a gloom will do the turn.'”

“You deserve the taws about your back, sirrah, to forget my sacred
office so far as to speak so,” said the minister.

“And ye hev forgat yer sacred office to call me nicknames,” answered
Matthew, nothing abashed.

“I see you are no better than those blaspheming Quakers whom Justice
Rawlinson has wisely committed to the common gaol--poor famished
seducers that deserve the stocks!”

“Rich folk hev rowth of friends,” rejoined Matthew, “an' olas will hev
while the mak of thyself are aboot.”

His reverence was not slow to perceive that the pulpit had been no
match for the Red Lion as a place of preparation for an encounter like
the present. Gathering up with what grace he could the tattered and
besmeared skirts of his priestly dignity, he affected contempt for the
weaver by ignoring his remarks; and, turning to those immediately
around him, he proceeded with quite unusual warmth to deliver a homily
on duty. Reverting to the subject of Ralph Ray's flight from Wythburn,
he said that it was well that the young man had withdrawn himself, for
had he remained longer in these parts, and had the high sheriff at
Carlisle not proceeded against him, he himself, though much against
his inclination, might have felt it his duty as a servant of God and
the King to put the oath of allegiance to him.

“I do not say positively that I should have done so,” he said, in a
confidential parenthesis, “but I fear I could not have resisted that
duty.”

“Dree out the inch when ye've tholed the span,” cried Matthew; “I'd
nivver strain lang at sic a wee gnat as that.”

Without condescending to notice the interruption, his reverence
proceeded to say he had recently learned that it had been the
intention of the judges on the circuit to recommend Angus Ray, the
lamented departed, as a justice for the district. This step had been
in contemplation since the direful tragedy which had recently been
perpetrated in their midst, and of which the facts remained still
unexplained, though circumstantial evidence pointed to a solution of
the mystery.

When saying this the speaker turned, as though with an involuntary and
unconscious gaze, towards the spot where Rotha stood. He had pushed
past the girl on coming through the porch without acknowledging her
salutation.

“And if Angus Ray had lived to become a justice,” continued the
Reverend Nicholas, “it very likely must have been his duty before God
and the King to apprehend his son Ralph on a charge of treason.”

Robbie Anderson, who was standing by, felt at that moment that it
would very likely be _his_ duty before long to take the priest by
certain appendages of his priestly apparel, and carry him less than
tenderly to a bed more soft than odorous.

“It must have been his duty, I repeat,” said his reverence, speaking
with measured emphasis, “before God and the King.”

“Leave God oot on't,” shouted Matthew. “Ye may put that in when ye get
intil yer pulpit, and then ye'll deceive none but them that lippen
till ye. Don't gud yersel wi' God's name.”

“It is written,” said his reverence, “'It is an abomination to
kings to commit wickedness; for the throne is established by
righteousness.'”

“Dus'ta think to knock me doon wi' the Bible?” said Matthew with a
touch of irreverence. “I reckon ony cock may crouse on his own
middenheed. Ye mind me of the clerk at Tickell, who could argify none
at all agen the greet Geordie Fox, so he up and broke his nose wi' a
bash of his family Bible.”

This final rejoinder proved too much for the minister, who rose, the
repast being over, and stalked past Rotha into the adjoining chamber,
where the widow and Willy sat in their sorrow. The dalesmen looked
after his retreating figure, and as the door of the inner room closed,
they heard his metallic voice ask if the deceased had judiciously
arranged his temporal affairs.

During the encounter between the weaver and the clergyman the company
had outwardly observed a rigid neutrality. Little Liza, it is true,
had obviously thought it all the best of good fun, and had enjoyed it
accordingly. She had grinned and giggled just as she had done on the
preceding Sunday when a companion, the only surviving child of Baptist
parents now dead, had had the water sprinkled on her face at her
christening in the chapel on the Raise. But Luke Cockrigg, Reuben
Thwaite, and the rest had remained silent and somewhat appalled. The
schoolmaster had felt himself called upon to participate in the
strife, but being in the anomalous position of owing his official
obligations to the minister and his convictions to the side championed
by the weaver, he had contented him with sundry grave shakes of his
big head, which shakes, being subject to diverse interpretations, were
the least compromising expressions of opinion which his genius could
suggest to him. No sooner, however, had the door closed on the
clergyman than a titter went round the table. Matthew was still at a
white heat. Accustomed as he was to “tum'le” his neighbors at the Red
Lion, he was now profoundly agitated. It was not frequently that he
brought down such rare game in his sport.

“Mattha Branthet,” said Reuben Thwaite, “what, man, thoo didst flyte
the minister! What it is to hev the gift o' gob and gumption!”

“Shaf! It's kittle shootin' at crows and clergy,” replied Matthew.

The breakfast being over, the benches were turned towards the big peat
fire that glowed red on the hearth and warmed the large kitchen on
this wintry day. The ale jars were refilled, pipes and tobacco were
brought in, and the weaver relinquished his office of potman to his
daughter.

“I'd be nobbut a clot-heed,” he said when abdicating, “and leave nane
for mysel if I sarrad it oot.”

Robbie Anderson now put on his great cloak, and took down a whip from
a strap against the rafters.

“What's this?” said little Reuben to Robbie. “Are you going without a
glass?”

Robbie signified his intention of doing just that and nothing else. At
this there was a general laugh, after which Reuben, with numerous
blinkings of his little eyes, bantered Robbie about the great drought
not long before, when a universal fast had been proclaimed, and Robbie
had asked why, if folks could not get water, they would not content
themselves with ale.

“Liza, teem a short pint intil this lang Robbie,” said Matthew.

Liza brought up a foaming pot, but the young man put it aside with a
bashful smile at the girl, who laughed and blushed as she pressed it
back upon him.

“Not yet, Liza; when we come back, perhaps.”

“Will you not take it from me?” said the girl, turning her pretty head
aside, and giving a sly dig of emphasis to the pronouns.

“Not even from you, Liza, yet awhile.”

The mischievous little minx was piqued at his refusal, and determined
that he should drink it, or decline to do so at the peril of losing
her smiles.

“Come, Robbie, you shall drink it off--you must.”

“No, my girl, no.”

“I think I know those that would do it if I asked them,” said Liza,
with an arch elevation of her dimpled chin and a shadow of a pout.

“Who wouldn't do it, save Robbie Anderson?” he said, laughing for the
first time that morning as he walked out of the kitchen.

In a few minutes he returned, saying all was ready, and it was time to
start away. Every man rose and went to the front of the house. The old
mare Betsy was there, with the coffin strapped on her broad back. Her
bruised knees had healed; the frost had disappeared, her shoes were
sharpened, and she could not slip. When the mourners had assembled and
ranged themselves around the horse, the Reverend Nicholas Stevens came
out with the relatives, the weeping mother and son, with Rotha Stagg,
and the “Old Hundredth” was sung.

Then the procession of men on foot and men on horseback set off,
Robbie Anderson in front leading the mare that bore the coffin, and a
boy riding a young horse by his side. Last of all rode Willy Ray, and
as they passed beneath the trees that overhung the lane, he turned in
the saddle and waved his arm to the two women, who, through the
blinding mist of tears, watched their departure from the porch.




CHAPTER XI. LIZA'S WILES.


The procession had just emerged from the lane, and had turned into the
old road that hugged the margin of the mere, when two men walked
slowly by in the opposite direction. Dark as it had been when Willy
encountered these men before, he had not an instant's doubt as to
their identity.

The reports of Ralph's disappearance, which Matthew had so assiduously
promulgated in whispers, had reached the destination which Ralph had
designed for them. The representatives of the Carlisle high constable
were conscious that they had labored under serious disadvantages in
their efforts to capture a dalesman in his own stronghold of the
mountains. Moreover, their zeal was not so ardent as to make them
eager to risk the dangers of an arrest that was likely to be full of
peril. They were willing enough to accept the story of Ralph's flight,
but they could not reasonably neglect this opportunity to assure
themselves of its credibility. So they had beaten about the house
during the morning under the pioneering of the villager whom they had
injudiciously chosen as their guide, and now they scanned the faces of
the mourners who set out on the long mountain journey.

Old Matthew's risibility was evidently much tickled by the sense of
their thwarted purpose. Despite the mournful conditions under which he
was at that moment abroad, he could not forbear to wish them, from his
place in the procession, “a gay canny mornin'”; and failing to satisfy
himself with the effect produced by this insinuating salutation, he
could not resist the further temptation of reminding them that they
had frightened and not caught their game.

“Fleyin' a bird's not the way to grip it,” he cried, to the obvious
horror of the clergyman, whose first impulse was to remonstrate with
the weaver on his levity, but whose maturer reflections induced the
more passive protest of a lifted head and a suddenly elevated nose.

This form of contempt might have escaped the observation of the person
for whom it was intended had not Reuben Thwaite, who walked beside
Matthew, gently emphasized it with a jerk of the elbow and a motion of
the thumb.

“He'll glower at the moon till he falls in the midden,” said Matthew
with a grunt of amused interest.

The two strangers had now gone by, and Willy Ray breathed freely, as
he thought that with this encounter the threatened danger had probably
been averted.

Then the procession wound its way slowly along the breast of Bracken
Water. When Robbie Anderson, in front, had reached a point at which a
path went up from the pack-horse road to the top of the Armboth Fell,
he paused for a moment, as though uncertain whether to pursue it.

“Keep to the auld corpse road,” cried Matthew; and then, in
explanation of his advice, he explained the ancient Cumbrian land law,
by which a path becomes public property if a dead body is carried over
it.

Before long the procession had reached the mountain path across
Cockrigg Bank, and this path it was intended to follow as far as
Watendlath.

Here the Reverend Nicholas Stevens left the mourners. In accordance
with an old custom, he might have required that they should pass
through his chapel yard on the Raise before leaving the parish, but he
had waived his right to this tribute to episcopacy. After offering a
suitable blessing, he turned away, not without a withering glance at
the weaver, who was muttering rather too audibly an adaptation of the
rhyme,--

     I'll set him up on yon crab-tree,
     It's sour and dour, and so is he.

“I reckon,” continued Matthew to little Reuben Thwaite, by his side,
as the procession started afresh,--“I reckon yon auld Nick,” with a
lurch of his thumb over his shoulder, “likes Ash Wednesday better ner
this Wednesday--better ner ony Wednesday--for that's the day he curses
every yan all roond, and asks the folks to say Amen tul him.”

The schoolmaster had walked demurely enough thus far; nor did the
departure of the clergyman effect a sensible elevation of his spirits.
Of all the mourners, the “laal limber Frenchman” was the most
mournful.

It was a cheerless winter morning when they set out from Shoulthwaite.
The wind had never fallen since the terrible night of the death of
Angus. As they ascended the fell, however, it was full noon. The sun
had broken languidly through the mists that had rolled midway across
the mountains, and were now being driven by the wind in a long white
continent towards the south, there to gather between more sheltered
headlands to the strength of rain. When they reached the top of the
Armboth Fell the sky was clear, the sun shone brightly and bathed the
gorse that stretched for miles around in varied shades of soft blue,
brightening in some places to purple, and in other places deepening to
black. The wind was stronger here than it had been in the valley, and
blew in gusts of all but overpowering fierceness from High Seat
towards Glaramara.

“This caps owte,” said Matthew, as he lurched to the wind. “Yan
waddent hev a crowful of flesh on yan's bones an yan lived up here.”

When the procession reached the village of Watendlath a pause was
made. From this point onward the journey through Borrowdale towards
the foot of Stye Head Pass must necessarily be a hard and tiresome
one, there being scarcely a traceable path through the huge bowlders.
Here it was agreed that the mourners on foot should turn back, leaving
the more arduous part of the journey to those only who were mounted on
sure-footed ponies. Matthew Branthwaite, Monsey Laman, and Reuben
Thwaite were among the dozen or more dalesmen who left the procession
at this point.

When, on their return journey, they had regained the summit of the
Armboth Fell, and were about to descend past Blea Tarn towards
Wythburn, they stood for a moment at that highest point and took a
last glimpse of the mournful little company, with the one riderless
horse in front, that wended its way slowly beyond Rosthwaite, along
the banks of the winding Derwent, which looked to them now like a thin
streak of blue in the deep valley below.

Soon after the procession left the house on the Moss, arrangements
were put in progress for the meal that had to be prepared for the
mourners upon their return in the evening.

Some preliminary investigations into the quantity of food that would
have to be cooked in the hours intervening disclosed the fact that the
wheaten flour had run short, and that some one would need to go across
to the mill at Legberthwaite at once if hot currant cake were to be
among the luxuries provided for the evening table.

So Liza took down her cloak, tied the ribbons of her bonnet about her
plump cheeks, and set out over the dale almost immediately the funeral
party turned the end of the lonnin. The little creature tripped along
jauntily enough, with a large sense of her personal consequence to the
enterprises afoot, but without an absorbing sentiment of the gravity
of the occurrences that gave rise to them. She had scarcely crossed
the old bridge that led into the Legberthwaite highway when she saw
the blacksmith coming hastily from the opposite direction.

Now, Liza was not insensible of her attractions in the eyes of that
son of Vulcan, and at a proper moment she was not indisposed to accept
the tribute of his admiration. Usually, however, she either felt or
affected a measure of annoyance at the importunity with which he
prosecuted his suit, and when she saw him coming towards her on this
occasion her first feeling was a little touched with irritation.
“Here's this great tiresome fellow again,” she thought; “he can never
let a girl go by without speaking to her. I've a great mind to leap
the fence and cross the fields to the mill.”

Liza did not carry into effect the scarcely feminine athletic exercise
she had proposed to herself; and this change of intention on her part
opens up a more curious problem in psychology than the little creature
herself had any notion of. The fact is that just as Liza had resolved
that she would let nothing in the world interfere with her fixed
determination not to let the young blacksmith speak to her, she
observed, to her amazement, that the gentleman in question had clearly
no desire to do so, but was walking past her hurriedly, and with so
preoccupied an air as actually seemed to suggest that he was not so
much as conscious of her presence.

It was true that Liza did not want to speak to Mr. Joseph. It was also
true that she had intended to ignore him. But that _he_ should not
want to speak to _her_, and that _he_ should seem to ignore _her_, was
much more than could be borne by her stubborn little bit of coquettish
pride, distended at that moment, too, by the splendors of her best
attire. In short, Liza was piqued into a desire to investigate the
portentous business which had obviously shut her out of the
consciousness of the blacksmith.

“Mr. Garth,” she said, stopping as he drew up to her.

“Liza, is that you?” he replied; “I'm in a hurry, lass--good morning.”

“Mr. Garth,” repeated Liza, “and maybe you'll tell me what's all your
hurry about. Has some one's horse dropped a shoe, or is this your
hooping day, or what, that you don't know a body now when you meet one
in the road?”

“No, no, my lass--good morning, Liza, I must be off.”

“Very well, Mr. Garth, and if you must, you must. _I'm_ not the one to
keep any one 'at doesn't want to stop; not I, indeed,” said Liza,
tossing up her head with an air as of supreme indifference, and
turning half on her heel. “Next time you speak to me, you--you--you
_will_ speak to me--mind that.” And with an expression denoting the
triumph of arms achieved by that little outburst of irony and sarcasm
combined, Liza tossed the ribbons aside that were pattering her face
in the wind, and seemed about to continue her journey.

Her parting shot had proved too much for Mr. Garth. That young man had
stopped a few paces down the road, and between two purposes seemed for
a moment uncertain which to adopt; but the impulse of what he thought
his love triumphed over the impulse of what proved to be his hate.
Retracing the few steps that lay between him and the girl, he said,--

“Don't take it cross, Liza, my lass; if I thought you really wanted to
speak to me, I'd stop anywhere for nowt--that I would. I'd stop
anywhere for nowt; but you always seemed to me over throng with yon
Robbie, that you did; but if for certain you really did want
me--that's to say, want to speak to me--I'd stop anywhere for nowt.”

The liberal nature of the blacksmith's offer did not so much impress
the acute intelligence of the girl as the fact that Mr. Garth was
probably at that moment abroad upon an errand which he had not
undertaken from equally disinterested motives. Concerning the nature
of this errand she felt no particular curiosity, but that it was
unknown to her, and was being withheld from her, was of itself a
sufficient provocation to investigation.

Liza was a simple country wench, but it would be an error to suppose
that because she had been bred up in a city more diminutive than
anything that ever before gave itself the name, and because she had
lived among hand-looms and milking-pails, and had never seen a ball or
an opera, worn a mask or a domino, she was destitute of the instinct
for intrigue which in the gayer and busier world seems to be the
heritage of half her sex. Putting her head aside demurely, as with
eyes cast, down she ran her fingers through one of her loose ribbons,
she said softly,--

“And who says I'm so very partial to Robbie? _I_ never said so, did I?
Not that I say I'm partial to anybody else either--not that I _ay_
so--Joseph!”

The sly emphasis which was put upon the word that expressed Liza's
unwillingness to commit herself to a declaration of her affection for
some mysterious entity unknown seemed to Mr. Garth to be proof beyond
contempt of question that the girl before him implied an affection for
an entity no more mysterious than himself. The blacksmith's face
brightened, and his manner changed. What had before been almost a
supplicating tone, gave place to a tone of secure triumph.

“Liza,” he said, “I'm going to bring that Robbie down a peg or two.
He's been a perching himself up alongside of Ralph Ray this last back
end, but I'm going to feckle him this turn.”

“No, Joseph; are you going to do that, though?” said Liza, with a
brightening face that seemed to Mr. Garth to say, “Do it by all
means.”

“Mayhap I am,” said the blacksmith, significantly shaking his head. He
was snared as neatly by this simple face as ever was a swallow by a
linnet hidden in a cage among the grass.

“And that Ralph, too, the great lounderan fellow, he treats me like
dirt, that he does.”

“But you'll pay him out now, won't you, Joseph?” said Liza, as though
glorying in the blacksmith's forthcoming glory.

“Liza, my lass, shall I tell you something?” Under the fire of a pair
of coquettish little eyes, his head as well as his heart seemed to
melt, and he became eagerly communicative. Dropping his voice, he
said,--

“That Ralph's not gone away at all. He'll be at his father's berrying,
that he will.”

“Nay!” cried Liza, without a prolonged accent of surprise; and,
indeed, this fact had come upon her with so much unexpectedness that
her curiosity was now actually as well as ostensibly aroused.

“Yes,” said Mr. Garth; “and there's those as knows where to lay hands
on him this very day--that there is.”

“I shouldn't be surprised, now, if yon Robbie Anderson has been up to
something with him,” said Liza, with a curl of the lip intended to
convey an idea of overpowering disgust at the conduct of the absent
Robbie.

“And maybe he has,” said Mr. Garth, with a ponderous shake of the
head, denoting the extent of his reverse. Evidently “he could an' he
would.”

“But you'll go to them, won't you, Joseph? That is them as wants
them--leastways one of them--them as wants _him_ will go and take him,
won't they?”

“That they will,” said Joseph emphatically. “But I must be off, lass;
for I've the horses to get ready, forby the shortness of the time.”

“So you're going on horseback, eh, Joey? Will it take you long?”

“A matter of two hours, for we must go by the Black Sail and come back
to Wastdale Head, and that's round-about, thou knows.” “So you'll take
them on Wastdale Head, then, eh?” said Liza, turning her head aside as
though in the abundance of her maidenly modesty, but really glancing
slyly under the corner of her bonnet in the direction taken by the
mourners, and wondering if they could be overtaken.

Joseph was a little disturbed to find that he had unintentionally
disclosed so much of the design. The potency of the bright blue eyes
that looked up so admiringly into his face at the revelation of the
subtlety with which he had seen through a mystery impenetrable to less
powerful vision, had betrayed him into unexpected depths of
confidence.

Having gone so far, however, Mr. Garth evidently concluded that the
best course was to make a clean breast of it--an expedient which he
conceived to be insusceptible of danger, for he could see that the
funeral party were already on the brow of the hill. So, with one foot
stretched forward as if in the preliminary stage of a hurried
leave-taking, the blacksmith told Liza that he had met the
schoolmaster that morning, and had gathered enough from a word the
little man had dropped without thought to put him upon the trace of
the old garrulous body with whom the schoolmaster lodged; that his
mother, Mistress Garth, had undertaken the office of sounding this
person, and had learned that Ralph had hinted that he would relieve
Robbie Anderson of his duty at the top of the Stye Head Pass.

Having heard this, Liza had heard enough, and she was not unwilling
that the blacksmith should make what speed he could out of her sight,
so that she in turn might make what speed she could out of his sight,
and, returning to the Moss without delay, communicate her fearful
burden of intelligence to Rotha.




CHAPTER XII. THE FLIGHT ON THE FELLS.


I. After going a few paces in order to sustain the appearance of
continuing the journey on which she had set out, Liza waited until the
blacksmith was far enough away to admit of retracing her steps to the
bridge. There she climbed the wooden fence, and ran with all speed
across the fields to Shoulthwaite. She entered the house in a fever of
excitement, but was drawn back to the porch by Rotha, who experienced
serious difficulty in restraining her from a more public exposition of
the facts with which she was full to the throat than seemed well for
the tranquillity of the household. With quick-coming breath she
blurted out the main part of her revelations, and then paused, as much
from physical exhaustion as from an overwhelming sense of the
threatened calamity.

Rotha was quick to catch the significance of the message communicated
in Liza's disjointed words. Her pale face became paler, the sidelong
look that haunted her eyes came back to them at this moment, her
tremulous lips trembled visibly, and for a few minutes she stood
apparently powerless and irresolute.

Then the light of determination returned to the young girl's face.
Leaving Liza in the porch, she went into the house for her cloak and
hood. When she rejoined her companion her mind was made up to a daring
enterprise.

“The men of Wythburn, such of them as we can trust,” she said, “are in
the funeral train. We must go ourselves; at least I must go.”

“Do let me go, too,” said Liza; “but where are you going?”

“To cross the fell to Stye Head.”

“We can't go there, Rotha--two girls.”

“What of that? But you need not go. It's eight miles across, and I may
run most of the way. They've been gone nearly an hour; they are out of
sight. I must make the short cut through the heather.”

The prospect of the inevitable excitement of the adventure, amounting,
in Liza's mind, to a sensation equivalent to sport, prevailed over her
dread of the difficulties and dangers of a perilous mountain journey,
and she again begged to be permitted to go.

“Are you quite sure you wish it?” said Rotha, not without an
underlying reluctance to accept of her companionship. “It's a rugged
journey. We must walk under Glaramara.” She spoke as though she had
the right of maturity of years to warn her friend against a hazardous
project.

Liza protested that nothing would please her but to go. She accepted
without a twinge the implication of superiority of will and physique
which the young daleswoman arrogated. If social advantages had counted
for anything, they must have been all in Liza's favor; but they were
less than nothing in the person of this ruddy girl against the natural
strength of the pale-faced young woman, the days of whose years
scarcely numbered more than her own.

“We must set off at once,” said Rotha; “but first I must go to
Fornside.”

To go round by the tailor's desolate cottage did not sensibly impede
their progress. Rotha had paid hurried visits daily to her forlorn
little home since the terrible night of the death of the master of
Shoulthwaite. She had done what she could to make the cheerless house
less cheerless. She had built a fire on the hearth and spread out her
father's tools on the table before the window at which he worked.
Nothing had tempted him to return. Each morning she found everything
exactly as she had left it the morning before.

When the girls reached the cottage, Liza instinctively dropped back.
Rotha's susceptible spirit perceived the restraint, and suffered from
the sentiment of dread which it implied.

“Stay here, then,” she said, in reply to her companion's unspoken
reluctance to go farther. In less than a minute Rotha had returned.
Her eyes were wet.

“He is not here,” she said, without other explanation. “Could we not
go up the fell?”

The girls turned towards the Fornside Fell on an errand which both
understood and neither needed to explain.

“Do the words of a song ever torment you, Liza, rising up in your mind
again and again, and refusing to go away?”

“No--why?” said Liza, simply.

“Nothing--only I can't get a song out of my head today. It comes back
and back--

     One lonely foot sounds on the keep,
     And that's the warder's tread.”

The girls had not gone far when they saw the object of their search
leaning over a low wall, and holding his hands to his eyes as though
straining his sight to catch a view of some object in the distance.
Simeon Stagg was already acquiring the abandoned look of the man who
is outlawed from his fellows. His hair and beard were growing long,
shaggy, and unkempt. They were beginning to be frosted with gray. His
dress was loose; he wore no belt. The haggard expression, natural to
his thin face, had become more marked.

Sim had not seen the girls, and in the prevailing wind his quick ear
had not caught the sound of their footsteps until they were nearly
abreast of him. When he became fully conscious of their presence,
Rotha was standing by his side, with her hand on his arm. Liza was a
pace or two behind.

“Father,” said Rotha, “are you strong enough to make a long journey?”

Sim had turned his face full on his daughter's with an expression of
mingled shame, contrition, and pride. It was as though his heart
yearned for that love which he thought he had forfeited the right to
claim.

In a few words Rotha explained the turn of events. Sim's agitation
overpowered him. He walked to and fro in short, fitful steps, crying
that there was no help, no help.

“I thought I saw three men leading three horses up High Seat from
behind the smithy. It must have been those very taistrels, it must. I
was looking at them the minute you came up. See, there they are--there
beyond the ghyll on the mere side of yon big bowder. But they'll be at
the top in a crack, that they will--and the best man in Wythburn will
be taken--and there's no help, no help.”

The little man strode up and down, his long, nervous fingers twitching
at his beard.

“Yes, but there _is_ help,” said Rotha; “there _must_ be.”

“How? How? Tell me--you're like your mother, you are--that was the
very look she had.”

“Tell _me_, first, if Ralph intended to be on Stye Head or Wastdale
Head.”

“He did--Stye Head--he left me to go there at daybreak this morning.”

“Then he can be saved,” said the girl firmly. “The mourners must
follow the path. They have the body and they will go slowly. It will
take them an hour and a half more to reach the foot of the pass. In
that time Liza and I can cross the fell by Harrop Tarn and Glaramara
and reach the foot, or perhaps the head, of the pass. But this is not
enough. The constables will not follow the road taken by the funeral.
They know that if Ralph is at the top of Stye Head he will be on the
lookout for the procession, and must see them as well as it.”

“It's true, it is,” said Sim.

“They will, as the blacksmith said, go through Honister and Scarf Gap
and over the Black Sail to Wastdale. They will ride fast, and,
returning to Stye Head, hope to come upon Ralph from behind and
capture him unawares. Father,” continued Rotha,--and the girl spoke
with the determination of a strong man,--“if you go over High Seat,
cross the dale, walk past Dale Head, and keep on the far side of the
Great Gable, you will cut off half the journey and be there as soon as
the constables, and you may keep them in sight most of the way. Can
you do this? Have you the strength? You look worn and weak.”

“I can--I have--I'll go at once. It's life or death to the best man in
the world, that it is.”

“There's not a moment to be lost. Liza, we must not delay an instant
longer.”


II. Long before the funeral train had reached the top of the altitude.
Ralph had walked over the more rugged parts of the pass, and had
satisfied himself that there was no danger to be apprehended on this
score. The ghyll was swollen by the thaw. The waters fell heavily over
the great stones, and sent up clouds of spray, which were quickly
dissipated by the wind. Huge hillocks of yellow foam gathered in every
sheltered covelet. The roar of the cataract in the ravine silenced the
voice of the tempest that raged above it.

From the heights of the Great Gable the wind came in all but
overpowering gusts across the top of the pass. Ralph had been thrown
off his feet at one moment by the fierceness of a terrific blast. It
was the same terrible storm that began on the night of his father's
death. Ralph had at first been anxious for the safety of the
procession that was coming, but he had found a more sheltered pathway
under a deep line of furze bushes, and through this he meant to
pioneer the procession when it arrived. There was one gap in the furze
at the mouth of a tributary ghyll. The wind was strong in this gap,
which seemed like a natural channel to carry it southward; but the gap
was narrow, it would soon be crossed.

From the desultory labor of such investigations Ralph returned again
and again to the head of the great cleft and looked out into the
distance of hills and dales. The long coat he wore fell below his
knees, and was strapped tightly with a girdle. He wore a close-fitting
cap, from beneath which his thick hair fell in short wavelets that
were tossed by the wind. His dog, Laddie, was with him.

Ralph took up a position within the shelter of a bowlder, and waited
long, his eyes fixed on the fell six miles down the dale.

The procession emerged at length. The chill and cheerless morning
seemed at once to break into a spring brightness--there at least, if
not here. Through the leaden wintry sky the sun broke down the hilltop
at that instant in a shaft of bright light. It fell like an oasis over
the solemn company walking there. Then the shaft widened and stretched
into the dale, and then the mists that rolled midway between him and
it passed away, and a blue sky was over all.


III. “Which way now?”

“Well, I reckon there be two roads; maybe you'd like--”

“Which way now? Quick, and no clatter!”

“Then gang your gate down between Dale Head and Grey Knotts as far as
Honister.”

“Let's hope you're a better guide than constable, young man, or, as
that old fellow said in the road this morning, we'll fley the bird and
not grip him. Your clattering tongue had served us a scurvy trick, my
man; let your head serve us in better stead, or mayhap you'll lose
both--who knows?”

The three men rode as fast as the uncertain pathway between the
mountains would allow. Mr. Garth mumbled something beneath his breath.
He was beginning to wish himself well out of an ungracious business.
Not even revenge sweetened by profit could sustain his spirits under
the battery of the combined ridicule and contempt of the men he had
undertaken to serve.

“A fine wild-goose chase this,” said one of the constables. He had not
spoken before, but had toiled along on his horse at the obvious
expenditure of much physical energy and more temper.

“Grumbling again, Jonathan; when will you be content?” The speaker was
a little man with keen eyes, a supercilious smile, a shrill sharp
voice, and peevish manners.

“Not while I'm in danger of breaking my neck every step, or being lost
on a moor nearly as trackless as an ocean, or swallowed up in mists
like the clouds of steam in a century of washing days, or drowned in
the soapsuds of ugly, gaping pits,--tarns you call them, I believe.
And all for nothing, too,--not so much as the glint of a bad guinea
will we get out of this fine job.”

“Don't be too sure of that,” said the little man. “If this blockhead
here,” with a lurch of the head backwards to where the blacksmith rode
behind, “hasn't blundered in his 'reckonings,' we'll bag the game
yet.”

“That you never will, mark my words. I've taken the measure of our man
before to-day. He's enough for fifty such as our precious guide. I
knew what I was doing when I went back last time and left him.”

“Ah, they rather laughed at you then, didn't they?--hinted you were a
bit afraid,” said the little man, with a cynical smile.

“They may laugh again, David, if they like; and the man that laughs
loudest, let him be the first to come in my place next bout; he'll be
welcome.”

“Well, I must say, this is strange language. I never talked like that,
never. It's in contempt of duty, nothing less,” said Constable David.

“Oh, you're the sort of man that sticks the thing you call duty above
everything else--above wife, life, and all the rest of it--and when
duty's done with you it generally sticks you below everything else.
I've been a fool in my time, David, but I was never a fool of that
sort. I've never been the dog to drop a good jawful of solids to snap
at its shadow. When I've been that dog I've quietly put my meat
down on the plank, and then--There's another break-neck
paving-stone--'bowders' you call them. No horse alive could keep
its feet in such country.”

The three men rode some distance in silence. Then the little man, who
kept a few yards in front, drew up and said,--

“You say the warrant was not on Wilson's body when you searched it. Is
it likely that some of these dalesmen removed it before you came
down?”

“Yes, one dalesman. But that job must have been done when another
bigger job was done. It wasn't done afterwards. I was down next
morning. I was sent after the old Scotchman.”

“Didn't it occur to you that the man to whose interest it was to have
that warrant had probably got hold of it?”

“Yes; and that he'd burnt it, too. A man doesn't from choice carry a
death-warrant next his heart. It would make a bad poultice.”

“What now,” cried the little man to the blacksmith, who had been
listening to the conversation, and in his amazement and confusion had
unconsciously pulled at the reins of his horse, and brought it to a
stand.

“What are you gaping at now? Come, go along in front. Is this your
Scarf Gap?”


IV. Simeon Stagg had followed the three men closely enough to keep them in
view, and yet had kept far enough away to escape identification.
Ascending the Bleaberry Fell, he had descended into Watendlath, and
crossed under the “Bowder” stone as the men passed the village of
Rosthwaite. He had lost sight of them for a while as they went up
towards Honister, but when he had gained the breast of Grey Knotts he
could clearly descry them two miles away ascending the Scarf Gap. If
he could but pass Brandreth before they reached the foot of the Black
Sail he would have no fear of being seen, and, what was of more
consequence, he would have no doubt of being at Stye Head before them.
He could then get in between the Kirk Fell and the Great Gable long
before they could round the Wastdale Head and return to the pass.

But how weak he felt! How jaded these few miles had made him! Sim
remembered that he had eaten little for three days. Would his strength
outlast the task before him? It should; it must do so. Injured by
tyranny, the affections of this worn-out outcast among men had, like
wind-tossed trees, wound their roots about a rock from which no
tempest could tear them.

Sim's step sometimes quickened to a run and sometimes dropped to a
labored slouch. The deep declivities, the precipitous ascents, the
broad chasm-like basins, the running streams, the soft turf, had tried
sorely the little strength that remained to him. Sometimes he would
sit for a minute with his long thin hand pressed hard upon his heart;
then he would start away afresh, but rather by the impulse of
apprehension than by that of renewed strength.

Yes, he was now at the foot of Brandreth, and the horses and their
riders had not emerged above the Scarf. How hot and thirsty he felt!

Here stood a shepherd's cottage, the first human habitation he had
passed since he left Watendlath. Should he ask for some milk? It would
refresh and sustain him. As Sim stood near the gate of the cottage,
doubtful whether to go in or go on, the shepherd's wife came out.
Would she give him a drink of milk? Yes, and welcome. The woman looked
closely at him, and Sim shrank under her steady gaze. He was too far
from Wythburn to be dogged by the suspicion of crime, yet his
conscience tormented him. Did all the world, then, know that Simeon
Stagg would have been a murderer if he could--that in fact he had
committed murder in his heart? Could he never escape from the unspoken
reproach? No; not even on the heights of these solitary hills!

The woman turned about and went into the house for the milk. While she
was gone, Sim stood at the gate. In an instant the thought of his own
necessities, his own distresses, gave place to the thought of Ralph
Ray's. At that instant he turned his eyes again to the Scarf Gap. The
three men had covered the top, and were on the more level side of the
hill, riding hard down towards Ennerdale. They would be upon him in
ten minutes more.

The woman was coming from her house with a cup of milk in her hand;
but, without waiting to accept of it, Sim started away and ran at his
utmost speed over the fell. The woman stood with the cup in her hand,
watching the thin figure vanishing in the distance, and wondering if
it had been an apparition.


V. “You can't understand why Mr. Wilfrey Lawson is so keen to lay hands
on this man Ray?” said Constable David.

“That I cannot,” said Constable Jonathan.

“Why, isn't it enough that he was in the trained bands of the
Parliament?”

“Enough for the King--and this new law of Puritan extermination--yes;
for Master Wilfrey--no. Besides, the people can't stand this hanging
of the old Puritan soldiers much longer. The country had been worried
and flurried by the Parliament, and cried out like a wearied man for
rest--any sort of rest--and it has got it--got it with a vengeance.
But there's no rest more restless than that of an active man except
that of an active country, and England won't put up with this
butchering of men to-day for doing what was their duty yesterday--yes,
their duty, for that's what you call it.”

“So you think Master Wilfrey means to set a double trap for Ray?”

“I don't know what he means; but he doesn't hunt down a common
Roundhead out of thousands with nothing but 'duty' in his head; that's
not Master Wilfrey Lawson's way.”

“But this man was a captain of the trained bands latterly,” said the
little constable. “Fellow,” he cried to Mr. Garth, who rode along
moodily enough in front of them, “did this Ray ever brag to you of
what he did as captain in the army?”

“What was he? Capt'n? I never heard on't,” growled the blacksmith.

“Brag--pshaw! He's hardly the man for that,” said Constable Jonathan.

“I mind they crack't of his saving the life of old Wilson,” said Mr.
Garth, growling again.

“And if he took it afterwards, what matter?” said Constable Jonathan,
with an expression of contempt. “Push on, there. Here we're at the
top. Is it down now? What's that below? A house, truly--a house at
last. Who's that running from it? We must be near our trysting place.
Is that our man? Come, if we are to do this thing, let us do it.”

“It's the fellow Ray, to a certainty,” said the little man, pricking
his horse into a canter as soon as he reached the first fields of
Ennerdale.

In a few minutes the three men had drawn up at the cottage on the
breast of Brandreth where Sim had asked for a drink.

“Mistress! Hegh! hegh! Who was the man that left you just now?”

“I dunnet know wha't war--some feckless body, I'm afeart. He was a'
wizzent and savvorless. He begged ma a drink o' milk, but lang ere a
cud cum tul him he was gane his gate like yan dazt-like.”

“Who could this be? It's not our man clearly. Who could it be,
blacksmith?”

The gentleman addressed had turned alternately white and red at the
woman's description. There had flashed upon his brain the idea that
little Lizzie Branthwaite had betrayed him.

“I reckon it must have been that hang-gallows of a tailor--that Sim,”
 he said, perspiring from head to foot.

“And he's here to carry tidings of our coming. Push on--follow the
man--heed this blockhead no longer.”


VI. The procession of mourners, with Robbie Anderson and the mare at its
head, had walked slowly down Borrowdale after the men on foot had
turned back towards Withburn. Following the course of the winding
Derwent, they had passed the villages of Stonethwaite and Seathwaite,
and in two hours from the time they set out from Shoulthwaite they had
reached the foot of Stye Head Pass. The brightness of noon had now
given place to the chill leaden atmosphere of a Cumbrian December.

In the bed of the dale they were sheltered from the wind, but they saw
the mists torn into long streaks overhead, and knew that the storm had
not abated. When they came within easy range of the top of the great
gap between the mountains over which they were to pass, they saw for a
moment a man's figure clearly outlined against the sky.

“He's yonder,” thought Robbie, and urged on the mare with her burden.
He remembered that Ralph had said, “Chain the young horse to the mare
at the bottom of the pass,” and he did so. Before going far, however,
he found this new arrangement impeded rather than accelerated their
progress.

“The pass has too many ins and outs for this,” he thought, and he
unchained the horses. Then they went up the ravine with the loud ghyll
boiling into foam at one side of them.


VII. “I cannot go farther, Rotha. I must sit down. My foot is swelling. The
bandage is bursting it.”

“Try, my girl; only try a little longer: only hold out five minutes
more; only five short minutes, and we may be there.”

“It's of no use trying,” said Liza with a whimper; “I've tried and
tried; I must sit down or I shall faint.” The girl dropped down on to
the grass and began to untie a linen bandage that was about her ankle.

“O dear! O dear! There they are, more than half-way up the pass.
They'll be at the top in ten minutes! And there's Ralph; yes, I can
see him and the dog. What shall we do? What _can_ we do?”

“Go and leave me and come back--no, no, not that either; don't leave
me in this place,” said Liza, crying piteously and moaning with the
pain of a sprained foot.

“Impossible,” said Rotha. “I might never find you again on this
pathless fell.”

“Oh, that unlucky stone!” whimpered Liza, “I'm bewitched, surely. It's
that Mother Garth--”

“Ah, he sees us,” said Rotha. She was standing on a piece of rock and
waving a scarf in the wind. “Yes, he sees us and answers. But what
will he understand by that? O dear! O dear! Would that I could make
Willy see, or Robbie--perhaps _they_ would know. Where can father be?
O where?”

A terrible sense of powerlessness came upon Rotha as she stood beside
her prostrate companion within sight of the goal she had labored to
gain, and the strong-hearted girl burst into a flood of tears.


VIII. Yes, from the head of the pass Ralph Ray saw the scarf that was waved
by Rotha, but he was too far away to recognize the girls.

“Two women, and one of them lying,” he thought; “there has been an
accident.”

Where he stood the leaden sky had broken into a drizzling rain, which
was being driven before the wind in clouds like mist. It was soaking
the soft turf, and lying heavy on the thick moss that coated every
sheltered stone.

“Slipt a foot, no doubt,” thought Ralph. “I must ride over to them
when the horses come up and have crossed the pass; I cannot go
before.”

The funeral train was now in sight. In a few minutes more it would be
at his side. Yes, there was Robbie Anderson leading the mare. He had
not chained the young horse, but that could be done at this point. It
should have been done at the bottom, however. How had Robbie forgotten
it?

Ralph's grave face became yet more grave as he looked down at the
solemn company approaching him. Willy had recognized him. See, his
head drooped as he sat in the saddle. At this instant Ralph thought no
longer of the terrible incidents and the more terrible revelations of
the past few days. He thought not at all of the untoward fortune that
had placed him where he stood. He saw only the white burden that was
strapped to the mare, and thought only of him with whom his earliest
memories were entwined.

Raising his head, and dashing the gathering tears from his eyes, he
saw one of the women on the hill opposite running towards him and
crying loudly, as if in fear; but the wind carried away her voice, and
he could not catch her words.

From her gestures, however, he gathered that something had occurred
behind him. No harm to the funeral train could come of their following
on a few paces, and Ralph turned about and walked rapidly upwards.
Then the woman's voice seemed louder and shriller than ever, and
appeared to cry in an agony of distress.

Ralph turned again and stood. Had he mistaken the gesture? Had
something happened to the mourners? No, the mare walked calmly up the
pass. What could it mean? Still the shrill cry came to him, and still
the words of it were borne away by the wind. Something was
wrong--something serious. He must go farther and see.

Then in an instant he became conscious that Simeon Stagg was running
towards him with a look of terror. Close behind him were two men,
mounted, and a third man rode behind them. Sim was being pursued. His
frantic manner denoted it. Ralph did not ask himself why. He ran
towards Sim. Quicker than speech, and before Sim had recovered breath,
Ralph had swung himself about, caught the bridles of both horses, and
by the violent lurch had thrown both riders from their seats. But
neither seemed hurt. Leaping to their feet together, they bounded down
upon Ralph, and laying firm hold upon him tried to manacle him.

Then, with the first moment of reflection, the truth flashed upon him.
It was he who had been pursued, and he had thrown himself into the
arms of his pursuers.

They were standing by the gap in the furze bushes. The mourners were
at the top of the pass, and they saw what had happened. Robbie
Anderson was coming along faster with the mare. The two men saw that
help for their prisoner was at hand. They dropped the manacles, and
tried to throw Ralph on to the back of one of their horses. Sim was
dragging their horse away. The dog was barking furiously and tearing
at their legs. But they were succeeding: they were overpowering him;
they had him on the ground.

Now, they were all in the gap of the furze bushes, struggling in the
shallow stream. Robbie dropped the reins of the mare, and ran to
Ralph's aid. At that moment a mighty gust of wind came down from the
fell, and swept through the channel. It caught the mare, and startled
by the loud cries of the men and the barking of the dog, and
affrighted by the tempest, she started away at a terrific gallop over
the mountains, with the coffin on her back.

“The mare, the mare!” cried Ralph, who had seen the accident as Robbie
dropped the reins; “for God's sake, after her!”

The strength of ten men came into his limbs at this. He rose from
where the men held him down, and threw them from him as if they had
been green withes that he snapped asunder. They fell on either side,
and lay where they fell. Then he ran to where the young horse stood a
few paces away, and lifting the boy from the saddle leapt into it
himself. In a moment he was galloping after the mare.

But she had already gone far. She was flying before the wind towards
the great dark pikes in the distance. Already the mists were obscuring
her. Ralph followed on and on, until the company that stood as though
paralyzed on the pass could see him no mere.




CHAPTER XIII. A 'BATABLE POINT.


When Constable David tried to rise after that fall, he discovered too
many reasons to believe that his leg had been broken. Constable
Jonathan had fared better as to wind and limb, but upon regaining his
feet he found the voice of duty silent within him as to the necessity
of any further action such as might expose him to more serious
disabilities. With the spirit of the professional combatant, he rather
admired the prowess of their adversary, and certainly bore him no
ill-will because he had vanquished them.

“The man's six foot high if he's an inch, and has the strength of an
ox,” he said, as he bent over his coadjutor and inquired into the
nature of his bruises.

Constable David seemed disposed to exhibit less of the resignation of
a brave humility that can find solace and even food for self-flattery
in defeat, than of the vexation of a cowardly pride that cannot
reconcile itself to a stumble and a fall.

“It all comes of that waistrel Mister Burn-the-wind,” he said, meaning
to indicate the blacksmith by this contemptuous allusion to that
gentleman's profession.

Constable Jonathan could not forbear a laugh at the name, and at the
idea it suggested.

“Ay, but if he'd burned the wind this time instead of blowing it,” he
said, “we might have raised it between us. Come, let me raise you into
this saddle instead. Hegh, hegh, though,” he continued, as the horse
lurched from him with every gust, “no need to raise the wind up here.
Easy--there--you're right now, I think. You'll need to ride on one
stirrup.”

It was perhaps natural that the constabulary view of the disaster
should be limited to the purely legal aspect of the loss of a
prisoner; but the subject of the constable's reproaches was not so far
dominated by official ardor as to be insensible to the terrible
accident of the flight of the horse with the corpse. Mr. Garth had
brought his own horse to a stand at some twenty paces from the spot
where Ralph Ray had thrown his companions from their saddles, and in
the combat ensuing he had not experienced any unconquerable impulse to
participate on the side of what stood to him for united revenge and
profit, if not for justice also. When, in the result, the mare fled
over the fells, he sat as one petrified until Robbie Anderson, who had
earlier recovered from his own feeling of stupefaction, and in the
first moment of returning consciousness had recognized the blacksmith
and guessed the sequel of the rencontre, brought him up to a very
lively sense of the situation by bringing him down to his full length
on the ground with the timely administration of a well-planted blow.
Mr. Garth was probably too much taken by surprise to repay the
obligation in kind, but he rapped out a volley of vigorous oaths that
fell about his adversary as fast as a hen could peck. Then he
remounted his horse, and, with such show of valorous reluctance as
could still be assumed after so unequivocal an overthrow, he made the
best of haste away.

He was not yet, however, entirely rewarded for his share in the day's
proceedings. He had almost reached Wythburn on his return home when he
had the singular ill-fortune to encounter Liza. That young damsel was
huddled, rather than seated, on the back of a horse, the property of
one of the mourners whom Rotha had succeeded in hailing to their
rescue. With Rhoda walking by her side, she was now plodding along
towards the city in a temper primed by the accidents of the day to a
condition of the highest irascibility. As a matter of fact, Liza, in
her secret heart, was chiefly angry with herself for the reckless leap
over a big stone that had given the sprained ankle, under the pains of
which she now groaned; but it was due to the illogical instincts of
her sex that she could not consciously take so Spartan a view of her
position as to blame herself for what had happened.

It was at this scarcely promising juncture of accident and temper that
she came upon the blacksmith, and at the first sight of him all the
bitterness of feeling that had been brewing and fermenting within her,
and in default of a proper object had been discharged on the horse, on
the saddle, on the roads, and even on Rotha, found a full and
magnificent outlet on the person of Mr. Joseph Garth.

While that gentleman had been jogging along homewards he had been
fostering uncomfortable sentiments of spite respecting the “laal
hussy” who had betrayed him. He had been mentally rehearsing the
withering reproaches and yet more withering glances which he meant to
launch forth upon her when next it should be her misfortune to cross
his path. Such disloyalty, such an underhand way of playing double,
seemed to Mr. Garth deserving of any punishment short of that physical
one which it would be most enjoyable to inflict, but which it might
not, with that Robbie in the way, be quite so pleasant to stand
responsible for. Perhaps it was due to an illogical instinct of the
blacksmith's sex that his conscience did not trouble him when he was
concocting these pains and penalties for duplicity. Certainly, when
the two persons in question came face to face at the turning of the
pack-horse road towards the city, logic played an infinitesimal part
in their animated intercourse.

Mr. Garth meant to direct a scorching sneer as silent preamble to his
discourse; but owing to the fact that Robbie's blow had fallen about
the blacksmith's eyes, and that those organs had since become sensibly
eclipsed by a prodigious and discolored swelling, what was meant for a
withering glance looked more like a meaningless grin. At this apparent
levity under her many distresses, Liza's wrath rose to boiling point,
and she burst out upon Mr. Joseph with more of the home-spun of the
country-side than ever fell from her lips in calmer moments.

“Thoo dummel-head, thoo,” she said, “thoo'rt as daft as a besom. Thoo
_hes_ made a botch on't, thoo blatherskite. Stick that in thy gizzern,
and don't thoo go bumman aboot like a bee in a bottle--thoo Judas,
thoo.”

Mr. Garth was undoubtedly taken by surprise this time. To be attacked
in such a way by the very person he meant to attack, to be accounted
the injurer by the very person who, he thought, had injured him,
sufficed to stagger the blacksmith's dull brains.

“Nay, nay,” he said, when he had recovered his breath; “who's the
Judas?--that's a 'batable point, I reckon.”

“Giss!” cried Liza, without waiting to comprehend the significance of
the insinuation, and--like a true woman--not dreaming that a charge of
disloyalty could be advanced against her,--“giss! giss!”--the call to
swine--“thoo'rt thy mother's awn son--the witch.”

Utterly deprived of speech by this maidenly outburst of vituperation,
Mr. Garth lost all that self-control which his quieter judgment had
recognized as probably necessary to the safety of his own person.
White with anger, he raised his hand to strike Liza, who thereupon
drew up, and, giving him a vigorous slap on each cheek, said, “Keep
thy neb oot of that, thoo bummeller, and go fratch with Robbie
Anderson--I hear he dinged thee ower, thoo sow-faced 'un.”

The mention of this name served as a timely reminder to Mr. Garth, who
dropped his arm and rode away, muttering savagely under his breath.

“Don't come hankerin' after me again,” cried Liza (rather
unnecessarily) after his vanishing figure.

This outburst was at least serviceable in discharging all the
ill-nature from the girl's breast; and when she had watched the
blacksmith until he had disappeared, she replied to Rotha's
remonstrances as so much scarcely girl-like abuse by a burst of the
heartiest girlish laughter.

      *      *      *      *      *

There was much commotion at the Red Lion that night. The “maister men”
 who had left the funeral procession at Watendlath made their way first
to the village inn, intending to spend there the hours that must
intervene before the return of the mourners to Shoulthwaite. They had
not been long seated over their pots when the premature arrival of
John Jackson and some of the other dalesmen who had been “sett” on the
way to Gosforth led to an explanation of the disaster that had
occurred on the pass. The consternation of the frequenters of the Red
Lion, as of the citizens of Wythburn generally, was as great as their
surprise. Nothing so terrible had happened within their experience.
They had the old Cumbrian horror of an accident to the dead. No
prospect was dearer to their hope than that of a happy death, and no
reflection was more comforting than that one day they would have a
suitable burial. Neither of these had Angus had. A violent end, and no
grave at all; nothing but this wild ride across the fells that might
last for days or months. There was surely something of Fate in it.

The dalesmen gathered about the fire at the Red Lion with the silence
that comes of awe.

“A sad hap, this,” said Reuben Thwaite, lifting both hands.

“I reckon we must all turn out at the edge of the dawn to-morrow, and
see what we can do to find old Betsy,” said Mr. Jackson.

Matthew Branthwaite's sagest saws had failed him. Such a contingency
as this had never been foreseen by that dispenser of proverbs. It had
lifted him out of himself. Matthew's sturdy individualism might have
taken the form of liberalism, or perhaps materialism, if it had
appeared two centuries later; but in the period in which his years
were cast, the art of keeping close to the ground had not been fully
learned. Matthew was filled with a sentiment which he neither knew nor
attempted to define. At least he was sure that the mare was not to be
caught. It was to be a dispensation somehow and someway that the horse
should gallop over the hills with its dead burden to its back from
year's end to year's end. When Mr. Jackson suggested that they should
start out in search of it, Matthew said,--

“Nay, John, nowt of the sort. Ye may gang ower the fell, but ye'll git
na Betsy. It's as I telt thee; it's a Fate. It'll be a tale for iv'ry
mother to flyte childer with.”

“The wind did come with a great bouze,” said John. “It must have been
the helm-wind, for sure; yet I cannot mind that I saw the helm-bar.
Never in my born days did I see a horse go off with such a burr.”

“And you could not catch hold on it, any of you, ey?” asked one of the
company with a shadow of a sneer.

“Shaf! dost thoo think yon fell's like a blind lonnin?” said Matthew.

“Nay, but it's a bent place,” continued Mr. Jackson. “How it dizzied
and dozzled, too! And what a fratch yon was! My word! but Ralph did
ding them over, both of them!”

“He favors his father, does Ralph,” said Matthew.

“Ey! he's his father's awn git,” chimed Reuben. “But that Joe Garth is
a merry-begot, I'll swear.”

“Shaf! he hesn't a bit of nater intil him, nowther back nor end. He's
now't but riffraff,” said Matthew. Ralph Ray's peril and escape were
incidents too unimportant to break the spell of the accident to the
body of his father.

Robbie Anderson turned in late in the evening.

“Here's a sorry home coming,” he said as he entered.

It was easy to see that Robbie was profoundly agitated. His eyes were
aflame; he rose and sat, walked a pace or two and stood, passed his
fingers repeatedly through his short curly beard, slapped his knee,
and called again and again for ale. When he spoke of the accident on
the fell, he laughed with a wild effort at a forced and unnatural
gayety.

“It's all along of my being dintless, so it is,” he muttered, after
little Reuben Thwaite had repeated for some fresh batch of inquirers
the story, so often told, of how the mare took to flight, and of how
Ralph leaped on to the young horse in pursuit of it.

“All along of you, Robbie; how's that, man?”

“If I'd chained the young horse at the bottom of the hill there would
have been no mare to run away, none.”

“It's like that were thy orders, then, Robbie?”

“It were that, damn me, it were--the schoolmaster there, he knows it.”

“Ralph told him to do it; I heard him myself,” said Monsey, from his
place in the chimney-nook, where he sat bereft of his sportive spirit,
yet quite oblivious of the important part which his own loquacity had
unwittingly played in the direful tragedy.

“But never bother now. Bring me more ale, mistress: quick now, my
lass.”

Robbie had risen once more, and was tramping across the floor in his
excitement. “What's come over Robbie?” whispered Reuben to Matthew.
“What fettle's he in--doldrums, I reckon.”

“Tak na note on him. Robbie's going off agen I'm afeart. He's broken
loose. This awesome thing is like to turn the lad's heed, for he'd the
say ower it all.”

“Come, lass, quick with the ale.”

“Ye've had eneuf, Robbie,” said the hostess. “Go thy ways home. Thou
findst the beer very heady, lad. Thou shalt have more in the morning.”

“To-night, lass; I must have some to-night, that I must.”

“Robbie _is_ going off agen, surely,” whispered Reuben. “It's a sorry
sight when yon lad takes to the drink. He'll be deed drunk soon.”

“Say nowt to him,” answered Matthew. “He's fair daft to-neet.”

The evening was far advanced when the dalesmen rose to go.

“Our work's cut out for us in the morning, men.” said John Jackson.
“Let's off to our beds.”




CHAPTER XIV. UNTIL THE DAY BREAK.

Until the day break, and the shadows flee away.


It was not at first that Ralph was a prey to sentiments of horror. His
physical energy dominated all emotion, and left no room for terrible
imaginings--no room for a full realization of what had occurred. That
which appeared to paralyze the others--that which by its ghastly
reality appeared to fix them to the earth with the rigidity of
stone--endowed him with a power that seemed all but superhuman, and
inspired him with an impulse that leapt to its fulfilment.

Mounted on the young horse, he galloped after the mare along the long
range of the pikes, in and out of their deep cavernous alcoves, up and
down their hillocks and hollows, over bowlders, over streams, across
ghylls, through sinking sloughs and with a drizzling rain overhead. At
one moment he caught sight of the mare and her burden as they passed
swiftly over a protruding headland which was capped from his point of
view by nothing but the mist and the sky. Then he followed on the
harder; but faster than his horse could gallop over the pathless
mountains galloped the horse of which he was in pursuit. He could see
the mare no more. Yet he rode on and on.

When he reached the extremity of the dark range and stood at that
point where Great Howe fringes downward to the plain, he turned about
and rode back on the opposite side of the pikes. Once more he rode in
and out of cavernous alcoves, up and down hillocks and hollows, over
bowlders, over streams, across rivers, through sinking sloughs, and
still with a drizzling rain overhead. The mare was nowhere to be seen.

Then he rode on to where the three ranges of mountains meet at Angle
Tarn and taking first the range nearest the pikes he rode under the
Bow Fell, past the Crinkle Crags to the Three-Shire Stones at the foot
of Greyfriars, where the mountains slope downward to the Duddon
valley. Still the mare was nowhere to be seen.

Returning then to the Angle Tarn, he followed the only remaining range
past the Pike of Stickle until he looked into the black depths of the
Dungeon Ghyll. And still the mare was nowhere to be seen. Fear was
behind her, and only by fear could she be overtaken. It was at about
two o'clock in the afternoon that the disaster had occurred. It was
now fully three hours later, and the horse Ralph rode, fatigued and
wellnigh spent, was slipping its feet in the gathering darkness. He
turned its head towards Wythburn, and rode down to the city by Harrop
Tarn.

At the first house--it was Luke Cockrigg's, and it stood on the bank
above the burn--he left the horse, and borrowed a lantern. The family
would have dissuaded him from an attempt to return to the fells, but
he was resolved. There was no reasoning against the resolution
pictured on his rigid and cadaverous countenance.

The drizzling rain still fell and the night had closed in when Ralph
set his face afresh towards the mountains.

And now the sickening horrors of sentiment overtook him, for now he
had time to reflect upon what had occurred. The figure of the
riderless horse flying with its dead burden before the wind had fixed
itself on his imagination; and while the darkness was concealing the
physical surroundings, it was revealing the phantasm in the glimmering
outlines of every rock and tree. Look where he would, peering long and
deep into the blackness of a night without moon or stars, without
cloud or sky, with only a blank density around and about, Ralph seemed
to see in fitful flashes that came and went--now on the right and now
on the left of him, now in front and now behind, now on the earth at
his feet and now in the dumb vapor floating above him--the spectre of
that riderless horse. Sometimes he would stop and listen, thinking he
heard a horse canter close past him; but no, it was the noise of a
hidden river as its waters leapt over the stones. Sometimes he thought
he heard the neigh of a horse in the distance; but no, it was only the
whinny of the wind. His dog had followed close behind him when he fled
from the pass, and it was still at his heels. Sometimes Laddie would
dart away and be lost for a few minutes in the darkness. Then the
dog's muffled bark would be heard, and Ralph's blood would seem to
stand still with a dread apprehension that dared not to take the name
of hope. No; it was only a sheep that had strayed from its fold, and
had taken shelter from wind and rain beneath a stone in a narrow
cleft, and was now sending up into the night the pitiful cry of a lost
and desolate creature.

No, no, no; nowhere would the hills give up the object of his search;
and Ralph walked on and on with a heart that sank and still sank.

He knew these trackless uplands as few knew them, and not even the
abstraction of mind that came with these solitary hours caused him an
uncertain step. On and on, through the long dark night, to the Stye
Head once more, and again along the range of the rugged pikes, calling
the mare by the half-articulate cry she knew so well, and listening
for her answering neigh, but hearing only the surging of the wind or
the rumble of the falling ghyll; then on and on, and still on.

When the earliest gleams of light flecked the east, Ralph was standing
at the head of the Screes. Slowly the gray bars stretched across the
sky, wider and more wide, brighter and more bright, now changed to
yellow and now to pink, chasing the black walls of darkness that died
away on every side. In the basin below, at the foot of the steep
Screes, whose sides rumbled with rolling stones, lay the black mere,
half veiled by the morning mist. Still veiled, too, were the dales of
Ireton, but far away, across the undulating plains through which the
river rambled, flowed the wide Western Sea, touched at its utmost bar
by the silvery light of the now risen sun.

Ralph turned about and walked back, with the flush of the sky
reflected on his pale and stony face. His lantern, not yet
extinguished, burned small and feeble in his hand. Another night was
breaking to another day; another and another would yet break, and all
the desolation of a heart, the ruin of many hearts--what was it before
Nature's unswerving and unalterable course! The phantasms of a night
that had answered to his hallucinations were as nothing to the
realities of a morning whose cruel light showed him only more plainly
the blackness of his despair.

The sentiments of horror which now possessed him were more terrible
because more spiritual than before. To know no sepulture! The idea was
horrible in itself, horrible in its association with an old Hebrew
curse more remorseless than the curse of Cain, most horrible of all
because to Ralph's heightened imagination it seemed to be a symbol--a
symbol of retribution past and to come.

Yes, it was as he had thought, as he had half thought; God's hand was
on him--on him of all others, and on others only through him. Having
once conceived this idea in its grim totality, having once fully
received the impress of it from the violence and suddenness of a
ghastly occurrence, Ralph seemed to watch with complete
self-consciousness the action of the morbid fancy on his mind. He
traced it back to the moment when the truth (or what seemed to him the
truth) touching the murder of Wilson had been flashed upon him by a
look from Simeon Stagg. He traced it yet farther back to that night at
Dunbar, when, at the prompting of what he mistook for mercy, he had
saved the life of the enemy that was to wreck his own life and the
lives of all that were near and dear to him. To his tortured soul
guilt seemed everywhere about him, whether his own guilt or the guilt
of others, was still the same; and now God had given this dread
disaster for a sign that vengeance was His, that retribution had come
and would come.

Was it the dream of an overpowered imagination--the nightmare of a
distempered fancy? Yet it would not be shaken off. It had bathed the
whole world in another light--a lurid light.

Ralph walked fast over the fells, snatching at sprigs of heather,
plucking the slim boughs from the bushes, pausing sometimes to look
long at a stone, or a river, or a path that last night appeared to be
as familiar to him as the palm of his hand, and had suddenly become
strange and a mystery. The shadow of a supernatural presence hung over
all.

Throughout that day he walked about the fells, looking for the
riderless horse, and calling to it, but neither expecting to see nor
to hear it. He saw once and again the people of Wythburn abroad on the
errand that kept him abroad, but they never came within hail, and a
stifling sense of shame kept him apart, none the less that he knew not
wherefore such shame should fall on him, all the same that they knew
not that it had fallen.

The day would come when all men would see that God's hand was on him.

Yes, Ralph; but when that day does indeed come, then all men shall
also see that whom God's hand rests on has God at his right hand.

When the darkness was closing in upon a second night, Ralph was
descending High Seat towards Shoulthwaite Moss. Behind him lagged the
jaded dog, walking a few paces with drooping head and tail; then lying
for a minute, and rising to walk languidly again.




CHAPTER XV. RALPH'S SACRIFICE.


When he reached the old house, Ralph was prepared for the results of
any further disaster, for disaster had few further results for which
it was needful to prepare. A light burned in the kitchen, and another
in that room above it where lately his father had lain. When Ralph
entered, Willy Ray was seated before the fire, his hand in the hand of
Rotha, who sat by his side. On every feature of his pallid face were
traces of suffering.

“What of mother?” said Ralph huskily, his eyes traversing the kitchen.

Willy rose and put his hand on Ralph's shoulder. “We will go
together,” he said, and they walked towards the stair that led to the
floor above.

There she lay, the mother of these stricken sons, unconscious of their
sufferings, unconscious of her own. Yet she lived. Since the terrible
intelligence had reached her of what had happened on the pass she had
remained in this state of insensibility, being stricken into such
torpidity by the shock of the occurrence. Willy's tears fell fast as
he stood by the bed, and his anguish was subdued thereby to a quieter
mood. Ralph's sufferings were not so easily fathomable. He stooped and
kissed the unconscious face without relaxing a muscle in the settled
fixity of his own face. Leaving his brother in the room, he returned
to the kitchen. How strange the old place looked to him now! Had
everything grown strange? There were the tall clock in the corner, the
big black worm-eaten oak cabinet, half-cupboard, half-drawers; there
was the long table like a rock of granite; there was the spinning
wheel in the neuk window; and there were the whips and the horns on
the rafters overhead--yet how unfamiliar it all seemed to be!

Rotha was hastily preparing supper for him. He sat on the settle that
was drawn up before the fire, and threw off his heavy and sodden
shoes. His clothes, which had been saturated by the rain of the
preceding night, had dried upon his back. He was hungry; he had hot
eaten since yesterday at midday; and when food was put upon the table
he ate with the voracious appetite that so often follows upon a long
period of mental distress.

As he sat at his supper, his eyes followed constantly the movements of
the girl, who was busied about him in the duties of the household. It
were not easy to say with what passion or sentiment his heart was
struggling with respect to her. He saw her as a hope gone from him, a
joy not to be grasped, a possible fulfilment of that part of his
nature which was never to be fulfilled. And she? Was she conscious of
any sentiment peculiar to herself respecting this brave rude man,
whose heart was tender enough to be drawn towards her and yet strong
enough to be held apart at the awful bidding of an iron fate? Perhaps
not. She in turn felt drawn towards him; she knew the force of a
feeling that made him a centre of her thoughts, a point round which
her deeper emotions insensibly radiated. But this was associated in
her mind with no idea of love. If affection touched her at all,
perhaps at this moment it went out where her pity--rather, her
pride--first found play. Perhaps Ralph seemed too high above her to
inspire her love. His brother's weaker, more womanly nature came
closer within her range.

There was now a long silence between them.

“Rotha,” said Ralph at length, “this will be my last night at the
Moss; the last for a long time, at least--I didn't expect to be here
to-night. Can you promise one thing, my girl? It won't be hard for you
now--not very hard _now_.” He paused.

“What is it, Ralph?” said Rotha, in a voice of apprehension.

“Only that you won't leave the old house while my mother lives.”

Rotha dropped her head. She thought of the lonely cottage at Fornside,
and of him who should live there. Ralph divined the thought that was
written in her face.

“Get him to come here if you can,” he said. “He could help Willy with
the farm.”

“He would not come,” she said. “I'm afraid he would not.”

“Then neither will he return to Fornside. Promise me that while she
lives--it can't be long, Rotha, it may be but too short--promise me
that you'll make this house your home.”

“My first duty is to him,” said Rotha with her hand to her eyes.

“True--that's true,” said Ralph; and the sense that two homes were
made desolate silenced him with something that stole upon him like
stifling shame. There was only one way out of the difficulty, and that
was to make two homes one. If she loved his brother, as he knew that
his brother loved her, then--

“Rotha,” said Ralph, with a perceptible tremulousness of voice,
“I will ask you another question, and, perhaps--who knows
rightly?--perhaps it is harder for me to ask than for you to answer;
but you will answer me--will you not?--for I ask you solemnly and with
the light of Heaven on my words--on the most earnest words, I think,
that ever came out of my heart.”

He paused again. Rotha sat on the end of the settle, and with fingers
intertwined, with eyelids quivering and lips trembling, she gazed in
silence into the fire.

“This is no time for idle vanities,” he said; “it's no time to indulge
unreal modesties; and you have none of either if it were. God has laid
His hand on us all, Rotha; yes, and our hearts are open without
disguise before Him--and before each other, too, I think.”

“Yes,” said Rotha. She scarcely knew what to say, or whither Ralph's
words tended. She only knew that he was speaking as she had never
heard him speak before. “Yes, Ralph,” she repeated.

“Perhaps, as I say, it's harder for me to ask than for you to answer,
Rotha,” he continued, and the strong man looked into the girl's eyes
with a world of tenderness. “Do you think you have any feeling for
Willy--that is, more than the common? I saw how you sat together as I
came in to you. I've marked you before, when he has been by. I've
marked him, too. You've been strength and solace to him in this
trouble. Do you think if he loved you, Rotha--do you think, then, you
could love him? Wait,” he added, as she raised her eyes, and with
parted lips seemed prepared to speak. “It is not for him I ask. God
knows it is as much for you as for him, and perhaps--perhaps, I say,
most of all--for myself.”

With a frank voice and face, with luminous eyes in which there was
neither fear nor shame, Rotha answered,--

“Yes, I could love him; I think I do so now.”

She spoke to Ralph as she might have spoken to a father whom she
reverenced, and from whom no secret of her soul should be hid. He
heard her in silence. Not until now, not until he had heard her last
word, had he realized what it would cost him to hear it. The agony of
a lifetime seemed crushed into that short moment. But he had made it
for himself, and now at length it was over. To yield her up--perhaps
it was a link in the chain of retribution. To say nothing of his own
love--perhaps it would be accepted as a dumb atonement. To see her win
the love and be won by the love of his brother--perhaps it would
soften his exile with thoughts of recompense for a wrong that it had
been his fate to do to her and hers, though she knew it not. There was
something like the white heat of subdued passion in his voice when he
spoke again.

“He _does_ love you, Rotha,” he said quietly, “and he will ask you to
be his wife. But he cannot do so yet, and, meantime, while my mother
lives--while I am gone--God knows where--while I am away from the old
home--I ask you now once more to stay.”

The great clock in the corner ticked out loud in the silence of the
next minute; only that and the slow breathing of the dog sleeping on
the hearth fell on the ear.

“Yes, I will stay,” said the girl; and while she spoke Willy Ray
walked into the kitchen.

Then they talked together long and earnestly, these three, under the
shadow of the terrible mystery that hung above them all, of life and
death. Ralph spoke as one overawed by a sense of fatality. The world
and its vicissitudes had left behind engraven on his heart a message
and lesson, and it was not altogether a hopeful one. He saw that fate
hung by a thread; that our lives are turned on the pivot of some mere
chance; that, traced back to their source, all our joys and all our
sorrows appear to come of some accident no more momentous than a word
or a look. In solemn tones he seemed to say that there is a
plague-spot of evil at the core of this world and this life, and that
it infects everything. We may do our best--we should do our best--but
we are not therefore to expect reward. Perhaps that reward will come
to us while we live. More likely it will be the crown laid on our
grave. Happy are we if our loves find fulfilment--if no curse rests
upon them. Should we hope on? He hardly knew. Destiny works her own
way!

Thus they talked in that solitary house among the mountains. They sat
far into the night, these rude sons and this daughter of the hills,
groping in their own uncertain, unlearned way after solutions of
life's problems that wiser heads than theirs ages on ages before and
since have never compassed, shouting for echoes into the voiceless
caverns of the world's great and awful mysteries.




CHAPTER XVI. AT SUNRISE ON THE RAISE.

     The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
     Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel.


At sunrise the following morning two men walked through Wythburn
towards the hillock known as the Raise, down the long road that led to
the south. The younger man had attained to the maturity of full
manhood. Brawny and stalwart, with limbs that strode firmly over the
ground; with an air of quiet and reposeful power; with a steadily
poised head; with a full bass voice, soft, yet deep; with a face that
had for its utmost beauty the beauty of virile strength and
resolution, softened, perhaps, into tenderness of expression by
washing in the waters of sorrow,--such, now, was Ralph Ray. Over a
jerkin he wore the long sack coat, belted and buckled, of the dalesmen
of his country. Beneath a close-fitting goatskin cap his short, wavy
hair lay thick and black. A pack was strapped about him from shoulder
to waist. He carried the long staff of a mountaineer.

Were there in the wide world of varying forms and faces a form and a
face so much unlike his own as were those of the man who walked, nay,
jerked along, in short, fitful paces, by his side? Little and slight,
with long thin gray hair and dishevelled beard, with the startled eyes
of a frighted fawn, and with its short, fearful glances, with a sharp
face, worn into deep ridges that changed their shape with every step
and every word, with nervous, twitching fingers, with a shrill voice
and quick speech,--it was Simeon Stagg, the outcast, the castaway.

These two were to part company soon. Not more devoted to its master
was the dog that ran about them than was Sim to Ralph. He was now to
lose the only friend who had the will and the strength to shield him
against the cruel world that was all the world to him.

They were walking along the pack-horse road on the breast of the fell,
and they walked long in silence. Each was busy with his thoughts--the
one too weak, the other too strong, to give them utterance.

“There,” said Ralph as they reached the top of the Raise, “we must
part now, old friend.” He tried to give a cheery tone to his voice.
“You'll go on to the fell every day and look around--an idle task, I
fear, but still you'll go, as I would have gone if I might have stayed
in the old country.”

Sim nodded assent.

“And now you'll go back to the Mess, as I told you. Rotha will want
you there, and Willy too. You'll fill my place till I return, you
know.”

Sim shook his head.

“I'd be nothing but an ache and a stound to the lass, as I've olas
been--nothing but an ache and a stound to them all.”

“No, not that; a comfort, if only you will try to have it so. Be a
man, Sim--look men in the face--things will mend with you now. Go back
and live with them at the old home; they'll want you there.”

“Since you will not let me come with you, Ralph, tell me when will you
come back? I'm afeart--I don't know why--but some'at tells me you'll
not come back--tell me, Ralph, that you _will_.”

“These troublous times will soon be past,” said Ralph. “There'll be a
great reckoning day soon, I fear. Then we'll meet again--never doubt
it. And now good bye--good bye once more, old friend, and God be with
you.”

Ralph turned about and walked a few paces southward. The dog followed
him.

“Go back, Laddie,” said Ralph. Laddie stood and looked into his face
with something of the supplicatory appeal that was on the countenance
of the man he had just left. The faithful creature had followed Ralph
throughout life; he had been to his master a companion more constant
than his shadow; he had never before been driven away.

“Go back, Laddie,” said Ralph again, and not without a tremor in his
deep voice. The dog dropped his head and slunk towards Sim.

Then Ralph walked on.

The sun had risen over Lauvellen, and the white wings of a fair
morning lay on the hamlet in the vale below. Sim stood long on the
Raise, straining dim eyes into the south, where the diminishing figure
of his friend was passing out of his ken.

It was gone at length; the encircling hills had hidden it. Then the
unfriended outcast turned slowly away.




CHAPTER XVII. THE GARTHS: MOTHER AND SON.


The smoke was rising lazily in blue coils from many a chimney as Sim
turned his back on the Raise and retraced his steps to Wythburn.

In the cottage by the smithy--they stood together near the bridge--the
fire had been newly kindled. Beneath a huge kettle, swung from an
unseen iron hook, the boughs crackled and puffed and gave out the odor
of green wood.

Bared up to the armpits and down to the breast, the blacksmith was
washing himself in a bowl of water placed on a chair. His mother sat
on a low stool, with a pair of iron tongs in her hands, feeding the
fire from a bundle of gorse that lay at one side of the hearth. She
was a big, brawny, elderly woman with large bony hands, and a face
that had hard and heavy features, which were dotted here and there
with discolored warts. Her dress was slatternly and somewhat dirty. A
soiled linen cap covered a mop of streaky hair, mouse-colored and
unkempt.

“He's backset and foreset,” she said in a low tone. “Ey, eye; he's
made a sad mull on't.”

Mrs. Garth purred to herself as she lifted another pile of gorse on to
the crackling fire.

Joe answered with a grating laugh, and then with a burr he applied a
towel to his face.

“Nay, nay, mother. He has a gay bit of gumption in him, has Ray. It'll
be no kitten play to catch hold on him, and _they_ know that _they_
do.”

The emphasis was accompanied by a lowered tone, and a sidelong motion
of the head towards a doorway that led out of the kitchen.

“Kitten play or cat play, it's dicky with him; nought so sure, Joey,”
 said Mrs. Garth; and her cold eyes sparkled as she purred again with
satisfaction.

“That's what you're always saying,” said Joe testily; “but it never
comes to anything and never will.”

“Weel, weel, there's nought so queer as folk,” mumbled Mrs. Garth.

Joe seemed to understand his mother's implication.

“I'm moider'd to death,” he said, “what with yourself and them. I'm
right glad they're going off this morning, that's the truth.”

This declaration of Mr. Garth's veracity was not conducive to
amiability.

He looked as black as his sanguine complexion would allow.

Mrs. Garth glanced up at him. “Why, laddie, what ails thee? Thou'rt as
crook't as a tiphorn this morning,” she said, in a tone that was meant
to coax her son out of a cantankerous temper.

“I'm like to be,” grumbled Mr. Garth.

“Why, laddie?” asked his mother, purring, now in other fashion.

“Why?” said Joe,--“why?--because I can never sleep at night now, no,
nor work in the day neither--that's _why_.”

“Hush!” said Mrs. Garth, turning a quick eye towards the
aforementioned door. Then quietly resuming her attentions to the
gorse, she added, in another tone, “That's nowther nowt nor summat,
lad.”

“It'll take a thicker skin nor mine, mother, to hold out much longer,”
 said Joe huskily, but struggling to speak beneath his breath.

“Yer skin's as thin as a cat-lug,” said Mrs. Garth in a bitter
whisper.

“I've told you I cannot hold out much longer,” said Joe, “and I
cannot.”

“Hod thy tongue, then,” growled Mrs. Garth over the kettle.

There was a minute's silence between them.

The blacksmith donned his upper garments. His mother listened for the
simmer and bubble of the water on the fire.

“How far did ye bargain to tak them?”

“To Gaskarth--the little lame fellow will make for the Carlisle coach
once they're there?”

“When was t'horse and car to be ready?”

“Nine o'clock forenoon.”

“Then it's full time they were gitten roused.”

Mrs. Garth rose from the stool, hobbled to the door which had been
previously indicated by sundry nods and jerks, and gave it two or
three sharp raps.

A voice from within answered sleepily, “Right--right as a trivet, old
lady,” and yawned.

Mrs. Garth put her head close to the door-jamb.

“Ye'd best be putten the better leg afore, gentlemen,” she said with
becoming amiability; “yer breakfast is nigh about ready, gentlemen.”

“The better leg, David, eh? Ha! ha! ha!” came from another muffled
voice within.

Mrs. Garth turned about, oblivious of her own conceit. In a voice and
manner that had undergone a complete and sudden change, she whispered
to Joe,--

“Thou'rt a great bledderen fool.”

The blacksmith had been wrapped in his thoughts. His reply was
startlingly irrelevant.

“Fool or none, I'll not do it,” said Joe emphatically.

“Do what?” asked his mother in a tone of genuine inquiry.

“What I told you.”

“Tut, what's it to thee?”

“Ay, but it _is_ something to me, say I.”

“Tush, thou'rt yan of the wise asses.”

“If these constables,” lurching his head, “if they come back, as they
say, to take Ralph, I'll have no hand in't.”

“And why did ye help them this turn?” said Mrs. Garth, with an
elevation of her heavy eyebrows.

“Because I knew nowt of what they were after. If I'd but known that it
were for--for--_him_--”

“Hod thy tongue. Thou wad mak a priest sweer,” said Mrs. Garth. The
words rolled within her teeth.

“_I_ heard what they said of the warrant, mother,” said Joe; “it were
the same warrant, I reckon, as old Mattha's always preaching aboot,
and it's missing, and it seems to me that they want to make out as
Ray--as Ralph--”

“Wilt ye _never_ hod yer bletheren tongue?” said Mrs. Garth in a husky
whisper. Then in a mollified temper she added,--

“An what an they do, laddie; what an they do? Did ye not hear yersel
that it were yan o' the Rays--yan o' them; and what's the odds
which--what's the odds, I say--father and son, they were both of a
swatch.”

At this moment there came from the inner room some slight noise of
motion, and the old woman lifted her finger to her lip.

“And who knows it were _not_ yan on 'em--who?” added Mrs. Garth, after
a moment's silence.

“Nay, mother,” said Joe, and his gruff voice was husky in his
throat,--“nay, mother, but there _is_ them that knows.”

The woman gave a short forced titter.

“Ye wad mak a swine laugh, ye wad,” she said.

Then, coming closer to where her son now stood with a “lash” comb in
his hand before a scratched and faded mirror, she said under her
breath,--

“There'll be no rest for _him_ till summat's done, none; tak my word
for that. But yance they hang some riff-raff for him it will soon be
forgotten. Then all will be as dead as hissel', back and end. What's
it to thee, man, who they tak for't? Nowt, _Theer's nea sel' like awn
sel', Joey_.”

Mrs. Garth emphasized her sentiment with a gentle prod of her son's
breast.

“That's what you told me long ago,” said the blacksmith, “when you set
me to work to help hang the tailor. I cannot bear the sight of him, I
cannot.”

Mrs. Garth took her son roughly by the shoulder.

“Ye'd best git off and see to t' horse and car. Stand blubbering here
and ye'll gang na farther in two days nor yan.”

There was a step on the road in front.

“Who's that gone by?” asked Mrs. Garth.

Joe stepped to the window.

“Little Sim,” he said, and dropped his head.




CHAPTER XVIII. THE DAWN OF LOVE.


Though she lost the best of her faculties, Mrs. Ray did not succumb to
the paralytic seizure occasioned by the twofold shock which she had
experienced. On the morning after Ralph's departure from Wythburn she
seemed to awake from the torpor in which she had lain throughout the
two preceding days. She opened her eyes and looked up into the faces
that were bent above her.

There were evidences of intelligence surviving the wreck of physical
strength. Speech had gone, but her eyes remained full of meaning. When
they spoke to her she seemed to hear. At some moments she, appeared to
struggle with the impulse to answer, but the momentary effort subsided
into an inarticulate gurgle, and then it was noticed that for an
instant the tears stood in her eyes.

“She wants to say, 'God bless you,'” said Rotha when she observed
these impotent manifestations, and at such times the girl would stoop
and put her lips to the forehead of the poor dear soul.

There grew to be a kind of commerce in kind between these two,
destitute as the one was of nearly every channel of communication. The
hundred tricks of dumb show, the glance, the lifted brow, the touch of
the hand, the smile, the kiss,--all these acquired their several
meanings, and somehow they seemed to speak to the silent sufferer in a
language as definite as words. It came to be realized that this was a
condition in which Mrs. Ray might live for years.

After a week, or less, they made a bed for her in a room adjoining the
kitchen, and once a day they put her in a great arm-chair and wheeled
her into her place by the neuk window.

“It will be more heartsome for her,” said Rotha when she suggested the
change; “she'll like for us to talk to her all the same that she can't
answer us, poor soul.”

So it came about that every morning the invalid spent an hour or two
in her familiar seat by the great ingle, the chair she had sat in day
after day in the bygone times, before these terrible disasters had
come like the breath of a plague-wind and bereft her of her powers.

“I wonder if she remembers what happened,” said Willy; “do you think
she has missed them--father and Ralph?”

“Why, surely,” said Rotha. “But her ears are better than her eyes.
Don't you mark how quick her breath comes sometimes when she has heard
your voice outside, and how bright her eyes are, and how she tries to
say, 'God bless you!' as you come up to her?”

“Yes, I think I've marked it,” said Willy, “and I've seen that light
in her eyes die away into a blank stare or puzzled look, as if she
wanted to ask some question while she lifted them to my face.”

“And Laddie there, when he barks down the lonnin--haven't you seen her
then--her breast heaving, the fingers of that hand of hers twitching,
and the mumble of her poor lost voice, as though she'd say, 'Come,
Rotha, my lass, be quick with the supper--he's here, my lass, he's
back?'”

“I think you must be right in that, Rotha--that she misses Ralph,”
 said Willy.

“She's nobbut a laal bit quieter, that's all,” said Matthew
Branthwaite one morning when he turned in at Shoulthwaite. “The dame
nivver were much of a talker--not to say a _talker_, thoo knows; but
mark me, she loves a crack all the same.”

Matthew acted pretty fully upon his own diagnosis of his old
neighbor's seizure. He came to see her frequently, stayed long,
rehearsed for her benefit all the gossip of the village, fired off his
sapient proverbs, and generally conducted himself in his intercourse
with the invalid precisely as he had done before. In answer to any
inquiries put to him at the Red Lion he invariably contented himself
with his single explanation of Mrs. Ray's condition, “She's nobbut a
laal bit quieter, and the dame nivver were much of a talker, thoo
knows.”

Rotha Stagg remained at Shoulthwaite in accordance with her promise
given to Ralph. It was well for the household that she did so. Young
as the girl was, she alone seemed to possess either the self-command
or the requisite energy and foresight to keep the affairs of the home
and of the farm in motion. It was not until many days after the
disasters that had befallen the family that Willy Ray recovered enough
self-possession to engage once more in his ordinary occupations. He
had spent the first few days in the room with his stricken mother,
almost as unconscious as herself of what was going on about him; and
indeed his nature had experienced a shock only less serious.

Meantime, Rotha undertook the management of the home-stead. None ever
disputed her authority. The tailor's daughter had stepped into her
place as head of the household at the Moss, and ruled it by that force
of will which inferior natures usually obey without question, and
almost without consciousness of servitude. She alone knew rightly what
had to be done.

As for the tailor himself, he had also submitted--at least
partially--to his daughter's passive government. A day or two after
Ralph Ray's departure, Rotha had gone in search of her father, and had
brought him back with her. She had given him his work to do, and had
tried to interest him in his occupations. But a sense of dependence
seemed to cling to him, and at times he had the look of some wild
creature of the hills which had been captured indeed, but was watching
his opportunity of escape.

Sim rose at daybreak, and, wet or dry, he first went up on to the
hills. In an hour or two he was back again. Rotha understood his
purpose, but no word of explanation passed between them. She looked
into his face inquiringly day' after day, but nothing she saw there
gave hint of hope. The mare was lost. She would never be recovered.

Sometimes a fit of peculiar despondency would come upon Sim. At such
times he would go off without warning, and be seen no more for days.
Rotha knew that he had gone to his old haunts on the hill, for nothing
induced him to return to his cottage at Fornside. No one went in
pursuit of him. In a day or two he would come back and take up his
occupation as if he had never been away. Walking leisurely into the
court-yard, he would lift a besom and sweep, or step into the stable
and set to work at stitching up a rent in the old harness.

Willy Ray can hardly be said to have avoided Sim; he ignored him.
There was a more potent relation between these two than any of which
Willy had an idea. Satisfied as he had professed himself to be that
Sim was an innocent man, he was nevertheless unable to shake off an
uneasy sentiment of repulsion experienced in his presence. He
struggled to hold this in check, for Rotha's sake. But there was only
one way in which to avoid the palpable manifestation of his distrust,
and that was to conduct himself in such a manner as to appear
unconscious of Sim's presence in the house.

“The girl is not to blame,” he said to himself again and again. “Rotha
is innocent, whoever may be guilty.”

He put the case to himself so frequently in this way, he tried so hard
to explain to his own mind that Rotha at least was free of all taint,
that the very effort made him conscious of a latent suspicion
respecting Sim.

As to Sim's bearing towards Willy, it was the same as he had adopted
towards almost the whole of the little world in which he lived; he
took up the position of the guilty man, the man to be shunned, the man
from whose contaminating touch all other men might fairly shrink. It
never occurred to Sim that there lay buried at his own heart a secret
that could change the relations in which he stood towards this younger
and more self-righteous son of Angus Ray.

Perhaps, if it had once been borne in upon him that another than
himself was involved in the suspicion which had settled upon his
name--if he had even come to realize that Rotha might suffer the
stigma of a fatal reproach for no worse offence than that she was her
father's daughter--perhaps, if he had once felt this as a possible
contingency, he would have shaken off the black cloud that seemed to
justify the odium in which he was held by those about him, and lifted
up his head for her sake if not for his own.

But Sim lacked virile strength. The disease of melancholy had long
kept its seat at his heart, and that any shadow of doubt could rest on
Rotha as a result of a misdeed, or supposed misdeed, of his had never
yet occurred to Sim's mind.

And truly Rotha was above the blight of withering doubt. Rude daughter
of a rude age, in a rude country and without the refinements of
education, still how pure and sweet she was; how strong, and yet how
tender; how unconscious in her instinct of self-sacrifice; how devoted
in her loyalty; how absolute in her trust!

But deep and rich as was Rotha's simple nature, it was yet incomplete.
She herself was made aware that a great change was even now coming to
pass. She understood the transformation little, if at all; but it
seemed as though, somehow, a new sense were taking hold of her. And,
indeed, a new light had floated into her little orbit. Was it too
bright as yet for her to see it for what it was? It flooded everything
about her, and bathed the world in other hues than the old time.
Disaster had followed on disaster in the days that had just gone by,
but nevertheless--she knew not how--it was not all gloom in her heart.
In the waking hours of the night there was more than the memory of the
late events in her mind; her dreams were not all nightmares; and in
the morning, when the swift recoil of sad thoughts rushed in at her
first awakening, a sentiment of indefinite solace came close behind
it. What was it that was coming to pass?

It was love that was now dawning upon her, though still vague and
indeterminate; it hardly knew its object.

Willy Ray took note of this change in the girl, and thought he
understood it. He accepted it as the one remaining gleam of hope and
happiness for both of them amid the prevailing gloom. Rotha avoided
the searching light of his glances. When the work of the household was
in hand she shook off the glamour of the new-found emotion.

In the morning when the men came down for breakfast, and again in the
evening when they came in for supper, the girl busied herself in her
duties with the ardor of one having no thought behind them and no
feeling in which they did not share. But when the quieter hours of the
day left her free for other thoughts, she would stand and look long
into the face of the poor invalid to whom she had become nurse and
foster-child in one; or walk, without knowing why, to the window neuk,
and put her hand on the old wheel, that now rested quiet and unused
beneath it, while she looked towards the south through eyes that saw
nothing that was there.

She was standing so one morning a fortnight or more after Ralph's
departure from Wythburn, when Willy came into the kitchen, and, before
she was conscious of his presence, sat in the seat of the little
alcove within which she stood.

He took the hand that lay disengaged by her side and told her in a
word or two of his love. He had loved her long in silence. He had
loved her before she became the blessing she now was to him and to
his; to-day he loved her more than ever before.

It was a simple story, and it came with the accent of sincerity in
every word.

He thought perhaps she loved him in return--he had sometimes thought
so--was he wrong?

There was a pause between them. Regaining some momentary composure,
the girl turned her eyes once more aside and looked through the neuk
window towards the south. She felt the color mounting to her cheeks,
and knew that the young man had risen to his feet beside her. He, on
his part, saw only the fair face before him, and felt only the little
hand that lay passively in his own.

“It's a sad sort of home to bring you to. It would be idle to ask if
you have been happy here--it would be a mockery; but--but--”

“I _have_ been happy; that is, happy to do as Ralph wished me.”

“And as _I_ wished?”

“As you wished too, Willy.”

“You've been a blessing to us, Rotha. I sometimes think, though, that
it was hardly fair to bring you into the middle of this trouble.”

“He did it for the best,” said Rotha.

“Who?”

There was a little start of recovering consciousness.

“Ralph,” she answered, and dropped her head.

“True--he did it for the best,” repeated Willy, and relapsed into
silence.

“Besides, I had no home then, you know.”

How steadfastly the girl's eyes were fixed oh the distant south!

“You had your father's home, Rotha.”

“Ah, no! When it ceased to be poor father's home, how could it be mine
any longer? No, I was homeless.”

There was another pause.

“Then let me ask you to make this house your home forever. Can you not
do so?”

“I think so--I can scarcely tell--he said it might be best--”

Willy let loose her hand. Had he dreamed? Was it a wild
hallucination--the bright gleam of happiness that had penetrated the
darkness that lay about him at every step?

How yearningly the girl's eyes still inclined to yonder distant south.

“Let us say no more about it now, Rotha,” he said huskily. “If you
wish it, we'll talk again on this matter--that is, I say, if you
_wish_ it; if not, no matter.”

The young man was turning away. Without moving the fixed determination
of her gaze, Rotha said quietly,--

“Willy, I think perhaps I _do_ love you--perhaps--I don't know. I
remember he said that our hearts lay open before each other--”

“Who said so, Rotha?”

There was another start of recovering consciousness. Then the wide
eyes looked full into his, and the tongue that would have spoken
refused that instant to speak. The name that trembled in a
half-articulate whisper on the parted lips came upwards from the
heart.

But the girl was ignorant of her own secret even yet.

“We'll say no more about it now, Rotha,” repeated Willy in a broken
voice. “If you wish it, we'll talk again; give me a sign, and perhaps
we'll talk on this matter again.”

In another moment the young man was gone.




CHAPTER XIX. THE BETROTHAL.
It was not till she was alone that the girl realized the situation.
She put her hand over her eyes--the hand that still tingled with the
light pressure of his touch.

What had happened? Had Willy asked her to become his wife? And had she
seemed to say No?

The sound of his voice was still lingering on her ears; it was a low
broken murmur, such as might have fallen to a sob.

Had she, then, refused? That could not be. She was but a poor homeless
girl, with nothing to recommend her to such a man as he was. Yet she
knew--she had heard--that he loved her, and would one day ask her to
be his wife. She had thought that day was far distant. She had never
realized that it would be now. Why had he not given her time to think?
If Ralph knew what she had done!

For an hour or two Rotha went about the house with a look of
bewilderment in her eyes.

Willy came back soon afterwards, and helped her to wheel his mother in
her chair to her place by the hearth. He had regained his wonted
composure, and spoke to her as if nothing unusual had occurred.
Perhaps it had been something like a dream, all this that haunted her.
Willy was speaking cheerfully enough. Just then her father came into
the kitchen, and slunk away silently to a seat in the remotest corner
of the wide ingle. Willy went out almost immediately. Everything was
in a maze. Could it be that she had seemed to say No?

Rotha was rudely awakened from her trance by the entrance at this
moment of the parson of the chapel on the Raise. The present was the
first visit the Reverend Nicholas Stevens had paid since the day of
the funeral. He had heard of the latest disaster which had befallen
the family at the Moss. He had also learned something of the paralytic
seizure which the disaster had occasioned. He could not any longer put
away the solemn duty of visitation. To take the comfort of his
presence, to give the light of his countenance to the smitten, was a
part of his sacred function. These accidents were among the sore
trials incident to a cure of souls. The Reverend Nicholas had brushed
himself spick-and-span that morning, and, taking up his gold-headed
cane, had walked the two miles to Shoulthwaite.

Rotha was tying the ribbons of Mrs. Ray's white cap under her chin as
the vicar entered. She took up a chair for him, and placed it near the
invalid. But he did not sit immediately. His eye traversed the kitchen
at a glance. He saw Mrs. Ray propped up with her pillows, and looking
vacantly about her, but his attention seemed to be riveted on Sim, who
sat uneasily on the bench, apparently trying to escape the
concentrated gaze.

“What have we here?” he said in a cold and strident voice. “The man
Simeon Stagg? Is he here too?”

The moment before Rotha had gone into the dairy adjoining, and, coming
back, she was handing a bowl of milk to her father. Sim clutched at
the dish with nervous fingers.

The Reverend Nicholas walked with measured paces towards where he sat.
Then he paused, and stood a yard or two behind Sim, whose eyes were
still averted.

“I was told you had made your habitation on the hillside; a fitting
home, no doubt, for one unfit to house with his fellows.”

Sim's hand trembled violently, and he set the bowl of milk on the
floor beside him. Rotha was standing a yard or two apart, her breast
heaving.

“Have you left it for good, pray?” There was the suspicion of a sneer
in the tone with which the question was asked.

“Yes, he _has_ left it for good,” said Rotha, catching her breath.

Sim had dropped his head on his hand, his elbow resting on his knee.

“More's the shame, perhaps; who knows but it may have been the best
place for shame to hide in!”

Sim got up, and turning about, with his eyes still fixed on the
ground, he hurried out of the house.

“You've driven him away again--do you know that?” said Rotha,
regaining her voice, and looking fall into the vicar's face, her eyes
aflame.

“If so, I have done well, young woman.” Then surveying her with a look
of lofty condescension, he added, “And what is your business here?”

“To nurse Mrs. Ray; that is part of it.”

“Even so? And were you asked to come?”

“Surely.”

“By whom?”

“Ralph, her son.”

“Small respect he could have had for you, young woman.”

“Tell me what you mean, sir,” said the girl, with a glance of mingled
pride and defiance.

“Tell you what I mean, young woman! Have you, then, no modesty? Has
that followed the shame of the hang-dog vagrant who has just left us?”

“Not another word about him! If you have anything to say about me, say
it, sir.”

“What!--the father dead! the mother stricken into unconsciousness--two
sons--and you a young woman--was there no matron in the parish, that a
young woman must come here?”

Rotha's color, that had tinged her cheeks, mounted to her eyes and
descended to her neck. The prudery that was itself a sin had
penetrated the armor of her innocence. Without another word, she
turned and left the kitchen.

“Well, Widow Ray,” she heard his reverence say, in an altered tone, as
he faced the invalid. She listened for no more.

Her trance was over now, and rude indeed had been the awakening.
Perhaps, after all, she had no business in this house--perhaps the
vicar was right. Yet that could not be. She thought of Mrs. Ray
smitten down and dependent upon those about her for help in every
simple office of life, and she thought of the promise she had made to
Ralph. “Promise me,” he had said, “that you will stay in the old home
as long as mother lives.” And she had promised; her pledged word was
registered in heaven.

But then, again, perhaps Ralph had not foreseen that his mother might
live for years in her present state. No doubt he thought her near to
death. He could not have intended that she should live long in his
brother's house.

Yet he _had_ so intended. “He will ask you to be his wife, Rotha,”
 Ralph had said, “but he can't do so yet.”

This brought her memory back to the earlier events of the morning.
Willy Ray had already asked her to become his wife. And what had she
done on her part? Had she not seemed to say No?

Willy was far above her. It was true enough that she was a poor
homeless girl, without lands, without anything but the hands she
worked with. Willy was now a statesman, and he was something of a
scholar too. Yes, he was in every way far above her. Were there not
others who might love him? Yet Ralph had seemed to wish her to become
his brother's wife, and what Ralph had said would be best, must of
course be so.

She could not bring herself to leave Shoulthwaite--that was clear
enough to her bewildered sense. Nor could she remain on the present
terms of relation--that, also, was but too clear. If Ralph were at
home, how different everything would be! He would lead her with a word
out of this distressing maze.

When Willy Ray parted from Rotha after he had told her of his love, he
felt that the sunshine had gone out of his life forever. He had been
living for weeks and months in a paradise that was not his own. Why he
had loved this girl he could hardly say. She was--every one knew
it--the daughter of a poor tailor, and he was the poorest and meanest
creature in the country round about.

The young man could not help telling himself that he might have looked
to marry the daughter of the largest statesman in a radius of miles.

But then, the girl herself was a noble creature--none could question
it. Rude, perhaps, in some ways, without other learning than the hard
usage of life had given her; yet she was a fine soul, as deep as the
tarn on the mountain-top, and as pure and clear.

And he had fancied she loved him. No disaster had quite overshadowed
the bright hope of that surmise. Yet had she not loved Ralph instead?
Perhaps the girl herself did not realize that in reality the love of
his brother had taken hold of her. Did Ralph himself love the girl?
That could not be, or he should have guessed the truth the night they
spoke together. Still, it _might_ be that Ralph loved her after all.

By the following morning Rotha had decided that her duty at this
crisis lay one way only, and that way she must take. Ralph had said it
would be well for her to become Willy's wife, and she had promised him
never to leave the Moss while his mother lived. She would do as he had
said.

Willy had asked her for a sign, and she must give hint, one--a sign
that she was willing to say “Yes” if he spoke again to-day as he had
spoken yesterday.

Having once settled this point, her spirits experienced a complete
elevation. What should the sign be? Rotha walked to the neuk window
and stood to think, her hand on the wheel and her eyes towards the
south. What, then, should the sign be?

It was by no means easy to hit on a sign that would show him at a
glance that her mind was made up; that, however she may have wavered
in her purpose yesterday, her resolve was fixed to-day. She stood long
and thought of many plans, but none harmonized with her mood.

“Why should I not tell him--just in a word?” Often as she put if to
herself so, she shrank from the ordeal involved.

No, she must hit on a sign, but she began to despair of lighting on a
fitting one. Then she shifted her gaze from the landscape through the
window, and turned to where Mrs. Ray sat in her chair close by. How
vague and vacant was the look in those dear eyes! how mute hung the
lips that were wont to say, “God bless you!” how motionless lay the
fingers that once spun with the old wheel so deftly!

The old spinning-wheel--here it was, and Rotha's right hand still
rested upon it. Ah! the wheel--surely _that_ was, the sign she wanted.

She would sit and spin--yes, she could spin, too, though it was long
since she had done so--she would sit in his mother's chair--the one
his mother used to sit in when she spun--and perhaps he would
understand from that sign that she would try to take his mother's
place if he wished her so to do.

Quick, let it be done at once. He usually came up to the house at this
time of the morning.

She looked at the clock. He would be here soon, she thought; he might
be coming now.

       *       *       *       *       *

And Willy Ray was, in truth, only a few yards from the house at the
moment. He had been up on to the hills that morning. He had been there
on a similar errand several mornings before, and had never told
himself frankly what that errand really was. Returning homewards on
this occasion, he had revolved afresh the subject that lay nearest to
his heart.

If Ralph really loved the girl--but how should he know the truth as to
that, unless Rotha knew it? If the girl loved his brother, he could
relinquish her. He was conscious of no pang of what was called
jealousy in this matter. An idol that he had worshipped seemed to be
shattered--that was all.

If he saw that Rotha loved Ralph, he must give up forever his one
dream of happiness--and there an end.

It was in this mood that he opened the kitchen door, just as Rotha had
put her foot on the treadle and taken the flax in her hand.

There the girl sat, side by side with his mother, spinning at the
wheel which within his recollection no hand but one had touched. How
fresh and fair the young face looked, tinged, as it was at this
moment, too, with a conscious blush!

Rotha had tried to lift her eyes as Willy entered. She intended to
meet his glance with a smile. She wished to catch the significance of
his expression. But the lids were heavier than lead that kept her gaze
fixed on the “rock” and flax below her.

She felt that after a step or two he had stood still in front of her.
She knew that her face was crimson. Her eyes, too, were growing dim.

“Rotha, my darling!” She heard no more.

The spinning-wheel had been pushed hastily aside. She was on her feet,
and Willy's arms were about her.




CHAPTER XX. “FOOL, OF THYSELF SPEAK WELL.”


As the parson left Shoulthwaite that morning he encountered Joe Garth
at the turning of the lonnin. The blacksmith was swinging along the
road, with a hoop over his shoulder. He lifted his cap as the Reverend
Nicholas came abreast of him. That worthy was usually too much
absorbed to return such salutations, but he stopped on this occasion.

“Would any mortal think it?” he said; “the man Simeon Stagg is here
housed at the home of my old friend and esteemed parishioner, Angus
Ray!”

Mr. Garth appeared to be puzzled to catch the relevancy of the remark.
He made no reply.

“The audacity of the man is past belief,” continued the parson. “Think
of his effrontery! Does he imagine that God or man has forgotten the
mystery of that night in Martinmas?”

The blacksmith realized that some response was expected from him. With
eyes bent on the ground, he muttered, “He's getting above with
himself, sir.”

“Getting above himself! I should think so, forsooth. But verily a
reckoning day is at hand. Woe to him who carries a load of guilt at
his heart and thinks that no man knows of it. Better a millstone were
about his neck, and he were swallowed up in the great deep.”

The parson turned away. Garth stood for a moment without perceiving
that he was alone, his eyes still bent on the ground. Then he walked
moodily in the other direction.

When he reached his home, Joe threw down the hoop in the smithy and
went into the house. His mother was there.

“Sim, he's at Shoulthwaite,” he said. “It's like enough his daughter
is there, too.”

A sneer crossed Mrs. Garth's face.

“Tut, she's yan as wad wed the midden for sake of the muck.”

“You mean she's setting herself at one of the Rays?”

Mrs. Garth snorted, but gave no more explicit reply.

“Ey, she's none so daft, is yon lass,” observed the blacksmith.

This was not quite the trace he had meant to follow. After a pause he
said, “What came of his papers--in the trunk?”

“Whose?”

“_Thou_ knows.”

Mrs. Garth gave her son a quick glance.

“It's like they're still at Fornside. I must see to 'em again.”

The blacksmith responded eagerly,--

“Do, mother, do.”

There was another pause. Joe made some pretence of scraping a file
which he had picked up from a bench.

“Thou hasn't found out if old Angus made a will?” said Mrs. Garth.

“No.”

“No, of course not,” said Mrs. Garth, with a curl of the lip. “What I
want doing I must do myself. Always has been so, and always will be.”

“I wish it were true, mother,” muttered Joe in a voice scarcely
audible.

“What's that?”

“Nowt.”

“I'll go over to Shoulth'et to-morrow,” purred Mrs. Garth. “If the old
man made no will, I'll maybe have summat to say as may startle them a
gay bit.”

The woman grunted to herself at the prospect. “Ey, ey,” she mumbled,
“it'll stop their match-makin'. Ey, ey, and what's mair, what's mair,
it'll bring yon Ralph back helter-skelter.”

“Mother, mother,” cried the blacksmith, “can you never leave that ugly
thing alone?”




CHAPTER XXI. MRS. GARTH AT SHOULTHWAITE.


The next day or two passed by with Rotha like a dream. Her manners had
become even gentler and her voice even softer than before, and the
light of self-consciousness had stolen into her eyes. Towards the
evening of the following day Liza Branthwaite ran up to the Moss to
visit her. Rotha was in the dairy at the churn, and when Liza pushed
open the door and came unexpectedly upon her she experienced a
momentary sense of confusion which was both painful and unaccountable.
The little lady was herself flushed with a sharp walk, and muffled up
to the throat from a cutting wind.

“Why, Rotha, my girl, what ever may be the matter with you?” said
Liza, coming to a pause in the middle of the floor, and, without
removing the hands that had been stuffed up her sleeves from the cold,
looking fixedly in her face.

“I don't know, Liza; I wish you could tell me, lass,” said Rotha,
recovering enough self-possession to simulate a subterfuge.

“Here I've been churning and churning since morning, and don't seem
much nigher the butter yet.”

“It's more than the butter that pests you,” said Liza, with a wise
shake of the head.

“Yes; it must be the churn. I can make nothing of it.”

“Shaf on the churn, girl! You just look like Bessie MacNab when they
said Jamie o' the Glen had coddled her at the durdum yon night at
Robin Forbes's.”

“Hush, Liza,” said Rotha, stooping unnecessarily low to investigate
the progress of her labors, and then adding, from the depths of the
churn, “why, and how did Bessie look?”

“Look? look?” cried Liza, with a tip of the chin upwards, as though
the word itself ought to have been sufficiently explicit,--“look, you
say? Why,” continued Liza, condescending at length to be more definite
as to the aforesaid young lady's appearance after a kiss at a country
dance, “why, she looked just for the world like you, Rotha.”

Then throwing off her thick outer garment without waiting for any kind
of formal invitation, Liza proceeded to make herself at home in a very
practical way.

“Come, let me have a turn at the churn,” she said, “and let us see if
it is the churn that ails you--giving you two great eyes staring wide
as if you were sickening for a fever, and two cheeks as red as the
jowls of 'Becca Rudd's turkey.”

In another moment Liza was rolling up the sleeves of her gown,
preparatory to the experimental exercise she had proposed to herself;
but this was not a task that had the disadvantage of interrupting the
flow of her gossip.

“But I say, lass,” she rattled on, “have you heard what that great
gammerstang of a Mother Garth has been telling 'Becca Rudd about
_you_? 'Becca told me herself, and I says to 'Becca, says I, 'Don't
you believe it; it's all a lie, for that old wizzent ninny bangs them
all at lying; and that's saying a deal, you know. Besides,' I says,
'what does it matter to her or to you, 'Becca, or to me, if so be that
it _is_ true, which I'm not for believing that it is, not I,' I says.”

“But what was it, Liza? You've not told me what it was, lass, that
Mrs. Garth had said about me.”

Rotha had stopped churning, and was standing, with the color rising
even closer round her eyes. Luckily, Liza had no time to observe the
minor manifestations of her friend's uneasiness; she had taken hold of
the “plunger,” and was squaring herself to her work.

“Say!” she cried; “why the old carlin will say aught in the world but
her prayers--she says that you're settin' your cap at one of these
Rays boys; that's about what she says the old witchwife, for she's no
better. But it's as I said to 'Becca Rudd, says I, 'If it _is_ true
what traffic is it of anybody's; but it isn't true,' I says, 'and if
it _is_, where's the girl that has more right? It can't be Ralph that
she's settin' her cap at, 'Becca,' I says, 'for Ralph's gone, and
mayhap never to come to these parts again the longest day he lives.'”

“Don't say that, Liza,” interrupted Rotha in a hoarse voice.

“Why not? Those redcoats are after him from Carlisle, arn't they?”

“Don't say he'll not come back. We scarce know what may happen.”

“Well, that's what father says, anyway. But, back or not back, it
can't be Ralph, I says to 'Becca.”

“There's not a girl worthy of him, Liza; not a girl on the country
side. But we'll not repeat their old wife's gossip, eh, lass?”

“Not if you're minded not to, Rotha. But as to there being no girl
worthy of Ralph,” said Liza, pausing in her work and lifting herself
into an erect position with an air of as much dignity as a lady of her
stature could assume, “I'm none so sure of that, you know. He has a
fine genty air, I will say; and someways you don't feel the same to
him when he comes by you as you do to other men, and he certainly is a
great traveller; but to say that there isn't a girl worthy of him,
that's like Nabob Johnny tellin' Tibby Fowler that he never met the
girl that wasn't partial to him.”

Rotha did not quite realize the parallel that had commended itself to
Liza's quick perception, but she raised no objection to the sentiment,
and would have shifted the subject.

“What about Robbie, my lass?” she said.

“'And as to Willy Ray,' says I to 'Becca,” continued the loquacious
churner, without noticing the question, “' it isn't true as Rotha
would put herself in his way; but she's full his match, and you can't
show me one that is nigher his equal.'”

Rotha's confusion was increasing every minute.

“'What if her father can't leave her much gear, she has a head that's
worth all the gold in Willy's pocket, and more.' Then says 'Becca,
'What about Kitty Jackson?' 'Shaf,' says I, 'she's always curlin' her
hair before her bit of a looking-glass.' 'And what about Maggie of
Armboth?' says 'Becca. 'She hasn't got such a head as Rotha,' says I,
'forby that she's spending a fortune on starch, what with her caps,
and her capes, and her frills, and what not.'”

Liza had by this time rattled away, until by the combined exertion of
arms and tongue she had brought herself to a pause for lack of breath.
Resting one hand on the churn, she lifted the other to her head to
push back the hair that had tumbled over her forehead. As she tossed
up her head to facilitate the latter process, her eyes caught a
glimpse of Rotha's crimsoning face. “Well,” she said, “I must say this
churn's a funny one; it seems to make you as red as 'Becca's turkey,
whether you're working at it or lookin' at some one else.”

“Do you think I could listen to all that praise of myself and not
blush?” said Rotha, turning aside.

“I could--just try me and see,” responded Liza, with a laugh. “That's
nothing to what Nabob Johnny said to me once, and I gave him a slap
over the lug for it, the strutting and smirking old peacock. Why, he's
all lace--lace at his neck and at his wrists, and on his--”

“You didn't favor _him_ much, Liza.”

“No, but Daddie did; and he said” (the wicked little witch imitated
her father's voice and manner), “'Hark ye, lass, ye must hev him and
then ye'll be yan o' his heirs!' He wants one or two, I says, 'for the
old carle would be bald but for the three that are left on his
crown.'”

“Well, but what about Robbie Anderson?” said Rotha, regaining her
composure, with a laugh.

At this question Liza's manner underwent a change. The perky chirpness
that had a dash of wickedness, not to say of spite, in it, entirely
disappeared. Dropping her head and her voice together, she answered,--

“I don't know what's come over the lad. He's maunderin' about all day
long except when he's at the Lion, and then, I reckon, he's maunderin'
in another fashion.”

“Can't you get him to bide by his work?”

“No; it's first a day for John Jackson at Armboth, and then two days
for Sammy Robson at the Lion, and what comes one way goes the other.
When he's sober--and that's not often in these days--he's as sour as
Mother Garth's plums, and when he's tipsy his head's as soft as
poddish.”

“It was a sad day for Robbie when his old mother died,” said Rotha.

“And that was in one of his bouts” said Liza; “but I thought it had
sobered him forever. He loved the old soul, did Robbie, though he
didn't always do well by her. And now he's broken loose again.”

It was clearly as much as Liza could do to control her tears, and,
being conscious of this, she forthwith made a determined effort to
simulate the sternest anger.

“I hate to see a man behave as if his head were as soft as poddish.
Not that _I_ care,” she added, as if by an afterthought, and as though
to conceal the extent to which she felt compromised; “it's nothing to
_me_, that I can see. Only Wythburn's a hard-spoken place, and they're
sure to make a scandal of it.”

“It's a pity about Robbie,” said Rotha sympathetically.

Liza could scarcely control her tears. After she had dashed a drop or
two from her eyes, she said: “I cannot tell what it's all about. He's
always in a ponder, ponder, with his mouth open--except when he's
grindin' his teeth. I hate to see a man walking about like a haystack.
And Robbie used to have so much fun once on a time.”

The tears were stealing up to Liza's eyes again.

“He can't forget what happened on the fell with the mare--that was a
fearful thing, Liza.”

“Father says it's 'cause Robbie had the say over it all; but Joe Garth
says it comes of Robbie sticking himself up alongside of Ralph Ray.
What a genty one Robbie used to be!”

Liza's face began to brighten at some amusing memories.

“Do you mind Reuben Thwaite's merry night last winter at Aboon Beck?”

“I wasn't there, Liza,” said Rotha.

“Robbie was actin' like a play-actor, just the same as he'd seen at
Carlisle. He was a captain, and he murdered a king, and then he was
made king himself, and the ghost came and sat in his chair at a great
feast he gave. Lord o' me! but it was queer. First he came on when he
was going to do the murder and let wit he saw a dagger floating before
him. He started and jumped same as our big tom cat when Mouser comes
round about him. You'd have died of laughing. Then he comes on for the
bank'et, and stamps his foot and tells the ghost to be off; and then
he trembles and dodders from head to foot like Mouser when he's had
his wash on Saturday nights. You'd have dropt, it was so queer.”

Liza's enjoyment of the tragedy had not been exhausted with the
occasion, for now she laughed at the humors of her own narrative.

“But those days are gone,” she continued. “I met Robbie last night,
and I says, says I, 'Have you pawned your dancing shoes, Robbie, as
you're so glum?' And that's what he is, save when he's tipsy, and then
what do ye think the maizelt creature does?”

“What?” said Rotha.

“Why,” answered Liza, with a big tear near to toppling over the corner
of her eye, “why, the crack't 'un goes and gathers up all the maimed
dogs in Wythburn; 'Becca Rudd's 'Dash,' and that's lame on a hind leg,
and Nancy Grey's 'Meg,' and you know she's blind of one eye, and Grace
M'Nippen's 'King Dick,' and he's been broken back't this many a long
year, and they all up and follow Robbie when he's nigh almost drunk,
and then he's right--away he goes with his cap a' one side, and all
the folks laughin'--the big poddish-head!”

There was a great sob for Liza in the heart of the humor of that
situation; and trying no longer to conceal her sorrow at her lover's
relapse into drinking habits, she laid her head on Rotha's breast and
wept outright.

“We must go to Mrs. Ray; she'll be lonely, poor old thing,” said
Rotha, drying Liza's eyes; “besides, she hasn't had her supper, you
know.”

The girls left the dairy, where the churning had made small progress
as yet, and went through the kitchen towards the room where the Dame
of Shoulthwaite lay in that long silence which had begun sooner with
her than with others.

As they passed towards the invalid's room, Mrs. Garth came in at the
porch. It was that lady's first visit for years, and her advent on
this occasion seemed to the girls to forebode some ill. But her manner
had undergone an extraordinary transformation. Her spiteful tone was
gone, and the look of sourness, which had often suggested to Liza her
affinity to the plums that grew in her own garden, had given place to
what seemed to be a look of extreme benevolence.

“It's slashy and cold, but I've come to see my old neighbor,” she
said. “I'm sure I've suffered lang and sair ower her affliction, poor
body.”

Without much show of welcome from Rotha, the three women went into
Mrs. Ray's room and sat down.

“Poor body, who wad have thought it?” said Mrs. Garth, putting her
apron to her eye as she looked up at the vacant gaze in the eyes of
the sufferer. “I care not now how soon my awn glass may run out. I've
so fret myself ower this mischance that the wrinkles'll soon come.”

“She needn't wait much for them if she's anxious to be off,” whispered
Liza to Rotha.

“Yes,” continues Mrs. Garth, in her melancholy soliloquy, “I fret
mysel' the lee-lang day.”

“She's a deal over slape and smooth,” whispered Liza again. “What's it
all about? There's something in the wind, mind me.”

“The good dear old creatur; and there's no knowin' now if she's
provided for; there's no knowin' it, I say, is there?”

To this appeal neither of the girls showed any disposition to respond.
Mrs. Garth thereupon applied the apron once more to her eye, and
continued: “Who wad have thought she could have been brought down so
low, she as held her head so high.”

“So she did, did she! Never heard on it,” Liza broke in.

Not noticing the interruption, Mrs. Garth continued: “And now, who
knows but she may come down lower yet--who knows but she may?”

Still failing to gain a response to her gloomy prognostications, Mrs.
Garth replied to her own inquiry.

“None on us knows, I reckon! And what a down-come it wad be for her,
poor creatur!”

“She's sticking to that subject like a cockelty burr,” said Liza, not
troubling this time to speak beneath her breath. “What ever does she
mean by it?”

Rotha was beginning to feel concerned on the same score, so she said:
“Mrs. Ray, poor soul, is not likely to come to a worse pass while she
has two sons to take care of her.”

“No good to her, nowther on 'em--no good, I reckon; mair's the pity,”
 murmured Mrs. Garth, calling her apron once more into active service.

“How so?” Rotha could not resist the temptation to probe these
mysterious deliverances.

“Leastways, not 'xcept the good dear man as is gone, Angus hissel',
made a will for her; and, as I say to my Joey, there's no knowin' as
ever he did; and nowther is there.”

Rotha replied that it was not usual for a statesman to make a will.
The law was clear enough as to inheritance. There could be no question
of Mrs. Ray's share of what had been left. Besides, if there were, it
would not matter much in her case, where everything that was the
property of her sons was hers, and everything that was hers was
theirs.

Mrs. Garth pricked up her ears at this. She could not conceal her
interest in what Rotha had said, and throwing aside her languor, she
asked, in anything but a melancholy tone, “So he's left all
hugger-mugger, has he?”

“I know nothing of that,” replied Rotha; “but if he has not made a
will it cannot concern us at all. It's all very well for the lords of
the manor and such sort of folk to make their wills, for, what with
one thing and another, their property runs cross and cross, and
there's scarce any knowing what way it lies; but for a statesman
owning maybe a hundred or two of acres and a thousand or two of sheep,
forby a house and the like, it's not needful at all. The willing is
all done by the law.”

“So it is, so it is, lass,” said Mrs. Garth. The girls thought there
was a cruel and sinister light in the old woman's eyes as she spoke.
“Ey, the willin's all done by t' law; but, as I says to my Joey, 'It
isn't always done to our likin', Joey'; and nowther is it.”

Liza could bear no longer Mrs. Garth's insinuating manner. Coming
forward with a defiant air, the little woman said: “Look you, don't
you snurl so; but if you've anything to say, just open your mouth and
tell us what it's about.”

The challenge was decidedly unequivocal.

“'Od bliss the lass!” cried Mrs. Garth with an air of profound
astonishment “What ails the bit thing?”

“Look here, you've got a deal too much talk to be jannic, _you_ have,”
 cried Liza, with an emphasis intended to convey a sense of profound
contempt of loquaciousness in general and of Mrs. Garth's
loquaciousness in particular.

Mrs. Garth's first impulse was to shame her adversary out of her
warlike attitude with a little biting banter. Curling her lip, she
said not very relevantly to the topic in hand, “They've telt me yer a
famous sweethearter, Liza.”

“That's mair nor iver _you_ could have been,” retorted the girl, who
always dropt into the homespun of the country side in degree as she
became excited.

“Yer gitten ower slape, a deal ower slippery,” said Mrs. Garth. “I
always told my Joey as he'd have to throw ye up, and I'm fair pleased
to see he's taken me at my word.”

“Oh, he has, has he?” said Liza, rising near to boiling point at the
imputation of being the abandoned sweetheart of the blacksmith. “I
always said as ye could bang them all at leein. I would not have your
Joey if his lips were droppin' honey and his pockets droppin' gold.
Nothing would hire me to do it. Joey indeed!” added Liza, with a
vision of the blacksmith's sanguine head rising before her, “why, you
might light a candle at his poll.”

Mrs. Garth's banter was not calculated to outlast this kind of
assault. Rising to her feet, she said: “Weel, thou'rt a rare yan, I
_will_ say. Yer ower fond o' red ribbons, laal thing. It's aff with
her apron and on with her bonnet, iv'ry chance. I reckon ye'd like a
silk gown, ye wad.”

“Never mind my clothes,” said Liza. Mrs. Garth gave her no time to say
more, for, at the full pitch of indignation, she turned to Rotha, and
added: “And ye're a rare pauchtie damsel. Ye might have been bred at
Court, you as can't muck a byre.”

“Go home to bed, old Cuddy Garth,” said Liza, “and sup more poddish,
and take some of the wrinkles out of your wizzent skin.”

“Setting yer cap at the Rays boys,” continued Mrs. Garth, “but it'll
be all of no use to ye, mark my word. Old Angus never made a will, and
the law'll do all the willin', ye'll see.”

“Don't proddle up yon matter again, woman,” said Liza.

“And dunnet ye threep me down. I'll serve ye all out, and soon too.”

Mrs. Garth had now reached the porch. She had by this time forgotten
her visit of consolation and the poor invalid, who lay on the bed
gazing vacantly at her angry countenance.

“Good evening, Sarah,” cried Liza, with an air of provoking
familiarity. “May you live all the days o' your life!”

Mrs. Garth was gone by this time.

Rotha stood perplexed, and looked after her as she disappeared down
the lonnin. Liza burst into a prolonged fit of uproarious laughter.

“Hush, Liza; I'm afraid she means mischief.”

“The old witch-wife!” cried Liza. “If tempers were up at the Lion for
sale, what a fortune yon woman's would fetch!”




CHAPTER XXII. THE THREATENED OUTLAWRY.


Rotha's apprehension of mischief, either as a result of Mrs. Garth's
menace or as having occasioned it, was speedily to find realization.

A day or two after the rencontre, three strangers arrived at
Shoulthwaite, who, without much ceremony, entered the house, and took
seats on the long settle in the kitchen.

Rotha and Willy were there at the moment, the one baking oaten cake,
and the other tying a piece of cord about a whip which was falling to
pieces. The men wore plain attire, but a glance was enough to satisfy
Willy that one of them was the taller of the two constables who had
tried to capture Ralph on Stye Head.

“What do you want?” he asked abruptly.

“A little courtesy,” answered the stalwart constable, who apparently
constituted himself spokesman to his party.

“From whom do you come?”

“_From_ whom and _for_ whom!--you shall know both, young man. We come
from the High Sheriff of Carlisle, and we come for--so please
you--Ralph Ray.”

“He's not here.”

“So we thought.” The constables exchanged glances and broad smiles.

“He's not here, I tell you,” said Willy, obviously losing his
self-command as he became excited.

“Then go and fetch him.”

“I would not if I could; I could not if I would. So be off.”

“We might ask you for the welcome that is due to the commissioners of
a sheriff.”

“You _take_ it. But you'll be better welcome to take yourselves after
it.”

“Listen, young master, and let it be to your profit. We want Ralph
Ray, sometime captain in the rebel army of the late usurper in
possession. We hold a warrant for his arrest. Here it is.” And the man
tapped with his fingers a paper which he drew from his belt.

“I tell you once more he is not here,” said Willy.

“And we tell you again, Go and fetch him, and God send you may find
him! It will be better for all of you,” added the constable, glancing
about the room.

Willy was now almost beyond speech with excitement. He walked
nervously across the kitchen, while the constable, with the utmost
calmness of voice and manner, opened his warrant and read:--

“These are to will and require you forthwith to receive into your
charge the body of Ralph Ray, and him detain under secure
imprisonment--”

“You've had the warrant a long while to no purpose, I believe,” Willy
broke in. “You may keep it still longer.”

The constable took no further note of the interruption than to pause
in his reading, and begin again in the same measured tones:--

“We do therefore command, publish, and declare that the said Ralph
Ray, having hitherto withheld himself from judgment, shall within
fourteen days next after personally deliver himself to the High
Sheriff of Carlisle, under pain of being excepted from any pardon or
indemnity both for his life and estate.”

Then the constable calmly folded up his paper, and returned it to its
place in his belt. Willy now stood as one transfixed.

“So you see, young man, it will be best for you all to go and fetch
him.”

“And what if I cannot?” asked Willy. “What then will happen?”

“Outlawry; and God send that that be all!”

“And what then?”

“The confiscation to the Crown of these goods and chattels.”

“How so?” said Rotha, coming forward. “Mrs. Ray is still alive, and
this is a brother.”

“They must go elsewhere, young mistress.”

“You don't mean that you can turn the poor dame into the road?” said
Rotha eagerly.

The man shrugged his shoulders. His companions grinned, and shifted in
their seats.

“You can't do it; you cannot do it,” said Willy emphatically, stamping
his foot on the floor.

“And why not?” The constable was unmoved. “Angus Ray is dead. Ralph
Ray is his eldest son.”

“It's against the law, I tell you,” said Willy.

“You seem learned in the law, young farmer; enlighten us, pray.”

“My mother, as relict of my father, has her dower, as well as her own
goods and chattels, which came from her own father, and revert to her
now on her husband's death.”

“True; a learned doctor of the law, indeed!” said the constable,
turning to his fellows.

“I have also my share,” continued Willy, “of all except the freehold.
These apportionments the law cannot touch, however it may confiscate
the property of my brother.”

“Look you, young man,” said the constable, facing about and lifting
his voice; “every commissioner must feel that the law had the ill-luck
to lose an acute exponent when you gave up your days and nights to
feeding sheep; but there is one point which so learned a doctor ought
not to have passed over in silence. When you said the wife of the
deceased had a right to her dower, and his younger son to his portion,
you forgot that the wife and children of a traitor are in the same
case with a traitor himself.”

“Be plain, sir; what do you mean?” said Willy.

“That wise brain of yours should have jumped my meaning; it is that
Angus Ray was as much a traitor as his son Ralph Ray, and that if the
body of the latter is not delivered to judgment within fourteen days,
the _whole_ estate of Shoulthwaite will be forfeited to the Crown as
the property of a felon and of the outlawed son of a felon.”

“It's a quibble--a base, dishonorable quibble,” said Willy; “my father
cared nothing for your politics, your kings, or your commonwealths.”

The constables shifted once more in their seats.

“He feels it when it comes nigh abreast of himself,” said one of them,
and the others laughed.

Rotha was in an agony of suspense. This, then, was what the woman had
meant by her forebodings of further disaster to the semiconscious
sufferer in the adjoining room. The men rose to go. Wrapping his cloak
about him, the constable who had been spokesman said,--

“You see it will be wisest to do as we say. Find him for us, and he
_may_ have the benefit of pardon and indemnity for his life and
estate.”

“It's a trick, a mean trick,” cried Willy, tramping the floor; “your
pardon is a mockery, and your indemnity a lie.”

“Take care, young man; keep your strong words for better service, and
do you profit by what we say.”

“_That_ for what you say,” cried Willy, losing all self-control and
snapping his fingers before their faces. “Do your worst; and be sure
of this, that nothing would prevail with me to disclose my brother's
whereabouts even if I knew it, which I do not.”

The constables laughed. “We know all about it, you see. Ha! ha! You
want a touch of your brother's temper, young master. He could hardly
fizz over like this. We should have less trouble with him if he could.
But he's a vast deal cooler than that--worse luck!”

Willy's anger was not appeased by this invidious parallel. “That's
enough,” he cried at all but the full pitch of his voice, pointing at
the same time to the door.

The men smiled grimly and turned about.

“Remember, a fortnight to-day, and we'll be with you again.”

Rotha clung to the rannel-tree rafter to support herself. Willy thrust
out his arm again, trembling with excitement.

“A fortnight to-day,” repeated the constable calmly, and pulled the
door after him.




CHAPTER XXIII. SHE NEVER TOLD HER LOVE.


When the door had closed behind the constables, Willy Ray sank
exhausted into a chair. The tension of excitement had been too much
for his high-strung temperament, and the relapse was swift and
painful.

“Pardon and indemnity!” he muttered, “a mockery and a lie--that's what
it is, as I told them. Once in their clutches, and there would be no
pardon and no indemnity. I know enough for that. It's a trick to catch
us, but, thank God, we cannot be caught.”

“Yet I think Ralph ought to know; that is, if we can tell him,” said
Rotha. She was still clinging to the rannel-tree over the ingle. Her
face, which had been flushed, was now ashy pale, and her lips were
compressed.

“He would deliver himself up. I know him too well; I cannot doubt what
he would do,” said Willy.

“Still, I think he ought to know,” said Rotha. The girl was speaking
in a low tone, but with every accent of resolution.

“He would be denied the pardon if he obtained the indemnity. He would
be banished perhaps for years.”

“Still, I think he ought to know.” Rotha spoke calmly and slowly, but
with every evidence of suppressed emotion.

“My dear Rotha,” said Willy in a peevish tone, “I understand this
matter better than you think for, and I know my brother better than
you can know him. There would be no pardon, I tell you. Ralph would be
banished.”

“Let us not drive them to worse destruction,” said Rotha.

“And what _could_ be worse?” said Willy, rising and walking aimlessly
across the room. “They might turn us from this shelter, true; they
might leave us nothing but charity or beggary, that is sure enough. Is
this worse than banishment? Worse! Nothing can be worse--”

“Yes, but something _can_ be worse,” said the girl firmly, never
shifting the fixed determination of her gaze from the spot whence the
constables had disappeared. “Willy, there _is_ worse to come of this
business, and Ralph should be told of it if we can tell him.”

“You don't know my brother,” repeated Willy in a high tone of extreme
vexation. “He would be banished, I say.”

“And if so--” said Rotha.

“If so!” cried Willy, catching at her unfinished words,--“if so we
should purchase our privilege of not being kicked out of this place at
the price of my brother's liberty. Can you be so mean of soul, Rotha?”

“Your resolve is a noble one, but you do me much wrong,” said Rotha
with more spirit than before.

“Nay, then,” said Willy, assuming a tone of some anger, not unmixed
with a trace of reproach, “I see how it is. I know now what you'd have
me to do. You'd keep me from exasperating these bloodhounds to further
destruction in the hope of saving these pitiful properties to us, and
perchance to our children. But with what relish could I enjoy them if
bought at such a price? Do you think of that? And do you think of the
curse that would hang on them--every stone and every coin--for us and
for our children, and our children's children? Heaven forgive me, but
I was beginning to doubt if one who could feel so concerning these
things were worthy to bear the name that goes along with them.”

“Nay, sir, but if it's a rue-bargain it is easily mended,” said the
girl, her eyes aflame and her figure quivering and erect.

Willy scarcely waited for her response. Turning hurriedly about, he
hastened out of the house.

“It is a noble resolve,” Rotha said to herself when left alone; “and
it makes up for a worse offence. Yes, such self-sacrifice merits a
deeper forgiveness than it is mine to offer. He deserves my pardon.
And he shall have it, such as it is. But what he said was cruel
indeed--indeed it was.”

The girl walked to the neuk window and put her hand on the old wheel.
The tears were creeping up into the eyes that looked vacantly towards
the south.

“Very, very cruel; but then he was angry. The men had angered him. He
was sore put about. Poor Willy, he suffers much. Yet it was cruel; it
_was_ cruel, indeed it was.”

Rotha walked across the kitchen and again took hold of the
rannel-tree. It was as though her tempest-tossed soul were traversing
afresh every incident of the scenes that had just before been enacted
on that spot where now she stood alone.

Alone! the burden of a new grief was with her. To be suspected of
selfish motives when nothing but sacrifice had been in her heart, that
was hard to bear. To be suspected of such motives by that man, of all
others, who should have looked into her heart and seen what lay there,
that was yet harder. “Willy's sore put about, poor lad,” she told
herself again; but close behind this soothing reflection crept the
biting memory, “It was cruel, what he said; indeed it was.”

The girl tried to shake off the distress which the last incident had
perhaps chiefly occasioned. It was natural that her own little sorrow
should be uppermost, but the heart that held it was too deep to hold
her personal sorrow only.

Rotha stepped into the room adjoining, which for her convenience, as
well as that of the invalid, had been made the bedroom of Mrs. Ray.
Placid and even radiant in its peacefulness lay the face of Ralph's
mother. There was not even visible at this moment the troubled
expression which, to Rotha's mind, denoted the baffled effort to say,
“God bless you!” Thank God, she at least was unconscious of what had
happened and was still happening! It was with the thought of her
alone--the weak, unconscious sufferer, near to death--that Rotha had
said that worse might occur. Such an eviction from house and home
might bring death yet nearer. To be turned into the road, without
shelter--whether justly or unjustly, what could it matter? --this
would be death itself to the poor creature that lay here.

No, it could not, it should not happen, if she had power to prevent
it.

Rotha reached over the bed and put her arms about the head of the
invalid and fervently kissed the placid face. Then the girl's fair
head, with its own young face already ploughed deep with labor and
sorrow, fell on to the pillow, and rested there, while the silent
tears coursed down her cheeks.

“Not if I can prevent it,” she whispered to the deaf ears. But in the
midst of her thought for another, and that other Willy's mother as
well as Ralph's, like a poisonous serpent crept up the memory of
Willy's bitter reproach. “It was cruel, very cruel.”

In the agony of her heart the girl's soul turned one way only, and
that was towards him whose absence had occasioned this latest trouble.
“Ralph! Ralph!” she cried, and the tears that had left her eyes came
again in her voice.

But perhaps, after all, Willy was right. To be turned into the road
would not mean that this poor sufferer should die of the cold of the
hard winter. There were tender hearts round about, and shelter would
be found for her. Yet, no! it was Ralph's concernment, and what right
had they to take charity for his mother without his knowledge? Ralph
ought to be told, if they could tell him. Yes, he _must_ be told.

Having come to a settled resolution on this point, Rotha rose up from
the bed, and, brushing her tangled hair from her forehead, walked back
into the kitchen. Standing where she had stood while the constables
were there, she enacted every incident and heard every syllable
afresh.

There could be no longer any doubt that Ralph should know what had
already happened and what further was threatened. Yet who was to tell
him, and how was he to be told? It was useless to approach Willy in
his present determination rather to suffer eviction than to do Ralph
the injury of leading, or seeming to lead, to his apprehension.

“That was a noble purpose, but it was wrong,” thought Rotha, and it
never occurred to her to make terms with a mistake. “It was a noble
purpose,” she thought again; and when the memory of her own personal
grief crept up once more, she suppressed it with the reflection,
“Willy was sore tried, poor lad.”

Who was to tell Ralph, and how was he to be told? Who knew where he
had gone, or, knowing this, could go in search of him? Would that she
herself had been born a man; then she would have travelled the kingdom
over, but she would have found him. She was only a woman, however, and
her duty lay here--here in the little circle with Ralph's mother, and
in his house and his brother's. Who could go in search of Ralph?

At this moment of doubt, Sim walked into the courtyard of the
homestead. He had not been seen since the day of the parson's visit,
but, without giving sign of any consciousness that he had been away,
he now took up a spade and began to remove a drift of sleet that had
fallen during the previous night. Rotha's eyes brightened, and she
hastened to the door and hailed him.

“Father,” she said, when Sim had followed her into the house, “you
made a great journey for Ralph awhile ago; could you make another
now?”

“What has happened? Do they rype the country with yon warrant still?”
 asked Sim.

“Worse than that,” said Rotha. “If that were all, we could leave Ralph
to settle with them; they would never serve their warrant, never.”

“Worse; what's worse, lass?” said Sim, changing color.

“Outlawry,” said Rotha.

“What's that, girl?--what's outlawry?--nothing to do with--with--with
Wilson, has it?” said Sim, speaking beneath his breath, and in quick
and nervous accents.

“No, no: not that. It means that unless Ralph is delivered up within
fourteen days this place will be taken by the bailiffs of the
Sheriff.”

“And what of that?” said Sim. “Let them take it--better let them have
it than Ralph fall into their hands.”

“Father, poor Mistress Ray would be turned into the roads--they'd have
no pity, none.”

“I'll uphod thee that's true,” said Sim. “It staggers me.”

“We must find Ralph, and at once too,” said Rotha.

“Find him? He's gone, but Heaven knows where.”

“Father, if I were a man, I'd find him, God knows I would.”

“It's nigh about the worst as could have happened, it is,” said Sim.

“The worst will be to come if we do not find him.”

“But how? where? Following him will be the rule o' thumb,” said Sim.

“You said he took the road over the Raise,” said Rotha. “He'll not go
far, depend upon that. The horse has not been caught. Ralph is among
the mountains yet, take my word for it, father.”

“It's bad weather to trapes the fells, Rotha. The ground is all slush
and sladderment.”

“So it is, so it is; and you're grown weak, father. I'll go myself.
Liza Branthwaite will come here and fill my place.”

“No, no, I'll go; yes, that I will,” said Sim. Rotha's ardor of soul
had conquered her father's apprehension of failure.

“It's only for a fortnight at most, that's all,” added Sim.

“No more than that. If Ralph is not found in a fortnight, make your
way home.”

“But he shall be found, God helping me, he shall,” said Sim.

“He _will_ help you, father,” said Rotha, her eyes glistening with
tears.

“When should I start away?”

“To-morrow, at daybreak; that's as I could wish you,” said Rotha.

“To-morrow--Sunday? Let it be to-night. It will rain to-morrow, for it
rained on Friday. Let it be to-night, Rotha.”

“To-night, then,” said the girl, yielding to her father's
superstitious fears. Thrusting her hand deep into a pocket, she added,
“I have some money, not much, but it will find you lodgings for a
fortnight.”

“Never mind the money, girl,” said Sim; “give me the horse-wallet on
my back, with a bit of barley bread--and that will do.”

“You must take the money as well. These are cold, hard nights. Promise
me you'll lodge at the inns on the road; remember to keep yourself
strong, for it's your only chance of finding Ralph--promise me!”

“I give you my word, Rotha.”

“And now promise to say nothing of this to Willy,” said Rotha.

Sim did not reply, but a quick glance expressed more than words of the
certainty of secrecy in that regard.

“When you've crossed the Raise, follow on to Kendal,” said Rotha, “and
ask everywhere as you go. A fortnight to-day the men return; remember
that, and tell Ralph when you meet.”

“I fear he'll give himself up, I do,” said Sim ruefully, and still
half doubting his errand.

“That's for him to decide, and he knows best,” answered Rotha.
“To-night, after supper, be you at the end of the lonnin, and I'll
meet you there.”

Then Sim went out of the house.

       *       *       *       *       *

When Willy Ray left Rotha an hour ago it was with an overwhelming
sense of disappointment. Catching at an unfinished phrase, he had
jumped to a false conclusion as to her motives. He thought that he had
mistaken her character, and painful as it had been to him some days
ago to think that perhaps the girl had not loved him, the distress of
that moment was as nothing to the agony of this one, when he began to
suspect that perhaps he did not love her. Or if, indeed, he loved her,
how terrible it was to realize, as he thought he did but too vividly,
that she was unworthy of his love! Had she not wished to save the old
home at the cost of his brother's liberty? True, Ralph was _his_
brother, not _hers_, and perhaps it was too much to expect that she
should feel his present situation as deeply as he did. Yet he had
thought her a rich, large soul, as unselfish as pure. It was terrible
to feel that this had been an idle dream, a mere mockery of the poor
reality, and that his had been a vain fool's paradise.

Then to think that he was forever to be haunted by this idle dream; to
think that the shattered idol which he could no longer worship was to
live with him to the end, to get up and lie down with him, and stand
forever beside him!

Perhaps, after all, he had been too hard on the girl. Willy told
himself it had been wrong to expect so much of her. She was--he must
look the stern fact in the face--she was a country girl, and no more.
Then was she not also the daughter of Simeon Stagg?

Yes, the sunshine had been over her when he looked at her before, and
it had bathed her in a beauty that was not her own. That had not been
her fault, poor girl. He had been too hard on her. He would go and
make amends.

As Willy entered the house, Sim was coming out of it. They passed
without a word.

“Forgive me, Rotha,” said Willy, walking up to her and taking her
hand. “I spoke in haste and too harshly.”

Rotha let her hand lie in his, but made no reply. After his apology,
Willy would have extenuated his fault.

“You see, Rotha, you don't know my brother as well as I do, and hence
you could not foresee what would have happened if we had done what you
proposed.”

Still there was no response. Willy's words came more slowly as he
continued: “And it was wrong to suppose that whether Ralph were given
up or not they would leave us in this place, but it was natural that
you should think it a good thing to save this shelter.”

“I was thinking of your mother, Willy,” said Rotha, with her eyes on
the ground.

“My mother--true.” Willy had not thought of this before; that Rotha's
mind had been running on the possible dangers to his mother of the
threatened eviction had never occurred to him until now. He had been
wrong--entirely so. His impulse was to take the girl in his arms and
confess the injustice of his reflections; but he shrank from this at
the instant, and then his mind wriggled with apologies for his error.

“To spare mother the peril of being turned into the roads--that would
have been something; yes, much. Ralph himself must have chosen to do
that. But once in the clutches of those bloodhounds, and it might have
meant banishment for years, for life perhaps--aye, perhaps even death
itself.”

“And even so,” said Rotha, stepping back a pace and throwing up her
head, while her hands were clinched convulsively,--“and even so,” she
repeated. “Death comes to all; it will come to him among the rest, and
how could he die better? If he were a thousand times my brother, I
could give him up to such a death.”

“Rotha, my darling,” cried Willy, throwing his arms about her, “I am
ashamed. Forgive me if I said you were thinking of yourself. Look up,
my darling; give me but one look, and say you have pardoned me.”

Rotha had dropped her eyes, and the tears were now blinding them.

“I was a monster to think of it, Rotha; look in my face, my girl, and
say you forgive me.”

“I could have followed you over the world, Willy, and looked for no
better fortune. I could have trusted to you, and loved you, though we
had no covering but the skies above us.”

“Don't kill me with remorse, Rotha; don't heap coals of fire on my
head. Look up and smile but once, my darling.”

Rotha lifted her tear-dimmed eyes to the eyes of her lover, and Willy
stooped to kiss her trembling lips. At that instant an impulse took
hold of him which he was unable to resist, and words that he struggled
to suppress forced their own utterance.

“Great God!” he cried, and drew back his head with a quick recoil,
“how like your father you are!”




CHAPTER XXIV. TREASON OR MURDER.


The night was dark that followed. It had been a true Cumbrian day in
winter. The leaden sky that hung low and dense had been relieved only
by the white rolling mists that capped the fells and swept at
intervals down their brant and rugged sides. The air had not cleared
as the darkness came on. There was no moon. The stars could not
struggle through the vapor that lay beneath them. There was no wind.
It was a cold and silent night.

Rotha stood at the end of the lonnin, where the lane to Shoulthwaite
joined the pack-horse road. She was wrapped in a long woollen cloak
having a hood that fell deep over her face. Her father had parted from
her half an hour ago, and though the darkness had in a moment hidden
him from her sight, she had continued to stand on the spot at which he
had left her.

She was slight of figure and stronger of will than physique, but she
did not feel the cold. She was revolving the step she had taken, and
thinking how great an issue hung on the event. Sometimes she
mistrusted her judgment, and felt an impulse to run after her father
and bring him back. Then a more potent influence would prompt her to
start away and overtake him, yet only in order to bear his message the
quicker for her fleeter footsteps.

But no; Fate was in it: a power above herself seemed to dominate her
will. She must yield and obey. The thing was done.

The girl was turning about towards the house, when she heard footsteps
approaching her from the direction which her father had taken. She
could not help but pause, hardly knowing why, when the gaunt figure of
Mrs. Garth loomed large in the road beside her. Rotha would now have
hastened home, but the woman had recognized her in the darkness.

“How's all at Shoulth'et?” said Mrs. Garth in her blandest tones;
“rubbin' on as usual?”

Rotha answered with a civil commonplace, and turned to go. But Mrs.
Garth had stood, and the girl felt compelled to stand also.

“It's odd to see ye not at work, lass,” said the woman in a
conciliatory way; “ye're nigh almost always as thrang as Thorp wife,
tittyvating the house and what not.”

Again some commonplace from Rotha, and another step homewards.

“I've just been takin' a sup o' tea with laal 'Becca Rudd. It's early
to go home, but, as I says to my Joey, there's no place like it; and
nowther is there. It's like ye've found that yersel', lass, afore
this.”

There was an insinuating sneer in the tone in which Mrs. Garth uttered
her last words. Getting no response, she added,--

“And yer fadder, I reckon _he's_ found it out too, bein' so lang
beholden to others. I met the poor man on the road awhile ago.”

“It's cold and sappy, Mrs. Garth. Good night,” said Rotha.

“Poor man, he has to scrat now,” said Mrs. Garth, regardless of
Rotha's adieu. “I reckon he's none gone off for a spoag; he's none
gone for a jaunt.”

The woman was angry at Rotha's silence, and, failing to conciliate the
girl, she was determined to hold her by other means. Rotha perceived
the purpose, and wondered within herself why she did not go.

“But he's gone on a bootless errand, I tell ye,” continued Mrs. Garth.

“What errand?” It was impossible to resist the impulse to probe the
woman's meaning.

Mrs. Garth laughed. It was a cruel laugh, with a crow of triumph in
it.

“Yer waxin' apace, lass; I reckon ye think ye'll be amang the next
batch of weddiners,” said Mrs. Garth.

Rotha was not slow to see the connection of this scarcely relevant
observation. Did the woman know on what errand her father had set out?
Had she guessed it? And if so, what matter?

“I wish the errand had been mine instead,” said Rotha calmly. But it
was an unlucky remark.

“Like enough. Now, that's very like,” said Mrs. Garth with affected
sincerity. “Ye'll want to see him badly, lass; he's been lang away.
Weel, it's nought but nature. He's a very personable young man.
There's no sayin' aught against it. Yes, he's of the bettermer sort,
that way.”

Of what use was it to continue this idle gossip? Rotha was again
turning about, when Mrs. Garth added, half as comment and half as
question,--

“And likely ye've never had the scribe of a line from him sin' he
left. But he's no wanter; he'll never marry ye, lass, so ye need never
set heart on him.”

Rotha stepped close to the woman and looked into her face. What
wickedness was now brewing?

“Nay, saucer een,” said Mrs. Garth with a snirt, “art tryin' to
skiander me like yon saucy baggish, laal Liza?”

“Come, Mrs. Garth, let us understand one another,” said Rotha
solemnly. “What is it you wish to tell me? You said my father had gone
on a bootless errand. What do you know about it? Tell me, and don't
torment me, woman.”

“Nay, then, I've naught to say. Naught but that Ralph Ray is on the
stormy side of the hedge _this_ time.”

Mrs. Garth laughed again.

“He is in trouble, that is true; but what has he done to you that you
should be glad at his misfortunes?”

“Done? done?” said Mrs. Garth; “why--but we'll not talk of that, my
lass. Ask _him_ if ye'd know. Or mayhap ye'll ask yon shaffles, yer
father.”

What could the woman mean?

“Tak my word for it; never set heart on yon Ralph: he's a doomed man.
It's not for what he did at the wars that the redcoats trapes after
him. It's worse nor that--a lang way war' nor that.”

“What is it, woman, that you would tell me? Be fair and plain with
me,” cried the girl; and the words were scarcely spoken when she
despised herself for regarding the matter so seriously.

But Mrs. Garth leaned over to her with an ominous countenance, and
whispered, “There's murder in it, and that's war' nor war. May war'
never come among us, say I!” Rotha put her hands over her face, and
the next moment the woman shuffled on.

It was out at length.

Rotha staggered back to the house. The farm people had taken supper,
and were lounging in various attitudes of repose on the skemmel in the
kitchen.

The girl's duties were finished for the day, and she went up to her
own room. She had no light, and, without undressing, she threw herself
on the bed. But no rest came to her. Hour after hour she tossed about,
devising reason on reason for disbelieving the woman's word. But
apprehension compelled conviction.

Mrs. Garth had forewarned them of the earlier danger, and she might be
but too well informed concerning this later one.

Rotha rejected from the first all idea of Ralph being guilty of the
crime in question. She knew nothing of the facts, but her heart
instantly repudiated the allegation. Perhaps the crime was something
that had occurred at the wars six years ago. It could hardly be the
same that still hung over their own Wythburn. That last dread mystery
was as mysterious as ever. Ralph had said that her father was innocent
of it, and she knew in her heart that he must be so. But what was it
that he had said? “Do you _know_ it was not father?” she had asked;
and he had answered, “I _know_ it was not.” Did he mean that he
himself--

The air of her room felt stifling on that winter's night. Her brow was
hot and throbbing, and her lips were parched and feverish. Rising, she
threw open the window, and waves of the cold mountain vapor rolled in
upon her.

That was a lie which had tried a moment ago to steal into her mind--a
cruel, shameless lie. Ralph was as innocent of murder as she was. No
purer soul ever lived on earth; God knew it was the truth.

Hark! what cry was that which was borne to her through the silent
night? Was it not a horse's neigh?

Rotha shuddered, and leaned out of the window. It was gone. The reign
of silence was unbroken. Perhaps it had been a fancy. Yet she thought
it was the whinny of a horse she knew.

Rotha pulled back the sash and returned to her bed. How long and heavy
were the hours till morning! Would the daylight never dawn? or was the
blackness that rested in her own heart to lie forever over all the
earth?

But it came at last--the fair and gracious morning of another day came
to Rotha even as it always has come to the weary watcher, even as it
always will come to the heartsore and heavy-laden, however long and
black the night.

The girl rose at daybreak, and then she began to review the late turn
of events from a practical standpoint.

Assuming the woman's word to be true, in what respect was the prospect
different for Mrs. Garth's disclosure? Rotha had to confess to herself
that it was widely different. When she told Willy that she could give
up Ralph, were he a thousand times her brother, to such a death of
sacrifice as he had pictured, she had not conceived of a death that
would be the penalty of murder. That Ralph would be innocent of the
crime could not lessen the horror of such an end. Then there was the
certainty that conviction on such a charge would include the seizure
of the property. Rotha dwelt but little on the chances of an innocent
man's acquittal. The law was to her uninformed mind not an agent of
justice, but an instrument of punishment, and to be apprehended was to
be condemned.

Ralph must be kept out of the grip of the law. Yes, that was beyond
question. Whether the woman's words were true or false, the issues
were now too serious to be played with.

She had sent her father in pursuit of Ralph, and the effect of what he
would tell of the forthcoming eviction might influence Ralph to adopt
a course that would be imprudent, even dangerous--nay, even fatal, in
the light of the more recent disclosure.

What had she done? God alone could say what would come of it.

But perhaps her father could still be overtaken and brought back. Yet
who was to do it? She herself was a woman, doomed as such to sit at
her poor little wheel, to lie here like an old mastiff or its weak
tottering whelp, while Ralph was walking--perhaps at her bidding--to
his death.

She would tell Willy, and urge him to go in pursuit of Sim. Yet, no,
that was not possible. She would have to confess that she had acted
against his wish, and that he had been right while she had been wrong.
Even that humiliation was as nothing in the face of the disaster that
she foresaw: but Willy and Sim!--Rotha shuddered as she reflected how
little the two names even could go together.

The morning was growing apace, and still Rotha's perplexity increased.
She went downstairs and made breakfast with an absent mind.

The farm people came and went; they spoke, and she answered; but all
was as a dream, except only the one grim reality that lay on her mind.

She was being driven to despair. It was far on towards midday, and she
was alone; still no answer came to her question. She threw herself on
the settle, and buried her face in her hands. She was in too much
agony to weep. What had she done? What could she do?

When she lifted her eyes, Liza Branthwaite was beside her, looking
amazed and even frightened.

“What has happened, lass?” said Liza fearfully.

Then Rotha, having no other heart to trust with her haunting secret,
confided it to this simple girl.

“And what can I do?” she added in a last word.

During the narration, Liza had been kneeling, with her arms in her
friend's lap. Jumping up when Rotha had ceased, she cried, in reply to
the last inquiry, “I know. I'll just slip away to Robbie. He shall be
off and fetch your father back.”

“Robbie?” said Rotha, looking astonished.

“Never fear, _I'll_ manage _him_. And now, cheer up, my lass; cheer
up.”

In another moment Liza was running at her utmost speed down the
lonnin.




CHAPTER XXV. LIZA'S DEVICE.


When she reached the road, the little woman turned towards Wythburn.
Never pausing for an instant, she ran on and on, passing sundry groups
of the country folks, and rarely waiting to exchange more than the
scant civilities of a hasty greeting.

It was Sunday morning, and through the dense atmosphere that preceded
rain came the sound of the bells of the chapel on the Raise, which
rang for morning service.

“What's come over little Liza?” said a young dalesman, who, in the
solemnity of Sunday apparel, was wending his way thither, as the
little woman flew past him, “tearing,” as he said, “like a crazy
thing.”

“Some barn to be christened afore the service, Liza?” called another
young dalesman after her, with the memory of the girl's enjoyment of a
similar ceremony not long before.

Liza heeded neither the questions nor the banter. Her destination was
certainly not the church, but she ran with greater speed in that
direction than the love of the Reverend Nicholas's ministrations had
yet prompted her to compass.

The village was reached at length, and her father's house was near at
hand; but the girl ran on, without stopping to exchange a word with
her sententious parent, who stood in the porch, pipe in hand, and clad
in those “Cheppel Sunday” garments with which, we fear, the sanctuary
was rarely graced.

“Why, theer's Liza,” said Matthew, turning his head into the house to
speak to his wife, who sat within; “flying ower the road like a mad
greyhound.”

Mrs. Branthwaite had been peeling apples towards the family's one
great dinner in the week. Putting down the bowl which contained them,
she stepped to the door and looked after her daughter's vanishing
figure.

“Sure enough, it is,” she said. “Whatever's amiss? The lass went over
to the Moss. Why, she stopping, isn't she?” “Ey, at the Lion,”
 answered Mattha. “I reckon there's summat wrang agen with that Robbie.
I'll just slip away and see.”

Panting and heated on this winter's day, red up to the roots of the
hair and down to the nape of the neck, Liza had come to a full pause
at the door of the village inn. It was not a false instinct that had
led the girl to choose this destination. Sunday as it was, the young
man whom she sought was there, and, morning though it might be, he was
already in that condition of partial inebriation which Liza had
recognized as the sign of a facetious mood.

Opening the door with a disdainful push, compounded partly of her
contempt for the place and partly of the irritation occasioned by the
events that had brought her to the degradation of calling there, Liza
cried out, as well as she could in her present breathless condition,--

“Robbie, come your ways out of this.”

The gentleman addressed was at the moment lying in a somewhat
undignified position on the floor. Half sprawling, half resting on one
knee, Robbie was surprised in the midst of an amusement of which the
perky little body whom he claimed as his sweetheart had previously
expressed her high disdain. This consisted of a hopeless endeavor to
make a lame dog dance. The animal in question was no other than 'Becca
Rudd's Dash, a piece of nomenclature which can only be described as
the wildest and most satirical misnomer. Liza had not been too severe
on Dash's physical infirmities when she described him as lame on one
of his hind legs, for both those members were so effectually out of
joint as to render locomotion of the simplest kind a difficulty
attended by violent oscillation. This was probably the circumstance
that had recommended Dash as the object of Robbie's half-drunken
pastime; and after a fruitless half-hour's exercise the tractable
little creature, with a woeful expression of face, was at length
poised on its hindmost parts just as Liza pushed open the door and
called to its instructor.

The new arrival interrupted the course of tuition, and Dash availed
himself of his opportunity to resume the normal functions of his front
paws. At this the reclining tutor looked up from his place on the
floor with a countenance more of sorrow than of anger, and said, in a
tone that told how deeply he was grieved, “_There_, lass, see how
you've spoilt it!”

“Get up, you daft-head! Whatever are you mufflin' about, you silly
one, lying down there with the dogs and the fleas?”

Liza still stood in the doorway with an august severity of pose that
would have befitted Cassandra at the porch. Her unsparing tirade had
provoked an outburst of laughter, but not from Robbie. There were two
other occupants of the parlor--Reuben Thwaite, who had never been
numbered among the regenerate, and had always spent his Sunday
mornings in this place and fashion; and little Monsey Laman, whose
duty as schoolmaster usually embraced that of sexton, bell-ringer, and
pew-opener combined, but who had escaped his clerical offices on this
Sabbath morning by some plea of indisposition which, as was eventually
perceived, would only give way before liberal doses of the medicine
kept at the sign of the Red Lion.

The laughter of these worthies did not commend itself to Liza's
sympathies, for, turning hotly upon them, she said, “And you're worse
nor he is, you old sypers.”

“Liza, Liza,” cried Robbie, raising his forefinger in an attitude of
remonstrance, which he had just previously been practising on the
unhappy Dash,--“Liza, think what it is to call this reverend clerk and
sexton and curate a _toper!_”

“And so he is; he's like yourself, he's only half-baked, the half
thick.”

“Now--now--now, Liza!” cried Robbie, raising himself on his haunches
the better to give effect to his purpose of playing the part of
peacemaker and restraining the ardor of his outspoken little friend.

“Come your ways out, I say,” said Liza, not waiting for the admonition
that was hanging large on the lips of the blear-eyed philosopher on
the floor.

“Come your ways,” she repeated; “I would be solid and solemn with
you.”

Robbie was at this instant struggling to regain possession of the
itinerant Dash, who, perceiving a means of escape, was hobbling his
way to the door.

“Wait a minute,” said Robbie, having captured the runaway,--“wait a
minute, Liza, and Dash will show you how to dance like Mother Garth.”

“Shaf on Dash!” said Liza, taking a step or two into the room and
securing to that animal his emancipation by giving him a smack that
knocked him out of Robbie's hands. “Do you think I've come here to see
your tipsy games?”

Robbie responded to this inquiry by asking with provoking good nature
if she had not rather come to give him a token of her love.

“Give us a kiss, lass,” he said, getting up to his feet and extending
his arms to help himself.

Liza gave him something instead, but it produced a somewhat louder and
smarter percussion.

“What a whang over the lug she brong him!” said Reuben, turning to the
schoolmaster.

“I reckon it's mair wind ner wool, like clippin' a swine,” said
Matthew Branthwaite, who entered the inn at this juncture.

Robbie's good humor was as radiant as ever. “A kiss for a blow,” he
said, laughing and struggling with the little woman. “It's a Christian
virtue, eh, father?”

“Ye'll not get many of them, at that rate,” answered Mattha, less than
half pleased at an event which he could not comprehend. “It's slow
wark suppin' buttermilk with a pitchfork.”

“Will you _never_ be solid with me?” cried Liza, with extreme vexation
pictured on every feature as her scapegrace sweetheart tried to
imprison her hands in order to kiss her. “I tell you--” and then there
was some momentary whispering between them, which seemed to have the
effect of sobering Robbie in an instant. His exuberant vivacity gave
place to a look of the utmost solemnity, not unmixed with a painful
expression as of one who was struggling hard to gather together his
scattered wits.

“They'll only have another to take once they catch _him_,” said Robbie
in an altered tone, as he drew his hand hard across his eyes.

There was some further whispering, and then the two went outside.
Returning to the door, Liza hailed her father, who joined them on the
causeway in front of the inn.

Robbie was another man. Of his reckless abandonment of spirit no trace
was left.

Mattha was told of the visit of the constables to Shoulthwaite, and of
Sim's despatch in search of Ralph.

“He'll be off for Carlisle,” said Robbie, standing square on his legs,
and tugging with his cap off at the hair at the back of his head.

“Like eneuf,” answered Mattha, “and likely that's the safest place for
him. It's best to sit near the fire when the chimney smokes, thoo
knows.”

“He'll none go for safety, father,” answered Robbie; and turning to
Liza, he added, “But what was it you said about Mother Garth?”

“The old witch-wife said that Ralph was wanted for murder,” replied
the girl.

“It's a lie,” said Robbie vehemently.

“I'll uphod thee there,” said Mattha; “but whatever's to be done?”

“Why, Robbie must go and fetch Sim back,” said Liza eagerly.

“The lass is right,” said Robbie; “I'll be off.” And the young man
swung on his heel as though about to carry out his purpose on the
instant.

“Stop, stop,” said Mattha; “I reckon the laal tailor's got farther ner
the next cause'y post. You must come and tak a bite of dinner and set
away with summat in yer pocket.”

“Hang the pocket! I must be off,” said Robbie. But the old man took
him too firmly by the arm to allow of his escape without deliberate
rudeness. They turned and walked towards the weaver's cottage.

“What a maizelt fool I've been to spend my days and nights in this
hole!” said Robbie, tipping his finger over his shoulder towards the
Red Lion, from which they were walking.

“I've oft telt thee so,” said Mattha, not fearing the character of a
Job's comforter.

“And while this bad work has been afoot too,” added Robbie, with a
penitent drop of the head.

They had a tributary of the Wyth River to pass on the way to Mattha's
house. When they came up to it, Robbie cried, “Hold a minute!” Then
running to the bank of the stream, he dropt on to his knees, and
before his companions could prevent him he had pulled off his cap and
plunged his head twice or thrice in the water.

“What, man!” said Mattha, “ye'd want mair ner the strength of men and
pitchforks to stand again the like of that. Why, the water is as
biting as a stepmother welcome on a winter's mornin' same as this.”

“It's done me a power of good though,” said Robbie shaking his wet
hair, and then drying it with a handkerchief which Liza had handed him
for the purpose. “I'm a stone for strength,” added Robbie, but rising
to his feet he slipped and fell.

“Then didsta nivver hear that a tum'lan stone gedders na moss,” said
Mattha.

The jest was untimely, and the three walked on in silence. Once at the
house the dinner was soon over, and not even Mrs. Branthwaite's
homely, if hesitating, importunity could prevail with Robbie to make a
substantial meal.

“Come, lad,” said Matthew, “you've had but a stepmother bit.”

“I've had more than I've eaten at one meal for nigh a month--more than
I've taken since that thing happened on the fell,” answered Robbie,
rising from the table, strapping his long coat tightly about him with
his belt, and tying cords about the wide flanges of his big boots.

“Mattha will sett thee on the road, Robbie,” said Mrs. Branthwaite.

“Nay, nay; I reckon, I'd be scarce welcome. Mayhap the lad has
welcomer company.”

This was said in an insinuating tone, and with a knowing inclination
of the head towards Liza, whose back was turned while she stole away
to the door.

“Nay, now, but nobody shall sett me,” said Robbie, “for I must fly
over the dikes like a racehorse.”

“Ye've certainly got a lang stroke o' the grund, Robbie.”

Robbie laughed, waved his hand to the old people, who still sat at
dinner, and made his way outside.

Liza was there, looking curiously abashed, as though she felt at the
moment prompted to an impulse of generosity of which she had cause to
be ashamed.

“Gi'e us a kiss, now, my lass,” whispered Robbie, who came behind her
and put his arm about her waist.

There was a hearty smacking sound.

“What's that?” cried Mattha from within; “I thought it might be the
sneck of a gate.”




CHAPTER XXVI. “FOOL, DO NOT FLATTER.”


When Mrs. Garth reached home, after her interview with Rotha in the
road, there was a velvety softness in her manner as of one who had a
sense of smooth satisfaction with herself and her surroundings.

The blacksmith, who was working at a little bench which he had set up
in the kitchen, was also in a mood of more than usual cheerfulness.

“Ey, he's caught--as good as caught,” said Mrs. Garth.

Her son laughed, but there was the note of forced merriment in his
voice.

“Where do they say he is--Lancaster?”

“That's it, not a doubt on't.”

“Were they sure of him--the man at Lancaster?”

“No, but _I_ were when they telt me what mak of man it was.”

The blacksmith laughed again over a chisel which he was tempering.

“It's nothing to me, is it, mother?”

“Nowt in the warld, Joey, ma lad.”

“They are after him for a traitor, but I cannot see as it's anything
to me what they do with him when they catch hod on him; it's nothing
to me, is it, mother?”

“Nowt.”

Garth chuckled audibly. Then in a low tone he added,--

“Nor nothing to me what comes of his kin afterwards.”

He paused in his work; his manner changed; he turned to where Mrs.
Garth was coiled up before the fire.

“Had _he_ any kin, mother?”

Mrs. Garth glanced quickly up at her son.

“A brother, na mair.”

“What sort of a man, mother?”

“The spit of hissel'.”

“Seen anything of him?”

“Not for twenty year.”

“Nor want to neither?”

Mrs. Garth curled her lip.




CHAPTER XXVII. RALPH AT LANCASTER.


The night of the day on which the officers of the Sheriff's court of
Carlisle visited Shoulthwaite, the night of Simeon Stagg's departure
from Wythburn in pursuit of Ralph, the night of Rotha's sorrow and her
soul's travail in that solitary house among the mountains, was a night
of gayety and festival in the illuminated streets of old Lancaster.
The morning had been wet and chill, but the rain-clouds swept
northward as the day wore on, and at sundown the red bars belted the
leaden sky that lay to the west of the towers of the gray castle on
the hill.

A proclamation by the King had to be read that day, and the ancient
city had done all that could be done under many depressing conditions
to receive the royal message with fitting honors. Flags that had lain
long furled, floated from parapet and pediment, from window and
balcony, from tower and turret. Doors were thrown open that had not
always swung wide on their hinges, and open house was kept in many
quarters.

Towards noon a man mounted the steps in the Market Place, and read
this first of the King's proclamations and nailed it to the Cross.

A company of red-coated soldiers were marched from the Castle Hill to
the hill on the southwest, which had been thrown up six years before
by the russet-coated soldiery who had attacked and seized the castle.
Then they were marched back and disbanded for the night.

When darkness fell over highway and byway, fires were lit down the
middle of the narrow streets, and they sent up wide flakes of light
that brightened the fronts of the half-timbered houses on either side,
and shot a red glow into the sky, where the square walls of the
Dungeon Tower stood out against dark rolling clouds. Little knots of
people were at every corner, and groups of the baser sort were
gathered about every fire. Gossip and laughter and the click of the
drinking-horn fell everywhere on the ear. But the night was still
young, and order as yet prevailed.

The Market Place was the scene of highest activity. Numbers of men and
boys sat and stood on the steps of the Cross, discussing the
proclamation that had been read there. Now and again some youth of
more scholarship than the rest held a link to the paper, and lisped
and stammered through its bewildering sentences for the benefit of a
circle of listeners who craned their necks to hear.

The proclamation was against public vice and immorality of various
sorts which were unpunishable by law. It set forth that there were
many persons who had no method of expressing their allegiance to their
Sovereign but that of drinking his health, and others who had so
little regard for morality and religion as to have no respect for the
virtue of the female sex.

The loyaly of the Lancasterians might be unimpeachable, but their
amusement at the proclamation was equally beyond question.

“That from Charles Stuart!” said one, with a laugh; and he added, with
more familiarity of affection for his King than reverence for his
august state, “What a sly dog he is, to be sure!”

“Who is that big man in the long coat?” said another, who had not
participated in the banter of his companions on the Puritanical
devices of Charles and his cronies. He was jerking his head aside to
where a man whom we have known in other scenes was pushing his way
through the crowd.

“Don't know; no one knows, seemingly,” answered the politician whose
penetration had solved the mystery of the proclamation against vice
and all loose livers.

“He's been in Lancaster this more nor a week, hasn't he?”

“Believe he has; and so has the little withered fellow that haunts him
like his shadow. Don't seem over-welcome company, so far as I can
see.”

“Where's the little one now?”

“I reckon he's nigh about somewhere.”

Ralph Ray borrowed a link from a boy who was near, and stood before
the paper that was posted upon the Cross. Just then a short,
pale-faced, elderly man, with quick eyes beneath shaggy brows, elbowed
his way between the people and came up close at Ray's side.

It was clearly not his object to read the proclamation, for after a
glance at it his eyes were turned towards Ralph's face. If he had
hoped to catch the light of an expression there he was disappointed.
Ralph read the proclamation without changing a muscle of his
countenance. He was returning the link to its owner, when the little
man reached out his long finger, and, touching the paper as it hung on
the Cross, looked up into Ralph's eyes with a cunning leer, and said,
“Unco' gude, eh?”

Ralph made no reply. As though determined to draw him into converse,
the little man shrugged his shoulders, and added, “Clarendon's work
that, eh?”

There was still no response, so the speaker continued: “It'll deceive
none. It's lang sin' the like of it stood true in England--worse
luck!”

The dialect in which this was spoken was of that mongrel sort which in
these troublous days was sometimes adopted by degenerate Scotchmen
who, living in England, had reasons of their own for desiring to
conceal their nationality.

“I'll wager it's all a joke,” added the speaker, dropping his voice,
but still addressing Ralph, and ignoring the people that stood around
them.

Ralph turned about, and, giving but a glance to his interlocutor,
passed out of the crowd without a word.

The little man remained a moment or two behind, and then slunk down
the street in the direction which Ralph had taken.

There was to be a performance at the theatre that night, and already
the people had begun to troop towards St. Leonard's Gate. Chairs were
being carried down the causeway, with link-boys walking in front of
them, and coaches were winding their way among the fires in the
streets. Scarlet cloaks were mingling with the gray jerkins of the
townspeople, and swords were here and there clanking on the pavement.

The theatre was a rude wooden structure that stood near the banks of
the river, on a vacant plot of ground that bordered the city on the
east and skirted the fields. It had a gallery that sloped upwards from
the pit, and the more conspicuous seats in it were draped in crimson
cloth. The stage, which went out as a square chamber from one side of
the circular auditorium, was lighted by lamps that hung above the
heads of the actors.

Before the performance began every seat was filled. The men hailed
their friends from opposite sides of the house, and laughed and
chaffed, and sang snatches of Royalist and other ballads. The women,
who for the most part wore veils or masks, whispered together, flirted
their fans, and returned without reserve the salutations that were
offered them.

Ralph Ray, who was there, stood at the back of the pit, and close at
his left was the sinister little man who had earlier in the evening
been described as his shadow. Their bearing towards each other was the
same as had been observed at the Cross: the one constantly
interrogating in a low voice; the other answering with a steadfast
glance or not at all.

When the curtain rose, a little butterfly creature, in the
blue-and-scarlet costume of a man,--all frills and fluffs and lace and
linen,--came forward, with many trips and skips and grimaces, and
pronounced a prologue, which consisted of a panegyric on the King and
his government in their relations to the stage.

It was not very pointed, conclusive, or emphatic, but it was rewarded
with applause, which rose to a general outburst of delighted approval
when the rigor of the “late usurpers” was gibbeted in the following
fashion:--

     Affrighted with the shadow of their rage,
     They broke the mirror of the times, the Stage;
     The Stage against them still maintained the war,
     When they debauched the Pulpit and the Bar.

“Pretty times, forsooth, of which one of that breed could be the
mirror,” whispered the little man at Ralph's elbow.

The play forthwith proceeded, and proved to be the attempt of a
gentleman of fashion to compromise the honor of a lady of the Court
whom he had mistaken for a courtesan. The audience laughed at every
indelicate artifice of the libertine, and screamed when the demure
maiden let fall certain remarks which bore a double significance.
Finally, when the lady declared her interest in a cage of birds, and
the gentleman drew from his pocket a purse of guineas, and, shaking
them before her face, asked if those were the dicky-birds she wished
for, the enjoyment of the audience passed all bounds of ordinary
expression. The men in lace and linen lay back in their seats to give
vent to loud guffaws, and the women flirted their fans coquettishly
before their eyes, or used them to tap the heads of their male
companions in mild and roguish remonstrance.

“Pity they didn't debauch the stage as well as the pulpit and bar, if
this is its condition inviolate,” whispered the little man again.

The intervals between the acts were occupied by part of the audience
in drinking from the bottles which they carried strapped about their
waists, and in singing snatches of songs. One broad-mouthed roysterer
on the ground proposed the King's health, and supported the toast by a
ballad in which “Great Charles, like Jehovah,” was described as
merciful and generous to the foes that would unking him and the vipers
that would sting him. The chorus to this loyal lyric was sung by the
“groundlings” with heartiness and unanimity:--

     Let none fear a fever,
       But take it off thus, boys;
     Let the King live forever,
      'Tis no matter for us, boys.

Ralph found the atmosphere stifling in this place, which was grown
noisome now to wellnigh every sense. He forced his way out through the
swaying bodies and swinging arms of the occupants of the pit. As he
did so he was conscious, though he did not turn his head, that close
behind him, in the opening which he made in the crowd, his inevitable
“Shadow” pursued him.

The air breathed free and fresh outside. Ralph walked from St.
Leonard's Gate by a back lane to the Dam Side. The river as well as
the old town was illuminated. Every boat bore lamps to the masthead.
Lamps, too, of many colors, hung downwards from the bridge, and were
reflected in their completed circle in the waters beneath them.

The night was growing apace, and the streets were thronged with
people, some laughing, some singing, some wrangling, and some
fighting. Every tavern and coffee-house, as Ralph went by, sent out
into the night its babel of voices. Loyal Lancasterians were within,
doing honor to the royal message of that day by observing the spirit
while violating the letter of it.

Ralph had walked up the Dam Side near to that point at which the Covel
Cross lies to the left, when a couple of drunken men came reeling out
of a tavern in front of him. Their dress denoted their profession and
rank. They were lieutenants of the regiment which had been newly
quartered at the castle. Both were drunk. One was capering about in a
hopeless effort to dance; the other was trolling out a stave of the
ballad that was just then being sung at the corner of every street:--

     The blood that he lost, as I suppose
       (Fa la la la),
     Caused fire to rise in Oliver's nose
       (Fa la la la).
     This ruling nose did bear such a sway,
     It cast such a heat and shining ray,
     That England scarce knew night from day
       (Fa la la la).

The singer who thus described Cromwell and his shame was interrupted
by a sudden attack of thirst, and forthwith applied the unfailing
antidote contained in a leathern bottle which he held in one hand.

Ralph stepped off the pavement to allow the singer the latitude his
condition required, when that person's companion pirouetted into his
breast, and went backwards with a smart rebound.

“What's this, stopping the way of a gentleman?” hiccuped the man,
bringing himself up with ludicrous effort to his full height, and
suspending his capering for the better support of his soldierly
dignity.

Then, stepping closer to Ralph, and peering into his face, he cried,
“Why, it's the man of mystery, as the sergeant calls him. Here, I say,
sir,” continued the drunken officer, drawing with difficulty the sword
that had dangled and clanked at his side; “you've got to tell us who
you are. Quick, what's your name?”

The man was flourishing his sword with as much apparent knowledge of
how to use it as if it had been a marlin-spike. Ralph pushed it aside
with a stout stick that he carried, and was passing on, when the
singing soldier came up and said, “Never mind his name; but whether he
be Presbyter Jack or Quaker George, he must drink to the health of the
King. Here,” he cried, filling a drinking-cup from the bottle in his
hand, “drink to King Charles and his glory!”

Ralph took the cup, and, pretending to raise it to his lips, cast its
contents by a quick gesture over his shoulder, where the liquor fell
full in the face of the Shadow, who had at that moment crept up behind
him. The soldiers were too drunk to perceive what he had done, and
permitted him to go by without further molestation. As he walked on he
heard from behind another stave of the ballad, which told how--

     This Oliver was of Huntingdon
       (Fa la la la),
     Born he was a brewer's son
       (Fa la la la),
     He soon forsook the dray and sling,
     And counted the brewhouse a petty thing
     Unto the stately throne of a king
       (Fa la la la).

“What did the great man himself say?” asked the Shadow, stepping up to
Ralph's side. “He said, 'I would rather have a plain, russet-coated
captain who knows what he fights for, and loves what he knows, than
what you call a gentleman.' And he was right, eh?”

“God knows,” said Ralph, and turned aside.

He had stopped to look into the middle of a small crowd that had
gathered about the corner of the Bridge Lane. A blind fiddler sat on a
stool there and played sprightly airs. His hearers consisted chiefly
of men and boys. But among them was one young girl in bright ribbons,
who was clearly an outcast of the streets. Despite her gay costume,
she had a wistful look in her dark eyes, as of one who was on the
point of breaking into tears.

The dance tunes suddenly came to an end, and were followed by the long
and solemn sweeps of a simple old hymn such as had been known in many
an English home for many an age. Gradually the music rose and fell,
and then gently, and before any were aware, a sweet, low, girlish
voice took up the burden and sang the words. It was the girl of the
streets who sang. Was it the memory of some village home that these
chords had awakened? Was it the vision of her younger and purer days
that came back to her amid the gayeties of this night--of the hamlet,
the church, the choir, and of herself singing there?

The hymn melted the hearts of many that stood around, and tears now
stood in the singer's downcast eyes.

       *       *       *       *       *

At that hour of that night, in the solitary homestead far north, among
the hills, what was Rotha's travail of soul?

       *       *       *       *       *

Ralph dropped his head, and felt something surging in his throat.

At the same instant a thick-lipped man with cruel eyes crushed through
the people to where the girl stood, and, taking her roughly by the
shoulder, pushed her away.

“Hand thy gab,” he said, between clinched teeth; “what's _thy_
business singing hymns in t'streets? Get along home to bed; that's
more in thy style, I reckon.”

The girl was stealing away covered with shame, when Ralph parted the
people that divided him from the man, and, coming in front of him,
laid one hand on his throat. Gasping for breath, the fellow would have
struggled to free himself, but Ralph held him like a vise.

“This is not the first time we have met; take care it shall be the
last.”

So saying, Ralph flung the man from him, and he fell like an infant at
his feet.

Gathering himself up with a look compounded equally of surprise and
hatred, the man said, “Nay, nay; do you think it'll be the last? don't
you fear it!”

Then he slunk out of the crowd, and it was observed that when he had
gained the opposite side of the street, the little, pale-faced elderly
person who had been known as Ralph's Shadow, had joined him.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Is it our man?”

“The same, for sure.”

“Then it must be done the day. We've delayed too long already.”




CHAPTER XXVIII. AFTER WORD COMES WEIRD.


I. When Ralph lay down in his bed that night in a coffee-house in China
Lane, there was no conviction more strongly impressed upon his mind
than that it was his instant duty to leave Lancaster. It was obvious
that he was watched, and that his presence in the old town had excited
suspicion. The man who had pestered him for many days with his
unwelcome society was clearly in league with the other man who had
insulted the girl. The latter rascal he knew of old for a declared and
bitter enemy. Probably the pair were only waiting for authority,
perhaps merely for the verification of some surmise, before securing
the aid of the constable to apprehend him. He must leave Lancaster,
and at once.

Ralph rose from his bed and dressed himself afresh. He strapped his
broad pack across his back, called his hostess, and paid his score.
“Must the gentleman start away at midnight?” Yes; a sudden call
compelled him. “Should she brew him a pot of hot ale?--the nights were
chill in winter.” Not to-night; he must leave without delay.

When Ralph walked through the streets of Lancaster that cold midnight,
it was with no certainty as to his destination. It was to be anywhere,
anywhere in this race for life. Any haven that promised solitude was
to be his city of refuge.

The streets were quiet now, and even the roystering tipplers had gone
off to their homes. For Ralph there was no home--only this wild hunt
from place to place, with no safety and rest.

His heavy tread and the echo of his footfall were at length all that
broke the stillness of the streets.

He walked southwards, and when he reached the turnpike he stood for a
moment and turned his eyes towards the north. The fires that had been
kindled were smouldering away, but even yet a red gleam lay across the
square towers of the castle on the hill.

The old town was now asleep. Thousands of souls lay slumbering there.

Ralph thought of those who slept in a home he knew, far, far north of
this town and those towers. What was his crime that he was banished
from them--perhaps forever? What was his crime before God or man? His
mother, his brother, Rotha--

Ralph struck his breast and turned about. No, it would not bear to be
thought about. _That_ dream, at least, was gone. Rotha was happy in
his brother's love, and as for himself--as for him--it was his
destiny, and he must bear it!

Yet what was life worth now that he should struggle like this to
preserve it?

Ralph returned to his old conviction--God's hand was on him. The idea,
morbid as it might be, brought him solace this time. Once more he
stopped, and turned his eyes afresh towards the north and the fifty
miles of darkness that lay between him and those he loved.

It was at that very moment of desolation that Rotha heard the neigh of
a horse as she leaned out of her open window.


II. “Aye, poor man, about Martinmas the Crown seized his freehold and all
his goods and chattels.”

“It will be sad news for him when he hears that his old mother and the
wife and children were turned into the road.”

“Well, well, I will say, treason or none, that John Rushton was as
good a subject as the loudest bagpipes of them all.”

Ralph was sitting at breakfast in a wayside inn when two Lancashire
yeomen entered and began to converse in these terms: “Aye, aye, and
the leaven of Puritanism is not to be crushed out by such measures.
But it's flat dishonesty, and nothing less. What did the proclamation
of '59 mean if it didn't promise pardon to every man that fought for
the Parliament, save such as were named as regicides?”

“Tut, man, it came to nought; the King returned without conditions;
and the men who fought against him are reckoned as guilty as those
that cut off his father's head.” “But the people will never uphold it.
The little leaven remains, and one day it will leaven the lump.”

“Tut, the people are all fools--except such as are knaves. See how
they're given up to drunkenness and vain pleasures. Hypocrisy and
libertinism are safe for a few years' reign. England is _Merry_
England, as they say, and she'll be merry at any cost.”

“Poor John, it will be a sad blow to him!”

Ralph had been an eager listener to the conversation between the
yeomen, who were clearly old Whigs and Parliamentarians.

“Pardon me, gentlemen,” he interrupted, “do you speak of John Rushton
of Aberleigh?”

“We do. As good a gentleman as lived in Lancashire.”

“That's true, but where was he when this disaster befell his
household?”

“God knows; he had fled from judgment and was outlawed.”

“And the Crown confiscated his estate, you say, and turned his family
into the road? What was the indictment--some trumpery subterfuge for
treason?”

“Like enough; but the indictment counts for nothing in these days;
it's the verdict that is everything, and that's settled beforehand.”

“True, true.”

“Did you know my neighbor John?”

“I did; we were comrades years ago.”

With these words, Ralph rose from his unfinished breakfast and walked
out of the house.

What mischief of the same sort might even now be brewing at Wythburn
in his absence? Should he return? That would be useless, and worse
than useless. What could he do?

The daring impulse suddenly possessed him to go on to London, secure
audience of the King himself, and plead for amnesty. Yes, that was all
that remained to him to do, and it should be done. His petition might
be spurned; his person might be seized, and he might be handed over to
judgment; but what of that? He was certain to be captured sooner or
later, and this sorry race for liberty and for life would be over at
length.


III. The same day Ralph Ray, still travelling on foot, had approached the
town of Preston. It was Sunday morning, but he perceived that smoke
like a black cloud overhung the houses and crept far up the steeples
and towers. Presently a tumultuous rabble came howling and hooting out
of the town. At the head of them, and apparently pursued by them, was
a man half clad, who turned about at every few yards, and, raising his
arm, predicted woe and desolation to the people he was leaving. He was
a Quaker preacher, and his presence in Preston was the occasion of
this disturbance.

“Oh, Preston,” he cried, “as the waters run when the floodgates are
up, so doth the visitation of God's love pass away from thee, oh,
Preston!”

“Get along with thee; thou righteous Crister,” said one of the crowd,
lifting a stick above his head. “Get along, or ye'll have Gervas
Bennett aback of ye again.”

“I shall never cease to cry aloud against deceit and vanities,”
 shrieked the preacher above the tumult. “You do profess a Sabbath, and
dress yourselves in fine apparel, and your women go with stretched
necks.”

“Tush, tush! Beat him, stone him!”

“Surely the serpent will bite without enchantment,” the preacher
replied, “and a babbler is no better. The lips of a fool will swallow
up himself.”

The church bells were beginning to ring in the town, and the sound
came across the fields and was heard even above the mocking laughter
of the crowd.

“You have your steeple-houses, too,” cried the preacher, “and the
bells of your gospel markets are even now a-ringing where your priests
and professors are selling their wares. But God dwells not in temples
made with hands. Oh, men of Preston, did I not prophesy that fire, and
famine, and plagues, and slaughter would come upon ye unless ye came
to the light with which Christ hath enlightened all men? And have ye
not the plague of the East at your doors already?”

“And who brought it, who brought it?” screamed more than one voice
from the crowd. “Who brought the plague to us from the East? Beat him,
beat him!” The mob, with many uplifted hands, swayed about the
preacher. “Your cities will be laid waste, the houses without man, and
the land be utterly desolate. And what will ye do, oh men of Preston,
in the day of visitation, and in the desolation which shall come from
far?”

The rabble had rushed past by this time, still hooting and howling at
the wild, fiery-eyed enthusiast at their head.

Ralph walked on to the town and speedily discovered the cause of the
black cloud which overhung it. An epidemic of an alarming nature had
broken out in various quarters, and fears were entertained that it was
none other than a great pestilence which had been brought to England
from the East.

Indescribably eerie was the look of Preston that Sunday morning. Men
and boys were bearing torches through the streets to disinfect them,
and it was the smoke from these torches that hung like a cloud above
the town. Through the thick yellow atmosphere the shapes of people
passing to and fro in the thoroughfares stood out large and black.


IV. Ralph had travelled thus far in the fixed determination of pushing on
to London, seeking audience of the King himself, and pleading for an
amnesty. But the resolution which had never failed him before began
now to waver. Surely there was more than his political offences
involved in the long series of disasters that had befallen his
household? He reflected that every link in that chain of evil seemed
to be coupled to the gyves that hung about his own wrists. Wilson's
life in Wythburn--his death--Sim's troubles--Rotha's sorrow--even his
father's fearful end, and the more fearful accident at the
funeral--then his mother's illness, nigh to death--how nigh to death
by this time God alone could tell him here--all, all, with this last
misery of his own banishment, seemed somehow to centre in himself.
Yes, yes, sin and its wages must be in this thing; but what sin, what
sin? What was the crime that cast its shadow over his life?

“As the waters run when the flood-gates are up,” said the preacher,
“so doth the visitation of God's love pass away from thee.”

Of what use, then, would be the amnesty of the King? Mockery of
mockeries! In a case like this only the Great King Himself could
proclaim a pardon. Ralph put his hands over his eyes as the vision
came back to him of a riderless horse flying with its dread burden
across the fells. No sepulture! It was the old Hebrew curse--the
punishment of the unpardonable sin.

He thought again of his stricken mother in the old home, and then of
the love which had gone from him like a dream of the night. Heaven had
willed it that where the heart of man yearned for love, somewhere in
the world there was a woman's heart yearning to respond. But the curse
came to some here and some there--the curse of an unrequitable
passion.

       *       *       *       *       *

The church bells were still ringing over the darkened town.

Rotha was happy in her love; Heaven be with her and bless her! As for
himself, it was a part of the curse that lay on him that her face
should haunt his dreams, that her voice should come to him in his
sleep, and that “Rotha, Rotha,” should rise in sobs to his lips in the
weary watches of the night.

Yes, it must be as he had thought--God's hand was on him. Destiny had
to work its own way. Why should he raise his feeble hands to prevent
it? The end would be the end, whenever and wherever it might come.
Why, then, should he stir?

Ralph had determined to go no farther. He would stay in Preston over
the night, and set out again for the north at daybreak. Was it despair
that possessed him? Even if so, he was stronger than before. Hope had
gone, and fear went with it.

Take heart, Ralph Ray, most unselfish and long-suffering of men. God's
hand is indeed upon you, but God Himself is at your right hand!


V. That day Ralph walked through the streets with a calmer mind. Towards
nightfall he stepped into a tavern and secured a bed. Then he went
into the parlor of the house and sat among the people gathered there,
and chatted pleasantly on the topics of the hour.

The governing spirit of the company was a little man who wore a suit
of braided black which seemed to indicate that he belonged to one of
the clerkly professions. He was addressed by the others as Lawyer
Lampitt, and was asked if he would be busy at the court house on the
following morning. “Yes,” he answered, with an air of consequence,
“there's the Quaker preacher to be tried for creating a disturbance.”

“Was he taken, then?” asked one.

“He's quiet enough now in the old tower,” said the lawyer, stretching
himself comfortably before the fire.

“I should have thought his tormentors were fitter occupants of his
cell,” said Ralph.

“Perhaps so, young man; I express no opinion.”

“There was scarce a man among them whose face would not have hanged
him,” continued Ralph.

“There again I offer no opinion,” said the lawyer, “but I'll tell you
an old theory of mine. It is that a murderer and a hero are all but
the same man.”

The company laughed. They were accustomed to these triumphs of logic,
and relished them. Every man braced himself up in his seat.

“Why, how's that, lawyer?” said a townsman who sat tailor-fashion on a
bench; he would hardly have been surprised if the lawyer had proved
beyond question that he swam swanlike among the Isles of Greece.

“I'll tell you a story,” said the gentleman addressed. “There was an
ancient family in Yorkshire, and the lord of the house was of a very
splenetive temper. One day in a fit of jealousy he killed his wife,
and put to death all of his children who were at home by throwing them
over the battlements of his castle. He had one remaining child, and it
was an infant, and was nursed at a farmhouse a mile away. He had set
out for the farm with an intent to destroy his only remaining child,
when a storm of thunder and lightning came on, and he stopped.”

“Thought it was a warning, I should say,” interrupted a listener.

“It awakened the compunctions of conscience, and he desisted from his
purpose.”

“Well?”

“What do you think he did next?”

“Cannot guess--drowned himself?”

“No, and this proves what I say, that a murderer and a hero are all
but one. He surrendered himself to justice, and stood mute at the bar,
and, in order to secure his estates to his surviving child, he had the
resolution to die under the dreadful punishment of _peine forte_.”

“What is that, lawyer?”

“Death by iron weights laid on the bare body until the life is crushed
out of it.”

“Dreadful! And did he secure his estates to his child by suffering
such a death?”

“He did. He stood mute at the bar, and let judgment go against him
without trial. It is all in black and white. The Crown cannot
confiscate a man's estate until he is tried and condemned.”

“What of an outlaw?” asked Ralph somewhat eagerly.

“A man's flight is equal to a plea of guilty.”

“I had a comrade once,” said Ralph with some tremor of voice; “he fled
from judgment and was outlawed, and his poor children were turned into
the road. Could he have kept his lands for his family by delivering
his body to that death you speak of?”

“He could. The law stands so to this day.”

“Think you, in any sudden case, a man could do as much _now?_”

“He _could_,” answered the lawyer; “but where's the man who _would?_
Only one who must die in any chance, and then none but a murderer, I
should say.”

“I don't know--I don't know that,” said Ralph, rising with
ill-concealed agitation, and stalking out of the room, without the
curtest leave-taking.


VI. On Tuesday, Ralph was walking through Kendal on his northward journey.
The day was young. Ralph meant to take a meal at the old coaching
house, the Woodman, in Kirkland, by the river Kent, and then push on
till nightfall.

The horn of the incoming coach fell on his ear, and the coach
itself--the Carlisle coach, laden with passengers from back to
front--swept into the courtyard of the inn at the moment he entered it
afoot.

There was a little commotion there. A group of the serving folk, the
maids in their caps, the ostlers bareheaded, and some occasional
stable people were gathered near the taproom door. The driver of the
coach got off his box and crushed into the middle of this company. His
passengers paused in their descent from the top to look over the heads
of those who were on the ground.

“Drunk, surely,” said one of these to another; “that proclamation was
not unnecessary.”

“Some poor straggler, sir; picked him up insensible and fetched him
along,” said one of the ostlers.

Ralph walked past the group to the threshold of the inn.

“Loosen his neckcloth!--here, take my brandy,” said a passenger.

“Came from the North, seemingly, sir. Looks weak from want and a long
journey.”

“From the North?” asked the coachman; “I'll give him a seat in the
coach to-night and take him home.”

Ralph stepped back and looked over some of the people.

A man was lying on the ground, his head in a woman's lap.

It was Simeon Stagg.




CHAPTER XXIX. ROBBIE'S QUEST BEGUN.


When Robbie Anderson left Wythburn, his principal and immediate
purpose was to overtake Simeon Stagg. It was of less consequence that
he should trace and discover Ralph Ray. Clearly it had been Ralph's
object on leaving home to keep out of reach of the authorities who
were in pursuit of him. But there was no saying what course a man such
as he might take in order to insure the safety of the people who were
dear to him, and to whom he was dear. The family at Shoulthwaite Moss
had been threatened with eviction. The ransom was Ralph's liberty. Sim
had been sent to say so. But a graver issue lay close behind. This
shadow of a great crime lay over Ralph's life. If Robbie could
overtake Sim before Sim had time to overtake Ralph, he might prevent a
terrible catastrophe. Even so fearless a man as Ralph was would surely
hesitate if he knew, though but on hearsay, that perhaps a horrible
accusation awaited him at Carlisle.

That accusation might be false--it must be false. Robbie believed he
could swear that it was a lie if he stood before the Throne of Grace.
But of what avail was the innocence of the accused in days when an
indictment was equal to a conviction!

Sim was an old man, or at least he was past his best. He was a frail
creature, unable to travel fast. There was little doubt in the mind of
the lusty young dalesman as he took his “lang stroke o' the ground”
 that before many hours had gone by Sim would be overtaken and brought
back.

It was Sunday morning when little Liza Branthwaite ferreted Robbie out
of the Red Lion, and it was no later than noon of the same day when
Robbie began his journey. During the first few miles he could discover
no trace of Sim. This troubled him a little, until he reflected that
it was late at night when Sim started away, and that consequently the
tailor would pass the little wayside villages unobserved. After nine
or ten miles had been covered, Robbie met with persons who had
encountered Sim. The accounts given of him were as painful as they
were in harmony with his character. Sim had shrunk from the
salutations of those who knew him, and avoided with equal timidity the
gaze of those by whom he was not known. The suspicion of being
everywhere suspected was with the poor outcast abroad as well as at
home.

Quickly as the darkness fell in on that Sunday in mid-winter, Robbie
had travelled many miles before the necessity occurred to him of
seeking lodgings for the night. He had intended to reach the little
town of Winander that day, and he had done so. It was late, however,
and after a frugal supper, Robbie went off to bed.

Early next day, Monday, the young dalesman set about inquiries among
the townspeople as to whether a man answering to the description which
he gave of Sim had been seen to pass through the town. Many persons
declared that they had seen such a one the day before, and some
insisted that he was still in Winander. An old fellow in a smock, who,
being obviously beyond all active labor, employed his time and
energies in the passive occupation of watching everybody from the
corner of a street, and in chatting with as many as had conversation
to spend on his superannuated garrulity, affirmed very positively that
he had talked with Sim as recently as an hour ago.

Right or wrong, this was evidence of Sim's whereabouts which Robbie
felt that he could not ignore. He must at least test its truthfulness
by walking through the streets and inquiring further. It would be idle
to travel on until this clew had been cleared up.

And so Robbie spent almost the whole day in what proved to be a
fruitless search. It was apparent that if Sim had been in Winander he
had left it on Sunday. Robbie reflected with vexation that it was now
the evening of Monday, and that he was farther behind the man of whom
he was in pursuit than he had been at starting from Wythburn.

In no very amiable mood Robbie set out afresh just as darkness was
coming on, and followed the road as far as the village of Staveley.
Here there was nothing more hopeful to do at a late hour on Monday
night than to seek for a bed and sleep. On Tuesday morning Robbie lost
no time in making inquiries, but he wasted several hours in
ascertaining particulars that were at all reliable and satisfactory.
No one appeared to have seen such a man as Sim, either to-day,
yesterday, or on Sunday.

Robbie was perplexed. He was in doubt if it might not be his best
course to turn back, when a happy inspiration occurred to him.

What had the people said of Sim's shyness and timidity? Why, it was as
clear as noonday that the poor little man would try to avoid the
villages by making a circuit of the fields about them.

With this conviction, Robbie set out again, intending to make no pause
in his next stage until he had reached Kendal. Upon approaching the
villages he looked about for the footpaths that might be expected to
describe short arcs around them; and, following one of these, he
passed a cottage that stood at a corner of a lane. He had made many
fruitless inquiries hitherto, and had received replies that had been
worse than valueless; but he could not resist the temptation to ask at
this house.

Walking round the cottage to where the door opened on the front
farthest from the lane, Robbie entered the open porch. His unfamiliar
footstep brought from an inner room an old woman with a brown and
wrinkled face, who curtsied, and, speaking in a meek voice, asked, or
seemed to ask, his pleasure.

“Your pardon, mistress,” said Robbie, “but mayhap you've seen a little
man with gray hair and a long beard going by?”

“Do you say a laal man?” asked the old woman.

“Ey, wrinkled and wizzent a bit?” said Robbie.

“Yes,” said the woman.

Robbie was uncertain as to what the affirmation implied. Taking it to
be a sort of request for a more definite description, he continued,--

“A blate and fearsome sort of a fellow, you know.”

“Yes,” repeated the woman, and then there was a pause.

Robbie, getting impatient of the delay, was turning on his heel with
scant civility, when the old woman said, “Are you seeking him for
aught that is good?”

“Why, ey, mother,” said Robbie, regaining his former position and his
accustomed geniality in an instant. “Do you know his name?” she asked.

“Sim--that's to say Sim Stagg. Don't you fear me, mother; I'm a friend
to Sim, take my word.”

“You're a good-like sort of a lad, I think,” said the old woman; “Sim
was here ower the night last night.”

“Where is he now?” said Robbie.

“He left me this morning at t' edge o' t' daylight. He axed for t'
coach to Lancaster, and I telt him it started frae the Woodman, in
Kirklands, and so he went off there.”

“Kirklands; where's Kirklands?”

“In Kendal, near the church.”

It turned out that the good old woman had known Sim many years before,
when they were neighbors in a street of a big town. She had been with
Sim's wife in her last illness, and had cared for his little daughter
when the child's mother died.

Robbie did not know when the coach might leave Kendal for Lancaster;
Sim was several hours in front of them, and therefore he took a hasty
leave. The old woman, who lived a solitary life in the cottage, looked
after the young man with eyes which seemed to say that, in spite of
the instinct which prompted her to confide in Robbie, she half
regretted what she had done.




CHAPTER XXX. A RACE AGAINST LIFE.


No sooner had Ralph discovered that the straggler from the North who
lay insensible in the yard of the inn at Kendal was Simeon Stagg than
he pushed through the crowd, and lifting the thin and wasted figure in
his arms, ordered a servant to show him to a room within.

There in a little while sensibility returned to Sim, who was suffering
from nothing more serious than exhaustion and the excitement by which
it had been in part occasioned.

When in the first moment of consciousness he opened his eyes and met
the eyes of Ralph, who was bending above him, he exhibited no sign of
surprise. With a gesture indicative of irritation he brushed his long
and bony hand over his face, as though trying to shut out a vision
that had more than once before haunted and tormented him. But when he
realized the reality of the presence of the man whom he had followed
over many weary miles, whose face had followed him in his
dreams,--when it was borne in upon his scattered sense that Ralph Ray
was actually here at his side, holding his hand and speaking to him in
the deep tones which he knew so well,--then the poor worn wayfarer
could no longer control the emotion that surged upwards from his
heart.

It was a wild, disjointed, inconsequential tale which Sim thereupon
told, which he had come all this way to tell, and which now revealed
its full import to the eager listener in spite of the narrator's
eagerness rather than by means of it. Amid spasms of feeling, however,
the story came at length to an end; and gathering up the threads of it
for himself, and arranging them in what seemed to him their natural
sequence, Ralph understood all that it was essential to understand of
his own position and the peril of those who were dear to him. That he
was to be outlawed, and that his estate was to be confiscated; that
his mother, who still lived, was, with his brother and Rotha, to be
turned into the road,--this injustice was only too imminent.

“In a fortnight--was it so?” he asked. “In a fortnight they were to be
back? A fortnight from what day?”

“Saturday,” said Sim; “that's to say, a week come Saturday next.”

“And this is Tuesday; ten full days between,” said Ralph, walking with
drooping head across the room; “I must leave immediately for the
North. Heigh!” opening a window, and hailing the ostler who at the
moment went past, “when does your next coach start for the North?”

“At nine o'clock, sir.”

“Nine to-night? So late? Have you nothing before--no wagon--nothing?”

“Nothing before, sir; 'cept--leastways--no, nothing before. Ye see, it
waits for the coach from Lancaster, and takes on its passengers.”

“John, John,” cried the landlady, who had overheard the conversation
from a neighboring window, “mayhap the gentleman would like to take a
pair of horses a stage or two an he's in a hurry.”

“Have you a horse that can cover thirty miles to-day?” said Ralph.

“That we have, yer honor, and mair ner ya horse.”

“Where will the coach be at six to-morrow?”

“At Penrith, I reckon,” said the ostler, lifting his cap, and
scratching his head with the air of one who was a good deal uncertain
alike of his arithmetic and his geography.

“How long do they reckon the whole journey?”

“Twelve hours, I've heeard--that's if nothing hinders; weather, nor
the like.”

“Get your horse ready at once, my lad, and then take me to your
landlady.”

“You'll not leave me behind, Ralph,” said Sim when Ralph had shut back
the casement.

“You're very weak, old friend; it will be best for you to sleep here
to-day, and take to-night's Carlisle coach as far back as Mardale. It
will be early morning when the coach gets there, and at daybreak you
can walk over the Stye Pass to Shoulthwaite.”

“I dare not, I dare not; no, no, don't leave me here.” Sim's
importunity was irresistible, and Ralph yielded more out of pity than
by persuasion. A second horse was ordered, and in less than half an
hour the travellers, fortified by a meal, were riding side by side on
the high road from Kendal to the North.

Sim was not yet so far recovered from his exhaustion but that the
exertion of riding--at any time a serious undertaking to him--was
quick in producing symptoms of collapse. But he held on to his purpose
of accompanying Ralph on his northward journey with a tenacity which
was unshaken either by his companion's glances of solicitude or yet by
the broad mouthed merriment of the rustics, who obviously found it
amusing to watch the contortions of an ill-graced, weak, and
spiritless rider, and to fire off at him as he passed the sallies of
an elephantine humor.

When the pair started away from Kendal, Sim had clearly no thought but
that their destination was to be Wythburn. It was therefore with some
surprise and no little concern that he observed that Ralph took the
road to the right which led to Penrith and the northeast, when they
arrived at that angle of the highway outside the town where two
turnpikes met, and one went off to Wythburn and the Northwest.

“I should have reckoned that the nighest way home was through
Staveley,” Sim said with hesitation.

“We can turn to the left at Mardale,” said Ralph, and pushed on
without further explanation. “Do you say that mother has never once
spoken?” he asked, drawing up at one moment to give Sim a little
breathing space.

“Never once, Ralph--mute as the grave, she is--poor body.”

“And Rotha--Rotha--”

“Yes, the lass is with her, she is.”

“God bless her in this world and the next!”

Then the two pushed on again, with a silence between them that was
more touching than speech. They rode long and fast this spell, and
when they drew up once more, Ralph turned in his saddle and saw that
the ruins that stood at the top of the Kendal Scar were already far
behind them.

“It's a right good thing that you've given up your solitary life on
the fells, Sim. It wilt cheer me a deal, old friend, to think you'll
always live with the folks at Shoulthwaite.” Ralph spoke as if he
himself had never to return. Sim felt this before Ralph had realized
the implication of his words.

“It's hard for a hermit to be a good man,” continued Ralph; “he begins
with being miserable and ends with being selfish and superstitious,
and perhaps mad. Have you never marked it?”

“Maybe so, Ralph; maybe so. It's like it's because the world's bitter
cruel that so many are buryin' theirsels afore they're dead.”

“Then it's because they expect too much of the world,” said Ralph. “We
should take the world on easier terms. Fallible humanity must have its
weaknesses and poor human life its disasters, and where these are
mighty and inevitable, what folly is greater than to fly from them or
to truckle to them, to make terms with them? Our duty is simply to
endure them, to endure them--that's it, old friend.”

There was no answer that Sim could make to this. Ralph was speaking to
the companion who rode by his side; but in fact he seemed to be
addressing himself.

“And to see a man buy a reprieve from Death!” he continued. “Never do
that--never? Did you ever think of it, Sim, that what happens is
always the best?”

“It scarce looks like it, Ralph; that it don't.”

“Then it's because you don't look long enough. In the end, it is
_always_ the best that happens. Truth and the right are the last on
the field; it always has been so, and always will be; it only needs
that you should wait to the close of the battle to see _that_.”

There would have been a sublime solemnity in these rude words of a
rude man of action if Sim had divined that they were in fact the
meditations of one who believed himself to be already under the shadow
of his death.

       *       *       *       *       *

The horses broke again into a canter, and it was long before the reins
of the riders brought them to another pause. The day was bitterly
cold, and, notwithstanding the exertion of riding, Sim's teeth
chattered sometimes as with ague, and his fingers were numb and stiff.
It was an hour before noon when the travellers left Kendal, and now
they had ridden for two hours. The brighter clouds of the morning had
disappeared, and a dull, leaden sky was overhead. Gradually the heavy
atmosphere seemed to close about them, yet a cutting wind blew smartly
from the east.

“A snowstorm is coming, Sim. Look yonder; how thick it hangs over the
Gray Crag sheer ahead! We must push on, or we'll be overtaken.”

“How long will it be coming?” asked Sim.

“Five hours full, perhaps longer,” said Ralph; “we may reach Penrith
before that time.”

“Penrith!”

Sim's tone was one of equal surprise and fear.

Ralph gave him a quick glance; then reaching over the neck of his
horse to stroke its long mane, he said, with the manner of one who
makes too palpable an effort to change the subject of conversation:
“Isn't this mare something like old Betsy? I couldn't but mark how
like she was to our old mare that is lost when the ostler brought her
into the yard this morning.”

Sim made no reply.

“Poor Betsy!” said Ralph, and dropped his head on to his breast.

Another long canter. When the riders drew up again it was to take a
steadier view of some objects in the distance which had simultaneously
awakened their curiosity.

“There seem to be many of them,” said Ralph; and, shielding his ear
from the wind, he added, “do you catch their voices?”

“Are they quarrelling?--is it a riot?” Sim asked.

“Quick, and let us see.”

In a few moments they had reached a little wayside village.

There they found children screaming and women wringing their hands. In
the high road lay articles of furniture, huddled together, thrown in
heaps one on another, and broken into fragments in the fall. A
sergeant and company of musketeers were even then in the midst of this
pitiful work of devastation, turning the people out of their little
thatched cottages and flinging their poor sticks of property out after
them. Everywhere were tumult and ruin. Old people were lying on the
cold earth by the wayside. They had been born in these houses; they
had looked to die in these homes; but houses and homes were to be
theirs no more. Amidst the wreck strode the gaunt figure of a factor,
directing and encouraging, and firing off meantime a volley of
revolting oaths.

“What's the name of this place?” asked Ralph of a man who stood, with
fury in his eyes, watching the destruction of his home.

“Hollowbank,” answered the man between his teeth.

Ralph remembered that here had lived a well-known Royalist, whom the
Parliament had dispossessed of his estates. The people of this valley
had been ardent Parliamentarians during the long campaign. Could it be
that his lordship had been repossessed of his property, and was taking
this means of revenging himself upon his tenantry for resisting the
cause he had fought for?

An old man lay by the hedge looking down to the ground with eyes that
told only of despair. A little fair-haired boy, with fear in his
innocent face, was clinging to his grandfather's cloak and crying
piteously.

“Get off with you and begone!” cried the factor, rapping out another
volley.

“Is it Hollowbank you call this place?” said Ralph, looking the fellow
in the face. “Hellbank would be a fitter name.”

The man answered nothing, but his eyes glared angrily as Ralph put
spur to his horse and rode on.

“God in heaven!” cried Ralph when Sim had come up by his side, “to
think that work like this goes on in God's sight!”

“Yet you say the best happens,” said Sim.

“It does; it does; God knows it does, for all that,” insisted Ralph.
“But to think of these poor souls thrown out into the road like
cattle. Cattle? To cattle they would be merciful!--thrown out into the
road to lie and die and rot!”

“Have they been outlawed--these men?” said Sim.

“Damnation!” cried Ralph, as though at Sim's ignorant word a new and
terrible thought had flashed upon his mind and wounded him like a
dagger.

Then they rode long in silence.

Away they went, mile after mile, without rest and without pause,
through dales and over uplands, past meres and across rivers, and
still with the gathering blackness overhead.

What force of doom was spurring them on in this race against Life? It
was the depth of a Cumbrian winter, and the days were short. Clearly
they would never reach Penrith to-night. The delay at Hollowbank and
the shortened twilight before a coming snowstorm must curtail their
journey. They agreed to put up for the night at the inn at Askham.

As they approached that house of entertainment they observed that the
coach which had left Carlisle that morning was in the act of drawing
up at the door. It waited only while three or four passengers
alighted, and then drove on and passed them in its journey south.

Five hours hence it would pass the northward coach from Kendal.

When Ralph and Sim dismounted at the Fox and Hounds, at Askham, the
landlord came hastily to the door. He was a brawny dalesman, of
perhaps thirty. He was approaching the travellers with the customary
salutations of a host, when, checking himself, and coming to Ralph, he
said in a low tone, “I ask pardon, sir, but is your name
Ray?--Captain--hush!” he whispered; and then, becoming suddenly mute,
without waiting for a reply to his questions, he handed the horses to
a man who came up at the moment, and beckoned Ralph and Sim to follow
him, not through the front of the house, but towards the yard that led
to the back.

“Don't you know me?” he said as soon as he had conveyed them, as if by
stealth, into a little room detached from the rest of the house.

“Surely it's Brown? And how are you, my lad?”

“Gayly; and you seem gayly yourself, and not much altered since the
great days at Dunbar--only a bit lustier, mayhap, and with something
more of beard. I'll never forget the days I served under you!”

“That's well, Brown; but why did you bring us round here?” said Ralph.

“Hush!” whispered the landlord. “I've a pack of the worst bloodhounds
from Carlisle just come. They're this minute down by the coach. I know
the waistrels. They've been here before to-day. They'd know you to a
certainty, and woe's me if once the gommarels come abreast of you.
It's like I'd never forgive myself if my old captain came by any ill
luck in my house.”

“How long will they stay?” “Until morning, it's like.”

“How far is it to the next inn?”

“Three miles to Clifton.”

“We shall sleep till daybreak to-morrow, Brown, on the settles you
have here. And now, my lad, bloodhounds or none on our trail, bring us
something to eat.”




CHAPTER XXXI. ROBBIE, SPEED ON!


Upon reaching the Woodman at Kendal, Robbie found little reason to
doubt that Sim had been there and had gone. A lively young
chambermaid, who replied to his questions, told him the story of Sim's
temporary illness and subsequent departure with another man.

“What like of a man was he, lass--him as took off the little fellow?”
 asked Robbie.

“A very personable sort; maybe as fine a breed as you'd see here and
there one,” replied the girl.

“Six foot high haply, and square up on his legs?” asked Robbie,
throwing back his body into an upright posture as a supplementary and
explanatory gesture.

“Ey, as big as Bully Ned and as straight as Robin the Devil,” said the
girl.

Robbie was in ignorance of the physical proportions of these local
worthies, but he was nevertheless in little doubt as to the identity
of his man. It was clear that Sim and Ralph had met on this spot only
a few hours ago, and had gone off together.

“What o'clock might it be when they left?” said Robbie.

“Nigh to noon--maybe eleven or so.”

It was now two, and Ralph and Sim, riding good horses, must be many
miles away. Robbie's vexation was overpowering when he thought of the
hours that he had wasted at Winander and of the old gossip at the
street corner who had prompted him to the fruitless search.

“The feckless old ninny,” he thought in his mute indignation; “when an
old man comes to be an old woman it's nothing but right that he should
die, and have himself done with.”

Robbie was unable to hire a horse in order to set off in pursuit of
his friends; nor were his wits so far distraught by the difficulties
tormenting them that he was unable to perceive that, even if he could
afford to ride, his chance would be inconsiderable of overtaking two
men who had already three hours' start of him.

He went into the taproom to consult the driver of the Carlisle coach,
who was taking a glass before going to bed--his hours of work being in
the night and his hours of rest being in the day. That authority
recommended, with the utmost positiveness of advice, that Robbie
should take a seat in his coach when he left for the North that night.

“But you don't start till nine o'clock, they tell me?” said Robbie.

“Well, man, what of that?” replied the driver; “yon two men will have
to sleep to-night, I reckon; and they'll put up to a sartenty
somewhear, and that's how we'll come abreast on 'em. It's no use
tearan like a crazy thing.”

The driver had no misgivings; his conjecture seemed reasonable, and
whether his plan were feasible or not, it was the only one available.
So Robbie had to make a virtue of a necessity, as happens to many a
man of more resource.

He was perhaps in his secret heart the better reconciled to a few
hours' delay in his present quarters, because he fancied that the
little chambermaid had exhibited some sly symptoms of partiality for
his society in the few passages of conversation which he had exchanged
with her.

She was a bright, pert young thing, with just that dash of freedom in
her manners which usually comes of the pursuit of her public calling;
and it is only fair to Robbie's modesty to say that he had not
deceived himself very grossly in his estimate of the interest he had
suddenly excited in her eyes. It was probably a grievous dereliction
of duty to think of a love encounter, however blameless, at a juncture
like this--not to speak of the gravity of the offence of forgetting
the absent Liza. But Robbie was undergoing a forced interlude in the
march; the lady who dominated his affections was unhappily too far
away to appease them, and he was not the sort of young fellow who
could resist the assault of a pair of coquettish black eyes.

Returning from the taproom to announce his intention of waiting for
the coach, Robbie was invited to the fire in the kitchen,--a privilege
for which the extreme coldness of the day was understood to account.
Here he lit a pipe, and discoursed on the route that would probably be
pursued by his friends.

It was obvious that Ralph and Sim had not taken the direct road home
to Wythburn, for if they had done so he must have met them as he came
from Staveley. There was the bare possibility that he had missed them
by going round the fields to the old woman's cottage; but this seemed
unlikely.

“Are you quite sure it's an _old man_ you're after?” said the girl,
with a dig of emphasis that was meant to insinuate a doubt of Robbie's
eagerness to take so much trouble in running after anything less
enticing than one of another sex who might not be old.

Robbie protested on his honor that _he_ was never known to run after
young women,--a statement which did not appear to find a very ready
acceptance. The girl was coming and going from the kitchen in the
discharge of her duties, and on one of her journeys she brought a
parchment map in her hand, saying: “Here's a paper that Jim, the
driver, told me to show you. It gives all the roads atween Kendal and
Carlisle. So you may see for yourself whether your friends could get
round about to Wy'bern.”

Robbie spread out the map on the kitchen table, and at once proceeded,
with the help of the chambermaid, to trace out the roads that were
open to Ralph and Sim to take. It was a labyrinthine web, that map,
and it taxed the utmost ingenuity of both Robbie and his little
acquaintance to make head or tail of it.

“Here you are,” cried Robbie, with the air of a man making a valuable
discovery, “here's the milestones--one, two, three--them's milestones,
thou knows.”

“Tut, you goose; that's only the scale,” said the girl; “see what's
printed, 'Scale of miles.'”

“Oh, ey, lass,” said Robbie, not feeling sure what “scale” might mean,
but too shrewd to betray his ignorance a second time in the presence
of this learned chambermaid.

The riddle, nevertheless, defied solution. However much they pored
over the map, it was still a maze of lines.

“It's as widderful as poor old Sim's face,” said Robbie.

Robbie and the chambermaid put their heads together in more senses
than one. The map was most inconveniently small. Two folks could not
consult it at the same time without coming into really uncomfortable
proximity.

“There you are,” said Robbie, reaching over, pipe in hand, to where
the girl was intent on some minute point.

Suddenly there was a cloud of smoke over the map. It also enveloped
the students of geography. Then, somehow, there was a sly smack of
lips.

“And there _you_ are,” said the girl, with a roguish laugh, as she
brought Robbie a great whang over the ear and shot away.

Jim, the driver, came into the kitchen at that moment on his way to
bed, and unravelled the mystery of the map by showing that it was
possible for Robbie's friends to go off the Carlisle road towards
Gaskarth and Wythburn at the village of Askham.

Robbie was satisfied with this explanation, and did his best under the
circumstances to rest content until nine o'clock with the harbor into
which he had drifted. He succeeded more completely, perhaps, in this
endeavor than might be expected, when the peril of his friends and his
allegiance to Liza Branthwaite is taken into account.

But when nine o'clock had come and gone, and still the coach stood in
the yard of the inn, Robbie's sense of duty overcame his appetite for
what he would have called a “spoag.” It was usual for the Carlisle
coach to await the coach from Lancaster, and it was because the latter
had not yet arrived at Kendal that the former was unable to depart
from it. Robbie's impatience waxed considerably during the half-hour
thence ensuing; but when ten o'clock had struck, and still no definite
movement was made, his indignation became boisterous.

There were to be four inside passengers, all women; and cold as the
night might prove, Robbie's seat must be outside. The protestations of
all five passengers were at length too loud, and their importunity was
too earnest, to admit of longer delay. So the driver put in his horses
and took his seat on the box.

This had scarcely been done when the horn of the Lancaster coach was
heard in the distance, and some further waiting ensued.

“Let's hope you'll have no traffic out of, it when it does come,” said
Robbie with a dash of spite. A few minutes afterwards the late coach
drove into the yard and discharged its travellers.

Two of these, who were going forward to Carlisle, climbed the ladder
and took seats behind Robbie. It was too dark to see who or what they
were except that they were men, that they were wrapped in long cloaks,
and wore caps that fitted close to their heads and cheeks, being tied
over their beards and beneath their chins.

The much-maligned Jim now gave a smart whip to his horses, and in a
moment more the coach was on the road.

The night was dark and bitterly cold, and once outside the town the
glimmer of the lamps which the coach carried was all the light the
passengers had for miles.

A slight headache from which Robbie had suffered at intervals since
the ducking of his head in the river at Wythburn had now quite
disappeared, but a curious numbness, added to a degree of
stupefaction, began to take its place. As the coach jogged along on
its weary journey, not even the bracing surroundings of Robbie's
present elevated and exposed position had the effect of keeping him
actively awake. He dozed in short snatches and awoke with slight
shudders, feeling alternately hot and cold.

In one of his intervals of wakefulness he heard fragments of a
conversation which was being sustained by the strangers behind him.
Robbie had neither activity nor curiosity to waste on their talk, but
he could not avoid listening.

“He would have been the best agent in the King's service to a
certainty,” said one. “He's the 'cutest man _I_ ever tackled. It's
parlish odd how he baffles us.”

The speaker was clearly a Cumbrian.

“Shaf!” replied his companion, in a kind of whisper, “he's a pauchtie
clot-heed. I'll have him at Haribee in a crack.”

The second speaker was as clearly a Scot who was struggling against
the danger there might be of his speech bewraying him.

“Well, you're pretty smart on 'im. I never could rightly make aught of
thy hate of 'im.”

“Tut, man, live and learn. Let me have him in Wilfrey Lawson's hands,
and ye'll see what for I hate the proud-stomached taistrel.”

“Well,” said the Cumbrian, in a tone indicative of more resignation
than he had previously exhibited, “I've no more cause to love 'im than
yourself. You saw 'im knock me down in the streets of Lancaster.”

“May ye hang him up for it, Bailiff Scroope,” replied the Scot. “May
ye hang him up for it on the top of Haribee!”

Robbie understood enough of this conversation to realize the character
and pursuit of his travelling companions; but the details and tone of
the dialogue were not of an interest sufficiently engrossing to keep
him awake. He dozed afresh, and in the unconsciousness of a fitful
sleep he passed a good many miles of his dreary night ride.

A sudden glare in his eyes awoke him at one moment. They were passing
the village of Hollowbank. Fires were lit on the road, and dark
figures were crouching around them. Robbie was too drowsy to ask the
meaning of these sights, and he soon slept once more.

When he awoke again, he thought he caught the echo of the word
“Wythburn” as having been spoken behind him; but whether this were
more than a delusion of the ear, such as sometimes comes at the moment
of awakening, he could not be sure until (now fully awake) he
distinctly heard the Cumbrian use the name of Ralph Ray.

Robbie's curiosity was instantly aroused, and in the effort to shake
off the weight of his drowsiness he made a backward movement of the
head, which was perceived by the strangers. He was conscious that one
of the men had risen, and was leaning over to the driver to ask who he
himself might be, and where he was going.

“A country lad of some sort,” said Jim. “I know nought, no mair.”

“I thought maybe he were a friend,” said the stranger, with
questionable veracity.

The conversation thereupon proceeded with unrestrained vigor.

“It baffles me, his going to Carlisle. As I say, he's a 'cute sort.
What's his game in this hunt?”

“Shaf! he's bagged himself, stump and rump.”

“I don't mind how soon we've done with this trapesing here and there.
Which will be the 'dictment, think ye?”

“Small doubt which.” “Murder, eh? Can you manage it, Wilfrey and
yourself?”

“Leave that to the pair of us.”

The perspiration was standing in beads on every inch of Robbie's body.
He was struggling with an almost overpowering temptation to test the
strength of his muscles at pitching certain weighty “bodies” off the
top of that coach, in order to relieve it of some of the physical
burden and a good deal of the moral iniquity under which it seemed to
him just then to groan.

Snow began now to fall, and the driver gave the whip to his horses in
order to reach a village which was not far away.

“We'll be bound to put up for the night,” he said; “this snowstorm
will soon stop us.”

The two strangers were apparently much concerned at the necessity, and
used every available argument to induce the driver to continue his
journey.

Robbie could not bring himself to a conclusion as to whether it would
be best for his purpose that the coach should stop, and so keep back
the vagabonds who were sitting behind him, or go on, and so help him
to overtake Ralph. The driver in due course settled the problem very
decisively by drawing up at the inn of the hamlet of Mardale and
proceeding to take his horses off the chains.

“There be some folk as have mercy neither on man nor beast,” he said
in reply to a protest from the strangers.

Jim's sentiment was more apposite than he thought.

The two men grumbled their way into the inn. Robbie remained outside
and gave the driver a hand with the horses.

“Where's Haribee?” he asked.

“In Carlisle,” said the driver.

“What place is it?” asked Robbie.

“Haribee?--why, the place of execution.”

When left alone outside in the snow, Robbie began to reflect on the
position of affairs. It was past midnight. The two strangers, who were
obviously in pursuit of Ralph, would stay in this house at least until
morning. Ralph himself was probably asleep at this moment, some ten
miles or thereabouts farther up the road.

It was bitterly cold. Robbie's hands and face were numbed. The flakes
of snow fell thicker and faster than before.

Robbie perceived that there was only one chance that would make it
worth while to have come on this journey: the chance that he could
overtake Ralph before the coach and its passengers could overtake him.

To do this he must walk the whole night through, let it rain or snow
or freeze.

He could and he would do it!

Bravely, Robbie! A greater issue than you know of hangs on your
journey. On! on! on!




CHAPTER XXXII. WHAT THE SNOW GAVE UP.


The agitation of the landlord of the inn at Askham, who was an old
Parliamentarian, on discovering the captain under whom he had served
in the person of Ralph Ray, threatened of itself to betray him. With
infinite perturbation he came and went, and set before Ralph and Sim
such plain fare as his house could furnish after the more luxurious
appetites of the Royalist visitors had been satisfied.

The room into which the travellers had been smuggled was a wing of the
old house, open to the whitewashed rafters, and with the customary
broad hearth. Armor hung about the walls--a sword here, a cutlass
there, and over the rannel-tree a coat of chain steel. It was clearly
the living-room of the landlord's family, and was jealously guarded
from the more public part of the inn. But when the door was open into
the passage that communicated with the rest of the house, the loud
voices of the Royalists could be heard in laughter or dispute.

When the family vacated this room for the convenience of Ralph and
Sim, they left behind at the fireside, sitting on a stool, a little
boy of three or four, who was clearly the son of the landlord. Ralph
sat down, and took the little fellow between his knees. The child had
big blue eyes and thin curls of yellow hair. The baby lips answered to
his smile, and the baby tongue prattled in his ear with the easy
familiarity which children extend only to those natures that hold the
talisman of child-love.

“And what is _your_ name, my little man?” said Ralph.

“Darling,” answered the child, looking up frankly into Ralph's face.

“Good. And anything else?”

“Ees, Villie.”

“Do they not say you are like your mother, Willie?” said Ralph,
brushing the fair curls from the boy's forehead. “Me mammy's darling,”
 said the little one, with innocent eyes and a pretty curve of the
little mouth.

“Surely. And what will you be when you grow up, my sunny boy?”

“A man.”

“Ah! and a wit, eh? But what will you be at your work--a farmer?”

“Me be a soldier.” The little face grew bright at the prospect.

“Not that, sweetheart. If you have luck like most of us, perhaps
you'll have enough fighting in your life without making it your trade
to fight. But you don't understand me yet, Willie, darling?”

The little one's father entered the room at this moment, and the
opening of the door brought the sound of jumbled voices from a distant
apartment. The noisy party of Royalists apparently belonged to the
number of those who hold that a man's manners in an inn may properly
be the reverse of what they are expected to be at home. The louder
such roysterers talk, the more they rap out oaths, the oftener they
bellow for the waiters and slap them on the back, the better they
think they are welcome in a house of public entertainment.

Amidst the tumult that came from a remote part of the inn a door was
heard to open, and a voice was distinguishable above the rest calling
lustily for the landlord.

“I must go off to them,” said that worthy. “They expect me to stand
host as well as landlord, and sit with them at their drinking.”

When the door closed again, Sim lifted the boy on to his knee, and
looked at him with eyes full of tenderness. The little fellow returned
his gaze with a bewildered expression that seemed to ask a hundred
silent questions of poor Sim's wrinkled cheeks and long, gray,
straggling hair.

“I mind me when my own lass was no bigger nor this,” said Sim.

Ralph did not answer, but turned his head aside and listened.

“She was her mammy's darling, too, she was.”

Sim's voice was thick in his throat.

“And mine as well,” he added. “We used to say to her, laughing and
teasing like, 'Who will ye marry, Rotie?'--we called her Rotie
then,--'who will ye marry, Rotie, when ye grow up to be a big, big
woman?' 'My father,' she would say, and throw her little arms about my
neck and kiss me.”

Sim raised his hard fingers to his forehead to cover his eyes.

Ralph still sat silent, his head aside, looking into the fire.

“That's many and many a year agone; leastways, so it seems. My wife
was living then. We were married in Gaskarth, but work was bad, and we
packed up and went to live for a while in a great city, leagues and
leagues to the south. And there my poor girl, Josephine--I called her
Josie for short, and because it was more kind and close like--there my
poor girl fell ill and died. Her face got paler day by day, but she
kept a brave heart--she was just such like as Rotha that way--and she
tended the house till the last, she did.”

A louder burst of merriment than usual came from the distant room. The
fellows were singing a snatch together.

“Do you know, Rotha called her mother, Josie, too. I checked her, I
did; but my poor girl she said, said she, 'Never mind; the little one
has been hearkening to yourself.' You'd have cried, I think, if you'd
been with us the day she died. I was sitting at work, and she called
out that she felt faint; so I jumped up and held her in my arms and
sent our little Rotha for a neighbor. But it was too late. My poor
darling was gone in a minute, and when the wee thing came running back
to us, with red cheeks, she looked frightened, and cried, 'Josie!
Josie!' 'My poor Rotie, my poor little lost Rotie,' I said, 'our dear
Josie, she is in heaven!' Then the little one cried, 'No, no, no'; and
wept, and wept till--till--_I_ wept with her.”

The door of the distant apartment must have been again thrown open,
for a robustious fellow could be heard to sing a stave of a drinking
song. The words came clearly in the silence that preceded a general
outburst of chorus:--

    “Then to the Duke fill,
       Fill up the glass;
     The son of our martyr, beloved of the King.”

“We buried her there,” continued Sim; “ay, we buried her in the town;
and, with the crowds and the noise above her, there sleeps my brave
Josie, and I shall see her face no more.”

Ralph rose up, and walked to the door by which he and Sim had entered
from the yard of the inn. He opened it and stood for a moment on the
threshold. The snow was falling in thick flakes. Already it covered
the ground and lay heavy on the roofs of the outhouses and on the
boughs of the leafless trees. A great calm was on the earth and in the
air.

       *       *       *       *       *

Robbie speed on! Lose not an hour now, for an hour lost may be a
life's loss.

       *       *       *       *       *

Ralph was turning back into the room, and bolting the outer door, when
the landlord entered hurriedly from the passage. He was excited.

“Is it not--captain, tell me--is it not Wy'bern--your father's
home--Wy'bern, on Bracken Mere?”

“It _was_ my father's home--why?”

“Then the bloodhounds _are_ on your trail!”

The perspiration was standing in beads on Brown's forehead.

“They talk of nothing to each other but of a game that's coming on at
Wy'bern, and what they'll do for some one that they never name. If
they'd but let wit who he is I'd--I'd know them.”

“Landlord, landlord!” cried a man whose uncertain footsteps could be
heard in the passage,--“landlord, bring your two guests to us--bring
them for a glass.”

The fellow was making his way to the room into which Ralph and Sim had
been hustled. The landlord slid out of it through the smallest
aperture between the door and its frame that could discharge a man of
his sturdy physique. When the door closed behind him he could be heard
to protest against any intention of disturbing his visitors. The two
gentlemen had made a long journey, travelling two nights and two days
at a stretch; so they'd gone off to bed and were snoring hard by this
time; the landlord could stake his solemn honor upon it.

The tipsy Royalist seemed content with the apology for non-appearance,
and returned to his companions bellowing,--

    “Let Tories guard the King;
     Let Whigs in halters swing.”

Ralph walked uneasily across the room. Could it be that these men were
already on their way to Wythburn to carry out the processes of the law
with respect to himself and his family?

In another minute the landlord returned.

“It's as certain as the Lord's above us,” he whispered. “They wanted
to get to you to have you drink the King's health with them, and when
I swore you were asleep they ax't if you had no horses with you. I
said you had one horse. 'One horse among two,' they said, with a great
goasteren laugh; 'why, then, they're Jock and his mither.' 'One
horse,' I said, 'or maybe two.' 'We must have 'em,' they said; 'we
take possession on 'em in the King's service. We've got to cross the
fells to Wy'bern in the morning.'”

“What are they, Brown?”

“Musketeers, three of 'em, and ya sour fellow that limps of a leg;
they call him Constable David.”

“Let them have the horses. It will save trouble to you.”

Then turning to Sim, Ralph added, “We must be stirring betimes
to-morrow, old friend; the daybreak must see us on the road. The snow
will be thick in the morning, and perhaps the horses would have
hindered us. Everything is for the best.”

The landlord lifted his curly-headed son (now fast asleep) from Sim's
knee, and left the room.

Sim's excitement was plainly visible, and even Ralph could not conceal
his own agitation. Was he to be too late to do what it had been in his
mind to do?

“Did you say Saturday week next? It is Tuesday to-day,” said Ralph.

“A week come Saturday--that was what Rotha told me.”

“It's strange--very strange!”

Ralph satisfied himself at length that the men in the adjoining, room
were but going off to Wythburn nine days in advance in order to be
ready to carry into effect the intended confiscation immediately their
instructions should reach them. The real evils by which Ralph was
surrounded were too numerous to allow of his wasting much apprehension
on possible ones.

The din of the drinkers subsided at length, and toper after toper was
helped to his bed.

Then blankets were brought into Ralph and Sim, and rough shakedowns
were made for them on the broad settles. Sim lay down and fell asleep.
Ralph walked to and fro for hours.

The quiet night was far worn towards morning when Brown, the landlord,
tapped at the door and entered.

“Not a wink will come to me,” he said, and sat down before the
smouldering fire.

Ralph continued his perambulation to and fro, to and fro. He thought
again of what had occurred, and of what must soon occur to him and
his--of Wilson's death--his father's death--the flight of the horse on
the fells--all, all, centring somehow in himself. There must be sin
involved, though he knew not how--sin and its penalty. It was more and
more clear that God's hand was on him--on _him_. Every act of his own
hand turned to evil, and those whom he would bless were cursed. And
this cruel scheme of evil--this fate--could it not be broken? Was
there no propitiation? Yes, there was; there must be. That thing which
he was minded to do would be expiation in the sight of Heaven. God
would accept it for an atonement--yes; and there was soft balm like a
river of morning air in the thought.

       *       *       *       *       *

Sim slept on, and Brown crouched over the fire, with his head in his
hands and his elbows on his knees. There was not a motion within the
house or without; the world lay still and white like death.

Yes, it must be so; it must be that his life was to be the ransom.

And it should be paid! Then the clouds would rise and the sun appear.

“Fate that impedes, make way, make way! Mother, Rotha, Willy, wait,
wait! I come, I come.”

Ralph's face brightened with the ecstasy of reflection. Was it frenzy
in which his morbid idea had ended? If so, it was the frenzy of a
self-sacrifice that was sublimity itself.

At one moment Brown stirred in his seat and held his head aside, as
though listening for some sound in the far distance.

“Did you hear it?” he asked, in a whisper that had an accent of fear.

“Hear what?” asked Ralph.

“The neigh of the horse,” said Brown. “I heard nothing” replied Ralph,
and walked to the window, and listened. “What horse?” he asked,
turning about.

“Nay, none of us knows rightly. It's a horse that flies ower the fell
o' nights, and whinnies and whinnies.”

“One of the superstitions of your dale,--an old wife's tale, I
suppose. Has it been heard for years?”

“No, nor for weeks neither.”

Brown resumed his position in front of the fire, and the hours rolled
on.

When the first glimmer of gray appeared in the east, Sim was awakened,
and Ralph and he, after eating a hurried breakfast, started away on
foot.

       *       *       *       *       *

Where is Robbie now? A life hangs on the fortunes of this very hour!

       *       *       *       *       *

“Tell them the horses came from the Woodman at Kendal,” said Ralph as
he parted from his old comrade. “You've done better than save our
lives, Brown, God bless you!”

“That's a deal more nor my wages, captain,” said the honest fellow.

The snow that had fallen during the night lay several inches deep on
the roads, and the hills were white as far up as the eye could trace
them. The dawn came slowly. The gray bars were long in stretching over
the sky, and longer in making way for the first glint of mingled
yellow and pink. But the sunrise came at length. The rosy glaives
floated upwards over a lake of light, and the broad continents of
cloud fell apart. Another day had breathed through another night.

Ralph and Sim walked long in silence. The snow was glistening like a
million diamonds over the breast of a mountain, and the upright crags,
on which it could not rest, were glittering like shields of steel.

“How beautiful the world is!” said Ralph.

“Ey, but it _is_ that, after all,” said Sim.

“After all,” repeated Ralph.

They had risen to the summit of a little hill, and they could see as
they began to descend on the other side that the snow lay in a deep
drift at the bottom.

At the same moment they caught sight of some curious object lying in
the distance.

“What thing is that, half covered with the snow?” asked Sim.

“I cannot say. We'll soon see.”

Ralph spoke with panting breath.

“Why, it's a horse!” said Sim.

“Left out on such a night, too,” said Ralph.

His face quivered with emotion. When he spoke again his voice was
husky and his face livid.

“Sim, what is that on its back?”

“Surely it's a pack, the black thing across it,” said Sim.

Ralph caught his breath and stopped. Then he ran forward.

“Great God!” he cried, “Betsy! It is Betsy, with the coffin.”




CHAPTER XXXIII. SEPULTURE AT LAST.


Truly, it was Betsy, the mare which they had lost on that fearful day
at the Stye Head Pass. Her dread burden, the coffin containing the
body of Angus Ray, was still strapped to her back. None had come nigh
to her, or this must have been removed. She looked worn and tired as
she rose now to her feet amid the snow. The old creature was docile
enough this morning, and when Ralph patted her head, she seemed to
know the hand that touched her.

She had crossed a range of mountains, and lived, no doubt, on the thin
grass of the fells. She must have famished quickly had the snow fallen
before.

Ralph was profoundly agitated. Never before had Sim seen him betray
such deep emotion. If the horse with its burden had been a
supernatural presence, the effect of its appearance on Ralph had not
been greater. At first clutching the bridle, he looked like a man who
was puzzled to decide whether, after all, this thing that had occurred
were not rather a spectre that had wandered out of his dreams than a
tangible reality, a blessed and gracious reality, a mercy for which he
ought there and then to fling himself in gratitude on the ground, even
though the snow drifted over him forever and made that act his last.
Then the tears that tenderer moments could not bring stood in his
enraptured eyes. Those breathless instants were as the mirror of what
seemed to be fifty years of fear and hope.

Ralph determined that no power on earth should remove his hand from
the bridle until his father had at length been buried. The parish of
Askham must have its church and churchyard, and Angus Ray should be
buried there. They had not yet passed by the church--it must be still
in front of them--and with the horse and its burden by their side the
friends walked on.

When Ralph found voice to speak, he said, “Wednesday--then it is three
weeks to-day since we lost her, and for three weeks my father has
waited sepulture!”

Presently they came within sight of a rude chapel that stood at the
meeting of two roads. A finger-post was at the angle, with arms
pointing in three directions. The chapel was a low whitewashed Gothic
building, with a little belfry in which there hung no bell. At its
rear was a house with broken gablets and round dormers stuck deep into
the thatch. A burial ground lay in front of both edifices, and looked
dreary and chilling now, with the snow covering its many mounds and
dripping from the warm wood of its rude old crosses.

“This will be the minister's house,” said Ralph.

They drew up in front and knocked at the door of a deep porch. An old
man opened it and looked closely at his visitors through sharp,
watchful eyes. He wore a close jerkin of thick blue homespun, and his
broad-topped boots were strapped round his short pantaloons.

“Does the priest live here?” said Ralph, from the road, where he held
the mare's head.

“No priest lives here,” said the old man, somewhat curtly.

“Does the minister?”

“No, nor a minister.”

The changes of ecclesiastical administration had been so frequent of
late that it was impossible to say what formula was now in the
ascendent. Ralph understood the old man's laconic answers to imply a
remonstrance, and he tried again.

“Do you preach in this church?”

“_I_ preach? No; I practise.”

It transpired after much wordy fencing, which was at least as
irritating as amusing to a man in Ralph's present temper, that there
was no minister now in possession of the benefice, and that the church
had for some months been closed, the spiritual welfare of the
parishioners being consequently in a state of temporary suspension.
The old man who replied to Ralph's interrogations proved to be the
parish clerk, and whether his duties were also suspended--whether the
parishioners did not die, and did not require to be buried--during the
period in which the parish was deprived of a parson, was a question of
more consequence to Ralph than the cause of the religious bankruptcy
which the old man described.

Ralph explained in a few words the occasion of his visit, and begged
the clerk to dig a grave at once.

“I fear it will scarce conform to the articles,” the clerk said with a
grave shake of his old head; “I'm sore afraid I'll suffer a penalty if
it's known.”

Ralph passed some coins into the old man's hand with as little
ostentation as possible; whereupon the clerk, much mollified,
continued,--

“But it's not for me to deny to any Christian a Christian burial--that
is to say, as much of it as stands in no need of the book. Sir, I'll
be with you in a crack. Go round, sir, to the gate.”

Ralph and his companion did as they were bidden, and in a few minutes
the old clerk came hurrying towards them from a door at the back of
his house that looked into the churchyard.

He had a spade over his shoulder and a great key in his hand.

Putting the key into a huge padlock, he turned back its rusty bolt,
and the gate swung stiff on its hinges, which were thick with moss.

Then Ralph, still holding the mare's head, walked into the churchyard
with Sim behind him.

“Here's a spot which has never been used,” said the old man, pointing
to a patch close at hand where long stalks of yarrow crept up through
the snow. “It's fresh mould, sir, and on the bright days the sun
shines on it.”

“Let it be here,” said Ralph.

The clerk immediately cleared away the snow, marked out his ground
with the edge of the spade, and began his work.

Ralph and Sim, with Betsy, stood a pace or two apart. It was still
early morning, and none came near the little company gathered there.

Now and again the old man paused in his work to catch his breath or to
wipe the perspiration from his brow. His communicativeness at such
moments of intermission would have been almost equal to his reticence
at an earlier stage, but Ralph was in no humor to encourage his
garrulity, and Sim stood speechless, with something like terror in his
eyes. “Yes, we've had no minister since Michaelmas; that, you know,
was when the new Act came In,” said the clerk.

“What Act?” Ralph asked.

“Why, sir, you never mean that you don't know about the Act of
Uniformity?”

“That's what I do mean, my friend,” said Ralph.

“Don't know the Act of Uniformity! Have you heard of the Five Mile
Bill?”

“No.”

“Nor the Test Bill that the Bishop wants to get afoot?”

“No.”

“Deary me, deary me,” said the clerk, with undisguised horror at
Ralph's ignorance of the projected ecclesiastical enactments of his
King and country. Then, with a twinkle in the corner of his upward eye
as he held his head aside, the old man said,--

“Perhaps your honor has been away in foreign parts?”

Ralph had to decline this respectable cover for his want of
familiarity with matters which were obviously vital concerns, and
perhaps the subjects of daily conversation, with his interlocutor.

The clerk had resumed his labors. When he paused again it was in order
to enlighten Ralph's ignorance on these solemn topics.

“You see, sir, the old 'piscopacy is back again, and the John
Presbyters that joined it are snug in their churches, but the
Presbyters that would not join it are turned out of their livings.
There--that's the Act of Uniformity.”

“The Act of Non-Conformity, I should say,” replied Ralph.

“Well, the Jack Presbyters are not to be allowed within five miles of
a market town--that's the new Five Mile Bill. And they are not to be
made schoolmasters or tutors, or to hold public offices, unless they
take the sacrament of the Church--and that's what the Bishop calls his
Test Act; but he'll scarce get it this many a long year, say I--no,
not he.”

The clerk had offered his lucid exposition with the air of one who
could afford to be modestly sensible of the superiority of his
knowledge.

“And when he does get it he'll want an Act more, so far as I can see,”
 said Ralph, “and that's a Burial Act--an Act to bury the Presbyters
alive. They'd be full as well buried, I think.”.

A shrewd glance from the old man's quick eyes showed that at that
moment he had arrived at one of three conclusions--that Ralph himself
was a Presbyter or a Roundhead, or both.

“Our minister was a Presbyter,” he observed aloud, “and when the Act
came in he left his benefice.”

But Ralph was not minded to pursue the subject.

The grave was now ready; it had required to be long and wide, but not
deep.

The snow was beginning to fall again.

“Hard work on a morning like this,” said the clerk, coughing as he
threw aside his spade. “This is the sort of early morning that makes
an old man like me catch his breath. And I haven't always been parish
clerk and dug graves. I was schoolmaster till Michaelmas.”

It was time to commit to the grave the burden which had passed three
long weeks on the back of the mare. Not until this moment did Ralph's
hand once relax its firm grip of Betsy's bridle. Loosing it now, he
applied himself to the straps and ropes that bound the coffin. When
all was made clear, he prepared to lift the body to the ground. It was
large and heavy, and required the hands of Sim and the clerk as well.

By their united efforts the coffin was raised off the horse's back and
lowered. The three men were in the act of doing this, when Betsy,
suddenly freed from the burden which she had carried, pranced aside,
looked startled, plunged through the gate, and made off down the road.

“Let her go,” said Ralph, and turned his attention once more to what
now lay on the ground.

Then Angus Ray was lowered into his last home, and the flakes of snow
fell over him like a white and silent pall.

Ralph stood aside while the old man threw back the earth. It fell from
the spade in hollow thuds.

Sim crouched beside a stone, and looked on with frightened eyes.

The sods were replaced; there was a mound the more in the little
churchyard of Askham, and that was the end. The clerk shouldered his
spade and prepared to lock the gate.

It was then they were aware that there came from over their heads a
sound like the murmuring of a brook under the leaves of June; like the
breaking of deep waters at a weir; like the rolling of foam-capped
wavelets against an echoing rock. Look up! Every leafless bough of
yonder lofty elder-tree is thick with birds. Listen! A moment, and
their song has ceased; they have risen on the wing; they are gone like
a cloud Of black rain through the white feathery air. Then silence
everywhere.

Was it God's sign and symbol--God's message to the soul of this
stricken man? God's truce?

Who shall say it was not!

“A load is lifted off my heart,” said Ralph. He was thinking of the
terrible night he had spent on the fells. And indeed there was the
light of another look in his face. His father had sepulture. God had
shown him this mercy as a sign that what he purposed to do ought to be
done. Such was Ralph's reading of the accidental finding of the horse.

They bade good morning to the old man and left him. Then they walked
to the angle of the roads where the guidepost stood. The arms were
covered with the snow, and Ralph climbed on to the stone wall behind
and brushed their letters clear.

“To Kendal.” That pointed in the direction from whence they came.

“To Gaskarth.”

“That's our road,” said Sim.

“No,” said Ralph; “_this_ is it--'To Penrith and Carlisle.'”

What chance remained now to Robbie?




CHAPTER XXXIV. FATE THAT IMPEDES, FALL BACK.


A few minutes after the coach arrived at Mardale, Robbie was toiling
along in the darkness over an unfamiliar road. That tiresome old
headache was coming back to him, and he lifted a handful of snow now
and again to cool his aching forehead.

It was a weary, weary tramp, such as only young, strong limbs, and a
stout heart could have sustained. Villages were passed, but they lay
as quiet as the people that slumbered in them. Five hours had gone by
before Robbie encountered a living soul.

As daylight dawned the snow ceased to fall, and when Robbie had
reached Askham the late sun had risen. He was now beginning to feel
the need of food, and stepping into a cottage he asked an old
daleswoman who lived there if he might trouble her in the way of trade
to make him some breakfast. The good soul took compassion on the young
man's weary face, and said he was welcome to such as she had. When
Robbie had eaten a bowl of porridge and milk, the fatigue of his
journey quite overcame him. Even while answering his humble hostess's
questions in broken sentences he fell asleep in his chair. Out of pity
the old woman allowed him to sleep on. “The lad's fair done out,” she
said, glancing at his haggard face. It was later than noon when he
awoke.

Alas! what then was lost forever! What was gone beyond recall!

Starting up in annoyance at the waste of time, he set off afresh, and,
calling at the inn as he passed by, he learned to his great vexation
that if he had come on there when, at sunrise, he went into the
cottage a hundred yards away, he must have been within easy reach of
Sim and Ralph. The coach, nevertheless, had not yet got to this stage,
and that fact partially reconciled Robbie to the delay.

He had little doubt which path to take when he reached the angle of
the roads at the corner of the churchyard. If Ralph had taken the road
leading to Gaskarth he might be safe, but if he had taken the road
leading to Carlisle he must be in danger. Therefore Robbie determined
to follow the latter.

He made no further inquiries until he had walked through the market
town of Penrith, and had come out on the turnpike to the north of it.
Then he asked the passers-by who seemed to come some distance if they
had encountered two such men as he was in search of. In this way he
learned many particulars of the toilsome journey that was being made
by his friends. Sim's strength had failed him, and Ralph had wished to
leave him at a lodging on the road while he himself pushed forward to
Carlisle. But Sim had prayed to be taken on, and eventually a
countryman going to the Carlisle market, and with space for one only
on his cart, had offered to give Sim a lift. Of this tender the
friends had thankfully availed themselves.

It was only too clear from every detail which Robbie gleaned that
Ralph was straining every muscle to reach Carlisle. What terrible
destiny could it be that was thus compelling him to fly, perhaps to
his death!

Mile after mile Robbie plodded along the weary road. He was ill,
though he had scarcely realized that fact. He took many a rest.

Daylight faded, and once more the night came on, but still the brave
young dalesman held to his purpose. The snow had become crisp and
easier to the foot, but the way was long and the wayfarer was sick at
heart.

Morning came at last, and when the mists had risen above the meadows,
Robbie saw before him, nigh at hand, the ancient city of Carlisle. A
presentiment that he came too late took the joy out of the
long-expected sight.

Was the sky gloomy? Did a storm threaten? Were the murmuring rivers
and the roaring ghylls telling to Robbie's ear the hopeless tale that
lay cold and silent at his heart? No!

The sun arose and sparkled over the white landscape. It thawed the
stiff boughs of the trees, and the snow dropped from them in gracious
drops like dew. All nature seemed glad--cruelly, mockingly,
insensately glad--lightsome, jubilant. The birds forsook their
frost-bound nests, and sang cheerily in the clear morning air. One
little linnet--so very little--perched on a delicate silver birch, and
poured its full soul out of its liquid throat.

Robbie toiled painfully along with a feeble step, and with nerveless
despondency on every feature of his face--his coat flying open to his
woollen shirt; one of his hands thrust with his pipe into his belt;
the other hand dragging after him a heavy staff; his cap pushed back
from his hot forehead.

When he walked listlessly into Carlisle it was through the
Botcher-gate on the south. The clock of the cathedral was striking
ten. Robbie passed along the streets scarcely knowing his own errand
or destination. Without seeking for it he came upon the old Town Hall.
Numbers of people were congregated in the Market Place outside, and
crowds were hurrying up from the adjacent streets. Robbie had only
once been in Carlisle before, but he felt convinced that these must be
unaccustomed occurrences. He asked a townsman standing near him what
the tumult meant. The man could tell him nothing. Then he asked
another and another spectator of the scene in which there appeared to
be nothing to see, but all seemed as ignorant as himself. Nevertheless
there was an increasing commotion.

An old stone cross, raised high on steps, stood in the Market Place,
and Robbie walked up to it and leaned against it. Then he was
conscious that word had gone through the crowd that a famous culprit
had surrendered. According to some authorities the culprit was a
thief, according to others a murderer; some said that he was a forger,
and some said a traitor, and some that he was another of the
regicides, and would be sent on to London.

On one point only was there any kind of agreement, and that was that
the culprit had voluntarily surrendered to a warrant issued for his
arrest.

The commotion reached its climax when the doors of the old hall were
seen to open and a company of soldiers and civilians passed out.

It was a guard for the prisoner, who was being taken to the common
gaol to await his trial.

A dull, aching, oppressive pain lay at Robbie's heart. He climbed on
to the cross and looked over the people's heads at the little company.

The prisoner was Ralph Ray. With a firm step, with upright and
steadfast gaze, he walked between two soldiers; and close at his
heels, with downcast eyes, Simeon Stagg toiled along.

Robbie's quest was at an end.




CHAPTER XXXV. ROBBIE'S QUEST ENDED.


It was all over now. The weary chase was done, and Robbie Anderson
came late. Ralph had surrendered, and a sadder possibility than Robbie
guessed at, a more terrible catastrophe than Rotha Stagg or Willy Ray
had feared or looked for, lay in the sequel now to be unfolded.

The soldiers and their prisoner had gone; the crowd had gone with
them, and Robbie stood alone in the Market Place. From his station on
the steps of the cross he turned and looked after the motley company.
They took the way down English Street.

How hot and tired his forehead felt! It had ached before, but now it
burned like fire. Robbie pressed it hard against the cold stone of the
cross. Then he walked aimlessly away. He had nowhere to go; he had
nothing to do; and hour after hour he rambled through the narrow
streets of the old town. The snow still hung in heavy flakes from the
overhanging eaves and porches of the houses, and toppled at intervals
in thick clots on to the streets. The causeways were swept dry.

Up and down, through Blackfriars Street, past the gaol that stood on
the ruins of the monastery, along Abbey Street, and past the
cathedral, across Head Lane, and into the Market Place again; then
along the banks of the Caldew, and over the western wall that looked
across the hills that stretched into the south; round Shaddon-gate to
the bridge that lay under the shadow of the castle, and up to the
river Eden and the wide Scotch-gate to the north. On and on, he knew
not where, he cared not wherefore; on and on, till his weary limbs
were sinking beneath him, until the long lines of houses, with their
whitened timbers standing out from their walls, and their pediments
and the windows that were dormered into their roofs seemed to reel
about him and dance in fantastic figures before his eyes.

The incident of that morning had created an impression among the
townspeople. There was a curious absence of unanimity as to the crime
with which the prisoner would stand charged; but Robbie noticed that
everybody agreed that it was something terrible, and that nobody
seemed to suffer much in good humor by reason of the fate that hung
over a fellow-creature. “Very shocking, very. Come, John, let's have a
glass together!”

Robbie had turned into a byway that bore the name of King's Arms Lane.
He paused without purpose or thought before a narrow recess in which a
quaint old house stood back from the street. With its low flat windows
deeply recessed into the stone, its curious heads carved long ago into
bosses that were now ruined by frost and rain, it might have been a
wing of the old abbey that had wandered somehow away. A little man,
far in years, pottered about in front, brushing the snow and cleaning
the windows.

“Yon man is just in time for the 'sizes,” said a young fellow as he
swung by with another, who was pointing to the house and muttering
something that was inaudible to Robbie.

“What place is this?” said Robbie, when they had gone, stepping up to
the gate and addressing the old man within.

“The judges' lodgings surely,” replied the caretaker, lifting his eyes
from his shovel with a look of surprise at the question.

“And the 'sizes, when are they on?”

“Next week; that's when they begin.”

The ancient custodian was evidently not of a communicative
temperament, and Robbie, who was in no humor for gossip, turned away.

It was of little use to remain longer. All was over. The worst had
come to the worst. He might as well turn towards home. But how hot his
forehead felt! Could it have been that ducking his head in the river
at Wythburn had caused it to burn like a furnace?

Robbie thought of Sim. Why had he not met him in his long ramble
through the town? They might have gone home together.

At the corner of Botcher-gate and English Street there stood two
shops, and as Robbie passed them the shopkeepers were engaged in an
animated conversation on the event of the morning. “I saw him go by
with the little daft man; yes, I did. I was just taking down my
shutters, as it might be so,” said one of the two men, imitating the
piece of industry in question.

“Deary me! What o'clock might that be?” asked the other.

“Well, as I say, I was just taking down my shutters, as it might be
so,” imitating the gesture again. “I'd not sanded my floor, nor yet
swept out my shop; so it might have been eight, and it might have been
short of eight, and maybe it was somewhere between the three quarters
and the hour--that's as _I_ reckon it.”

“Deary me! deary me!” responded the other shopkeeper, whose blood was
obviously curdling at the bare recital of these harrowing details.

Robbie walked on. Eight o'clock! Then he had been but two hours
late--two poor little hours!

Robbie reflected with vexation and bitterness on the many hours which
must have been wasted or ill spent since he left Wythburn on Sunday.
He begrudged the time that he had given to rest and sleep.

Well, well, it was all over now; and out of Carlisle, through the
Botcher-gate, and down the road up which he came, Robbie turned with
weary feet. The snow was thawing fast, and the meadows on every side
lay green in the sunshine. How full of grace they were! How cruel in
her very gladness Nature still seemed to be!

Never for an instant did Robbie lose the sense of a great calamity
hanging above him, but a sort of stupefaction was creeping over him
nevertheless. He busied himself with reflections on every minor
feature of the road. Had he marked this beech before, or that oak? Had
he seen this gate on his way into Carlisle, or passed through that
bar? A boy on the road was driving a herd of sheep before him. One
drift of the sheep was marked with a red cross, and the other drift
with a black patch. Robbie counted the two drifts of sheep one by one,
and wondered whose they were and where they were going.

Then he sat down to rest, and let his forehead drop on to the grass to
cool it. When he rose again the road seemed to swim around him. A farm
servant in a smock was leading two horses, and as he passed he bade
the wayfarer, “Good afternoon.” Robbie went on without seeming to
hear, but when the man had got beyond the sound of his voice he turned
as if by sudden impulse, and, waving his hand with a gesture of
cordiality, he returned the salutation.

Then he sat down once more and held his head between his hands. It was
beating furiously, and his body, too, from head to foot, was changing
rapidly from hot to cold. At length the consciousness took possession
of him that he was ill. “I doubt I'm badly,” he thought, and tried to
realize his position. Presently he attempted to rise and call back the
countryman with the horses. Lifting himself on one trembling knee, he
waved a feeble arm spasmodically in the air, and called and called
again. The voice startled him; it seemed not to be his own. His
strength was spent. He sank back and remembered no more.

The man in the smock was gone, but another countryman was coming down
the road at that moment from the direction of Carlisle. This was no
other than little blink-eyed Reuben Thwaite. He was sitting muffled up
in his farm wagon and singing merry snatches to keep the cold out of
his lungs. Reuben had been at Carlisle over night with sundry hanks of
thread, which he had sold to the linen weavers. He had found a good
market by coming so far, and he was returning to Wythburn in high
feckle. When he came (as he would have said) “ebbn fornenst” Robbie
lying at the roadside, he jumped down from his seat. “What poor lad's
this? Why, what! What say! What!” holding himself back to grasp the
situation, “Robbie Anderson!”

Then a knowing smile overspread Reuben's wrinkled features as he
stooped to pat and push the prostrate man, in an effort to arouse him
to consciousness.

“Tut, Robbie, lad; Robbie, ma lad! This wark will nivver do, Robbie!
Brocken loose agen, aye! Come, Robbie, up, lad!”

Robbie lay insensible to all Reuben's appeals, whether of the nature
of banter or half-serious menace.

“Weel, weel, the lad _has_ had a fair cargo intil him this voyage,
anyway.”

There was obviously no likelihood of awakening Robbie, so with a world
of difficulty, with infinite puffing and fuming and perspiring, and
the help of a passing laborer, Reuben contrived to get the young
fellow lifted bodily into his cart. Lying there at full length, a
number of the empty thread sacks were thrown over the insensible man,
and then Reuben mounted to his seat and drove off.

“Poor old Martha Anderson!” muttered Reuben to himself. “It's weel
she's gone, poor body! It wad nigh have brocken her heart--and it's my
belief 'at it did.”

They had not gone far before Reuben himself, with the inconsistency of
more pretentious moralists, felt an impulse to indulge in that benign
beverage of which he had just deplored the effects. Drawing up with
this object at a public house that stood on the road, he called for a
glass of hot spirits. He was in the act of taking it from the hands of
the landlord, when a stage-coach drove up, and the coachman and two of
the outside passengers ordered glasses of brandy.

“From Carlisle, eh?” said one of the latter, eyeing Reuben from where
he sat and speaking with an accent which the little dalesman knew to
be “foreign to these parts.”

Reuben assented with a satisfied nod and a screwing up of one cheek
into a wrinkle about the eyes. He was thinking of the good luck of his
visit.

“What's the news there?” asked the other passenger, with an accent
which the little dalesman was equally certain was not foreign to these
parts.

“Threed's up a gay penny!” said Reuben.

“Any news at the Castle the day?”

“The Castle? No--that's to say, yes. I did hear 'at a man had given
hissel' up, but I know nowt aboot it.”

“Do you know his name?”

“No.”

“Be quick in front, my gude man; let's be off; we've lost time enough
with the snow already.”

The coachman had mounted to his box, and was wrapping a sheepskin
about his knees.

“What's that you have there?” he said to Reuben.

“Him? Why, that's Robbie Anderson, poor fellow. One o' them lads, thoo
knows, that have no mair nor one enemy in all the world, and that's
theirselves.”

“Out for a spoag, eh?”

“Come, get along, man, and let's have no more botherment,” cried one
of the impatient passengers.

Two or three miles farther down the road Reuben was holding in his
horse, in order to cross a river, when he thought that, in the
comparative silence of his springless wagon, he heard Robbie speaking
behind him.

“It's donky weather, this,” Robbie was saying.

“Ey, wet and sladderish,” said Reuben, in an insinuating tone, “baith
inside and out, baith under foot and ower head.”

“It was north of the bridge,” Robbie whispered.

“What were--Carlisle?” asked Reuben in his most facetious vein.

“It blows a bit on the Stye Head to-day, Ralph. The way's ower narrow.
I can never chain the young horse. Steady, Betsy; steady, lass;
steady--”

“Why, the lad's ram'lin',” said Reuben to himself.

“It was fifty strides north of the bridge,” Robbie whispered again;
and then lifting his voice he cried, “She's gone; she's gone.”

“He's ram'lin' for sure.”

The truth now dawned on Reuben that on the present occasion at least
Robbie was not drunk, but sick. With the illogical perversity of some
healthy people, he thought to rally the ailing man out of his ailment,
whatever it might be; so he expended all the facetiousness of which he
was master on Robbie's unconscious figure.

Reuben's well-meant efforts were of no avail. Robbie alternately
whispered, “It was north of the bridge,” and chuckled, “Ah, ah!
there's Garth, Garth--but I downed him, the dummel head!”

The little dalesman relinquished as hopeless all further attempt at
rational converse, and gave himself the solemn assurance, conveyed to
his acute intelligence by many grave shakes of the head, that “summat
_was_ ailin' the lad, after all.”

Then they drove for hours in silence. It was dark when they passed
through Threlkeld, and turned into the Vale of Wanthwaite on their
near approach to Wythburn.

“I scarce know rightly where Robbie bides, now old Martha's dead,”
 thought Reuben; “I'll just slip up the lonnin to Shoulth'et and ask.”




CHAPTER XXXVI. ROTHA'S CONFESSION.

     And to be wroth with one we love
     Doth work like madness in the brain.
                                        Coleridge.


When Reuben Thwaite formed this resolution he was less than a mile
from Shoulthwaite. In the house on the Moss, Rotha was then sitting
alone, save for the silent presence of the unconscious Mrs. Ray. The
day's work was done. It had been market day, and Willy Ray had not
returned from Gaskarth. The old house was quiet within, and not a
breath of wind was stirring without. There was no sound except the
crackling of the dry boughs on the fire and the hollow drip of the
melting snow.

By the chair from which Mrs. Ray gazed vacantly and steadily Rotha sat
with a book in her hand. She tried to read, but the words lost their
meaning. Involuntarily her eyes wandered from the open page. At length
the old volume, with its leathern covers clasped together with their
great brass clasp, dropped quietly into the girl's lap.

At that moment there was a sound of footsteps in the courtyard.
Getting up with an anxious face, Rotha walked to the window and drew
the blind partly aside.

It was Matthew Branthwaite.

“How fend ye, lass?” he said on opening the door; “rubbin' on all
reet? The roads are varra drewvy after the snow,” he added, stamping
the clods from his boots. Then looking about, “Hesn't our Liza been
here to-neet?”

“Not yet,” Rotha answered.

“Whearaway is t' lass? I thought she was for slipping off to
Shoulth'et. But then she's olas gitten her best bib and tucker on
nowadays.”

“She'll be here soon, no doubt,” said Rotha, giving Matthew his
accustomed chair facing Mrs. Ray.

“She's a rare brattlecan to chatter is our Liza. I telt her she was
ower keen to come away with all the ins and oots aboot the constables
coming to Wy'bern yesterday. She had it pat, same as if she'd seen it
in prent. That were bad news, and the laal hizzy ran bull-neck to gi'e
it oot.”

“She meant no harm, Matthew.”

“But why duddent she mean some good and run bull-neck to-neet to bring
ye the bettermer news?”

“Better news, Matthew? What is it?” asked Rotha eagerly, but with more
apprehension than pleasure in her tone.

“Why, that the constables hev gone,” said Matthew.

“Gone!”

“Gone! Another of the same sort came to-day to leet them, and away
they've gone together.”

Matthew clearly expected an outburst of delight at his intelligence.
“What dusta say to that, lass?” he added between the puffs of a pipe
that he was lighting from a candle. Then, raising his eyes and looking
up at Rotha, he said, “Why, what's this? What ails thee? Ey! What's
wrang?”

“Gone, you say?” said Rotha. “I fear that is the worst news of all,
Matthew.”

But now there was the rattle of a wagon on the lonnin. A moment later
the door was thrown open, and Liza Branthwaite stood in the porch with
Reuben Thwaite behind her.

“Here's Robbie Anderson back home in Reuben's cart,” said Liza,
catching her breath.

“Fetch him in,” said Matthew. “Is he grown shy o' t'yance?”

“That's mair nor my share, Mattha,” said Reuben.
“The lad's dylt out--fair beat, I tell thee; I picked him up frae the
brae side.”

“He can scarce move hand or foot,” cried Liza. “Come, quick!”

Rotha was out at the wagon in a moment.

“He's ill: he's unconscious,” she said. “Where did you find him?”

“A couple of mile or so outside Carlisle,” answered Reuben.

Rotha staggered, and must have fallen but for Matthew, who at the
moment came up behind her.

“I'll tell thee what it is, lass,” said the old man, “thoo'rt like to
be bad thysel', and varra bad, too. Go thy ways back to the fire.”

“Summat ails Robbie, no doubt about it,” said Reuben.

“Of course summat _ails_ him,” said Mattha, with an insinuating
emphasis on the word. “He nivver were an artistic drunkard, weren't
Bobbie.”

“He's been ram'lin' and ram'lin' all the way home,” continued Reuben.
“He's telt ower and ower agen of summat 'at were fifty yards north of
the bridge.”

“We must take him home,” said Liza, who came hurrying from the house
with a blanket over her arm. “Here, cover him with this, Rotha can
spare it.”

In a minute more Robbie's insensible form was wrapped round and round.

“Give him room to breathe,” said Mattha; “I declare ye're playing at
pund-o'-mair-weight with the lad!” he added as Rotha came up with a
sheepskin and a shawl.

“The night is cold, and he has all but three miles to ride yet!” said
the girl.

“He lodges with 'Becca Rudd; let's be off,” said Liza, clambering into
the cart by the step at the shaft. “Come up, father; quick!”

“What, Bobbie, Bobbie, but this is bad wark, bad wark,” said Mattha,
when seated in the wagon. “Hod thy tail in the watter, lad, and
there's hope for thee yit.”

With this figurative expression Mattha settled himself for the drive.
Rotha turned to Reuben Thwaite.

“At Carlisle, did you hear anything--meet anybody?” she asked.

“Baith,” said Reuben, with a twinkle which was lost in the darkness.

“I mean from Wythburn. Did you meet anybody from--did you see Ralph or
my father?”

“Nowther.”

“Nor hear of them?”

“No--wait--deary me, deary me, now 'at I mind it--I nivver thought of
it afore--I heeard 'at a man had been had up at the Toon Hall and
taken to the gaol. It cannot be 'at the man were--no, no--I'm ram'lin'
mysel sure-ly.”

“Ralph; it was Ralph!” said Rotha, trembling visibly. “Be quick. Good
night!” “Ralph at Carlisle!” said Mattha. “Weel, weel; after word
comes weird. That's why the constables are gone, and that's why
Robbie's come. Weel, weel! Up with thee, Reuben, and let us try the
legs of this auld dobbin of thine.”

How Rotha got back into the house that night she never knew. She could
not remember to have heard the rattle of the springless cart as it was
being driven off. All was for the moment a blank waste.

When she recovered consciousness she was sitting by the side of Mrs.
Ray, with her arms about the neck of the invalid and her head on the
unconscious breast. The soulless eyes looked with a meaningless stare
at the girl's troubled face.

The agony of suspense was over, and the worst had happened. What now
remained to her to say to Willy? He knew nothing of what she had done.
Sim's absence had been too familiar an occurrence to excite suspicion,
and Robbie Anderson had not been missed. What should she say?

This was the night of Thursday. During the long hours of the weary
days since Sunday, Rotha had conjured up again and again a scene
overflowing with delight, in which she should tell Willy everything.
This was to be when her father or Robbie or both returned, and the
crown of her success was upon her. But what now was the word to say?

The noise of wheels approaching startled the girl out of her troubled
dream. Willy was coming home. In another minute he was in the house.

“Rotha, Rotha,” he cried excitedly, “I've great news, great news.”

“What news?” asked Rotha, not daring to look up.

“Great news,” repeated Willy.

Lifting her eyes furtively to his face, Rotha saw that, like his
voice, it was brimming over with delight.

“The bloodhounds are gone,” he said, and, throwing off his cloak and
leggings, he embraced the girl and kissed her and laughed the laugh of
a happy man. Then he hurried out to see to his horse.

What was Rotha to do? What was she to say? This mistake of Willy's
made her position not less than terrible. How was she to tell him that
his joyousness was misplaced? If he had come to her with a sad face
she might then have told him all--yes, all the cruel truth! If he had
come to her with reproaches on his tongue, how easily she might have
unburdened her heavy heart! But this laughter and these kisses worked
like madness in her brain.

The minutes flew like thought, and Willy was back in the house.

“I thought they dare not do it. You'll remember I told them so. Ah!
ah! they find I was in the right.”

Willy was too much excited with his own reading of this latest
incident to sit in one seat for two minutes together. He walked up and
down the room, laughing sometimes, and sometimes pausing to pat his
mother's head.

It was fortunate for Rotha that she had to busy herself with the
preparations for Willy's supper, and that this duty rendered less
urgent the necessity for immediate response to his remarks. Willy, on
his part, was in no mood at present to indulge in niceties of
observation, and Rotha's perturbation passed for some time unnoticed.

“Ralph will be back with us soon, let us hope,” he said. “There's no
doubt but we do miss him, do we not?”

“Yes,” Rotha answered, leaning as much as possible over the fire that
she was mending.

The tone of the reply made an impression on Willy. In a moment more he
appeared to realize that there, had throughout been something unusual
in the girl's demeanor.

“Not well, Rotha?” he asked in a subdued tone. It had flashed across
his mind that perhaps her father was once more in some way the cause
of her trouble.

“Oh, very well!” she answered, throwing up her head with a little
touch of forced gayety.

“Why, there are tears in your eyes, girl. No? Oh, but there are!” They
are tears of joy, he thought. She loves Ralph as a brother. “_I_ laugh
when I'm happy, Rotha; it seems that _you_ cry.”

“Do I?” she answered, and wondered if the merciful Father above would
ever, ever, ever let this bitter hour pass by.

“No, it's worry, Rotha, that's it; you're not well, that's the truth.”

Willy would have been satisfied to let the explanation resolve itself
into this, but Rotha broke silence, saying, “What if it were _not_
good news--”

The words were choking her, and she stopped.

“Not good news--what news?” asked Willy, half muttering the girl's
words in a bewildered way.

“The news that the constables have gone.”

“Gone! What is it? What do you mean, Rotha?”

“What if the constables have gone,” said the girl, struggling with her
emotion, “only because--what if they have gone--because--because Ralph
is taken.”

“Taken! Where? What are you thinking of?”

“And what if Ralph is to be charged, not with treason--no, but
with--with murder? Oh, Willy!” the girl cried in her distress,
throwing away all disguise, “it is true, true; it is true.”

Willy sat down stupefied. With a wild and rigid look, he stared at
Rotha as they sat face to face, eye to eye. He said nothing. A sense
of horror mastered him.

“And this is not all,” continued Rotha, the tears rolling down her
cheeks. “What would you say of the person who did it--of the person
who put Ralph in the way of this--this death?” cried the girl, now
burying her face in her hands.

Willy's lips were livid. They moved as if in speech, but the words
would not come.

“What would I say?” he said at length, bitterly and scornfully, as he
rose from his seat with rigid limbs. “I would say--” He stopped; his
teeth were clinched. He drew one hand impatiently across his face. The
idea that Simeon Stagg must have been the informer had at that moment
got possession of his mind. “Never ask me what I would _say_,” he
cried.

“Willy, dear Willy,” sobbed Rotha, throwing her arms about him, “that
person--”

The sobs were stifling her, but she would not spare herself.

“That person was MYSELF!”

“You!” cried Willy, breaking from her embrace. “And the murder?” he
asked hoarsely, “whose murder?”

“James Wilson's.”

“Let me go--let me go, I say.”

“Another word.” Rotha stepped into the doorway. Willy threw her
hastily aside and hurried out.




CHAPTER XXXVII. WHICH INDICTMENT?


Under the rude old Town Hall at Carlisle there was a shop which was
kept by a dealer in second-hand books. The floor within was paved, and
the place was lighted at night by two lamps, which swung from the
beams of the ceilings. At one end a line of shelves served to separate
from the more public part of the shop a little closet of a room,
having a fire, and containing in the way of furniture a table, two or
three chairs, and a stuffed settle.

In this closet, within a week of the events just narrated, a man of
sinister aspect, whom we have met more than once already in other
scenes, sat before a fire.

“Not come down yet, Pengelly?” said, this man to the bookseller, a
tottering creature in a long gown and velvet skull cap.

“Not yet.”

“Will he ever come? It's all a fool's errand, too, I'll swear it is.”

Then twisting his shoulders as though shivering, he added,--

“Bitter cold, this shop of yours.”

“Warmer than Doomsdale, eh?” replied the bookseller with a grin as he
busied himself dusting his shelves.

The other chuckled. He took a stick that lay on the hearth and broke
the fire into a sharp blaze. The exercise was an agreeable one. It was
accompanied by agreeable reflections, too.

“I hear a foot on the stair.” A man entered the shop.

“No use, none,” said the new-comer. “It's wasted labor talking to
Master Wilfrey.”

The tone was one of vexation.

“Did ye tell him what I heard about Justice Hide and his carryings on
at Newcastle?”

“Ey, and I told 'im he'd never bring it off with Hide on the bench.”

“And what did the chiel say to it?”

“'Tut,' he said, says he, 'Millet is wi' 'im on the circuit, and he'll
see the law's safe on treason.'”

“So he will not touch the other indictment?”

“'It's no use,' says he, 'the man's sure to fall for treason,' he
says, 'and it's all botherment trying to force me to indict 'im for
murder.'”

“Force him! Ha! ha! that's good, that is; force him, eh?”

The speaker renewed his attentions to the fire.

“He'll be beaten,” he added,--“he'll be beaten, will Master Wilfrey.
With Hide oh the bench there'll be no conviction for treason. And then
the capital charge will go to the wall, and Ray will get away scot
free.”

“It baffles me yet aboot Ray, his giving himself up.”

“Shaf, man! Will ye never see through the trick? It was to stand for
treason and claim the pardon, or be fined, or take a year in
Doomsdale, and escape the gallows. He's a cunning taistrel. He'll do
aught to save his life.”

“You're wrong there; I cannot but say you're wrong there. I know the
man, and as I've told you there's nothing in the world he dare not do.
Why, would you credit it, I saw 'im one day--”

“Tut, haud yer tongue. Ye'd see him tremble one day if this sheriff of
yours were not flayt by his own shadow. Ye'd see him on Haribee; aye,
and maybe ye _will_ see him there yet, sheriff or no sheriff.”

This was said with a bitterness indicative of fierce and deadly
hatred.

Shifting uneasily under the close gaze of his companion, the other
said,--

“What for do you look at me like that? I've no occasion to love him,
have I?”

“Nor I, nor I,” said the first speaker, his face distorted with evil
passions; “and you shall spit on his grave yet, Master Scroope, that
you shall; and dance on it till it does yer soul good; you shall, you
shall, sheriff or none.”

Just then a flourish of trumpets fell on the ear. Conversation was
interrupted while the men, with the bookseller, stepped to the door.
Numbers of townspeople were crowding into the Market Place.
Immediately afterwards there came at a swift pace through Scotch
Street a gayly bedecked carriage, with outriders in gold lace and a
trumpeter riding in front.

“The judges--going through to King's Arms Lane,” observed the
bookseller.

“What o'clock do the 'sizes start, Mr. Pengelly?” asked a loiterer
outside.

“Ten in the morning, that's when the grand jury sit,” the bookseller
answered.




CHAPTER XXXVIII. PEINE FORTE ET DURE.


The court was densely packed at ten next morning. Every yard of
available space was thronged with people. The crown court lay on the
west of the Town Hall. It was a large square chamber without
galleries. Rude oak, hewn with the axe straight from the tree, formed
the rafters and principals of the roofs. The windows were small, and
cast a feeble light. A long table like a block of granite, covered
with a faded green cloth and having huge carved legs, stood at one end
of the court, and stretched almost from side to side. On a dais over
this table sat the two judges in high-backed chairs, deeply carved and
black. There was a stout rail at one end of the table, and behind it
were steps leading to a chamber below. This was the bar, and an
officer of the court stood at one side of it. Exactly opposite it were
three rows of seats on graduated levels. This was the jury box. Ranged
in front of the table were the counsel for the King, the clerk of the
court, and two or three lawyers. An ancient oak chest, ribbed with
iron and secured by several massive padlocks, stood on the table.

The day was cold. A close mist that had come from the mountains
hovered over the court and crept into every crevice, chilling and
dank.

There was much preliminary business to go through, and the people who
thronged the court watched it with ill-concealed impatience. True
bills were found for this offence and that: assaults, batteries,
larcenies.

Amid a general hush the crier called for Ralph Ray.

Ralph stepped up quietly, and laid one hand on the rail in front of
him. The hand was chained. He looked round. There was not a touch
either of pride or modesty in his steady gaze. He met without emotion
the sea of faces upturned to his own face. Near the door at the end of
the court stood the man who had been known in Lancaster as Ralph's
shadow. Their eyes met, but there was no expression of surprise in
either face. Close at hand was the burlier ruffian who had insulted
the girl that sang in the streets. In the body of the court there was
another familiar face. It was Willy Ray's, and on meeting his
brother's eyes for an instant Ralph turned his own quickly away.
Beneath the bar, with downcast eyes, sat Simeon Stagg.

The clerk of the court was reading a commission authorizing the court
to hear and determine treasons, and while this formality was
proceeding Ralph was taking note of his judges. One of them was a
stout, rubicund person advanced in years. Ralph at once recognized him
as a lawyer who had submitted to the Parliament six years before. The
other judge was a man of austere countenance, and quite unknown to
Ralph. It was the former of the two judges who had the principal
management of the case. The latter sat with a paper before his face.
The document sometimes concealed his eyes and sometimes dropped below
his mouth.

“Gentlemen,” said the judge, beginning his charge, “you are the grand
inquest for the body of this county, and you have now before you a
prisoner charged with treason. Treason, gentlemen, has two aspects:
there is treason of the wicked imagination, and there is treason
apparent: the former poisons the heart, the latter breaks forth in
action.”

The judge drew his robes about him, and was about to continue, when
the paper suddenly dropped from the face of the other occupant of the
bench.

“Your pardon, brother Millet,” he interrupted, and pointed towards
Ralph's arms. “When a prisoner comes to the bar his irons ought to be
taken off. Have you anything to object against these irons being
struck away?”

“Nothing, brother Hide,” replied the judge rather testily. “Keeper,
knock off the prisoner's irons.”

The official appealed to looked abashed, and replied that the
necessary instruments were not at hand.

“They are of no account, my lord,” said Ralph.

“They must be removed.”

When the delay attending this process was over and the handcuffs fell
to the ground, the paper rose once more in front of the face of
Justice Hide, and Justice Millet continued his charge. He defined the
nature and crime of treason with elaboration and circumlocution. He
quoted the ancient statute wherein the people, speaking of themselves,
say that they recognize no superior under God but only the King's
grace. “I do no speak my own words,” he said, “but the words of the
law, and I urge this the more lest any persons should draw dangerous
inferences to shadow their traitorous acts. Gentlemen, the King is the
vicegerent of God, and has no superior. If any man shall shroud
himself under any pretended authority, you must know that this is not
an excuse, but the height of aggravation.”

Once more the judge paused, drew his robes about him, and turned
sharply to the jury to observe the effect of his words; then to his
brother on the bench, for the light of his countenance. The paper was
covering the eyes of Justice Hide.

“But now, gentlemen, to come from the general to the particular. It is
treason to levy war against the King's person, and to levy war against
the King's authority is treason too. It follows, therefore, that all
acts which were done to the keeping of the King out of the exercise of
his kingly office were treason. If persons assembled themselves in a
warlike manner to do any of these acts, that was treason. Remember but
this, and I have done.”

A murmur of assent and approbation passed over the court when the
judge ceased to speak. Perhaps a close observer might have marked an
expression of dissatisfaction on the face of the other judge as often
as the document held in front of it permitted the eyes and mouth to be
seen. He shifted restlessly from side to side while the charge was
being delivered, and at the close of it he called somewhat impatiently
for the indictment.

The clerk was proceeding to give the names of the witnesses, when
Ralph asked to be permitted to see the indictment. With a smile, the
clerk handed him a copy in Latin. Ralph glanced at it, threw it back
to the table, and asked for a translation.

“Let the indictment be read aloud and in English,” said Justice Hide.

It was then read, and purported that, together with others, Ralph Ray,
not having the fear of God before his eyes, and being instigated by
the devil, had traitorously and feloniously, contrary to his due
allegiance and bounden duty, conspired against the King's authority on
sundry occasions and in divers places.

There was a strained attitude of attention while the indictment was
being read, and a dead stillness when the prisoner was called upon to
plead.

“How sayest thou, Ralph Ray? Art thou guilty of that treason whereof
thou standest indicted and for which thou hast been arraigned, or not
guilty?”

Ralph did not reply at once. He looked calmly around. Then, in a firm
voice, without a trace of emotion, he said,--

“I claim exemption under the Act of Oblivion.”

There was a murmur of inquiry.

“That will avail you nothing,” replied the judge who had delivered the
charge. “The Act does not apply to your case. You must plead Guilty or
Not Guilty.”

“Have I no right to the benefit of the Act of Oblivion?”

The clerk rose again.

“Are you Guilty or Not Guilty?”

“Have I liberty to move exceptions to the indictment?”

“You shall have the liberty that any subject can have,” replied
Justice Millet. “You have heard the indictment read, and you must
plead, Guilty or Not Guilty.”

The paper had again gone up before the face of Justice Hide.

“I stand at this bar,” said Ralph quietly, “charged with conspiring
against the King's authority. The time of the alleged treason is
specified. I move this exception to the indictment, that the King of
England was _dead_ at the period named.”

There was some shuffling in the court. The paper had dropped below the
eyes.

“You trouble the court with these damnable excursions,” cried Justice
Millet, with no attempt to conceal his anger. “By the law of England
the King never dies. Your plea must be direct,--'Guilty,' or 'Not
Guilty.' No man standing in your position at the bar must make any
other answer to the indictment.”

“Shall I be heard, my lord?”

“You shall, sir, but only on your trial.”

“I urge a point of law, and I ask for counsel,” said Ralph; “I can
pay.” “You seem to be versed in proceedings of law, young man,”
 replied the judge, with an undisguised sneer.

The paper dropped below the mouth.

“Mr. Ray,” said Justice Hide, in a friendly tone, “the course is that
you should plead.”

“I stand charged, my lord, with no crime. How, then, shall I plead?”

“Mr. Ray,” said the judge again, “I am sorry to interrupt you. I hold
that a man in your position should have every leniency shown to him.
But these discourses are contrary to all proceedings of this nature.
Will you plead?”

“He _must_ plead, brother; there is no _will you?_” rejoined the other
occupant of the bench.

The paper went up over the eyes once more. There was some laughter
among the men before the table.

“He thinks it cheap to defy the court,” said counsel for the King.

“Brother Millet,” said Justice Hide, “when a prisoner at the bar would
plead anything in formality, counsel should be allowed.”

“Oh, certainly, certainly,” replied the judge, recovering his suavity.
Then turning to Ralph, he said,--

“What is the point of law you urge?”

“What I am accused of doing,” replied Ralph, “was done under the
command of the Parliament, when the Parliament was the supreme power.”

“Silence, sir,” cried Justice Millet. “The Parliament was made up of a
pack of usurpers with a low mechanic fellow at their head. Gentlemen,”
 turning with a gracious smile to the jury, “you will remember what I
said.”

“The Parliament was appointed by the people,” replied Ralph quietly,
“and recognized by foreign princes.”

“It was only a third part of the constitution.”

“It did not live in a corner. The sound of it went out among many
nations.”

Ralph still spoke calmly. The spectators held their breath.

“Do you know where you are, sir?” cried the judge, now grown scarlet
with anger. “You are in the court of his Majesty the King. Would you
have the boldness here, before the faces of the servants of that
gracious Prince, to justify your crimes by claiming for them the
authority of usurpers?” “I am but charged,” replied Ralph, “with
putting my hand to that plough which all men were then compelled to
follow. I am but accused of fidelity to that cause which some of my
prosecutors, as I see, did themselves at first submit to, and
afterwards betray.”

At this there were loud murmurs in the court. The paper had fallen
from the face of Justice Hide. His brother justice was livid with
rage.

“What fellow is this?” said the latter judge, with obvious uneasiness.
“A dalesman from the mountains, did you say?”

“Dalesman or not, my lord, a cunning and dangerous man,” replied
counsel.

“I see already that he is one who is ready to say anything to save his
miserable life.”

“Brother Millet,” interrupted the other judge, “you have rightly
observed that this is a court of his Gracious Majesty. Let us conduct
it as such.”

There was a rustle of gowns before the table and some whispering in
the court.

“Mr. Ray, you have heard the indictment. It charges you as a false
traitor against his Most Gracious Majesty, your supreme and natural
lord. The course is for you to plead Guilty or Not Guilty.”

“Have I no right to the General Pardon?” asked Ralph.

Justice Millet, recovering from some temporary discomfiture,
interposed,--

“The proclamation of pardon was issued before his Majesty came into
possession.”

“And my crime--was not that committed before the King came into
possession? Are the King's promises less sacred than the people's
laws?”

Again some murmuring in the court.

“Brother Hide, is the court to be troubled longer with these idle
disputations?”

“I ask for counsel,” said Ralph.

“This,” replied Justice Hide, “is not a matter in which counsel can be
assigned. If your crime be treason, it cannot be justified; if it be
justifiable, it is not treason. The law provides that _we_ shall be
your counsel, and, as such, I advise that you do not ask exemption
under the Act of Oblivion, for that is equal to a confession.” “I do
not confess,” said Ralph.

“You must plead Guilty or Not Guilty. There is no third course. Are
you Guilty or Not Guilty?”

There was a stillness like that of the chamber of death in the court
as this was spoken.

Ralph paused, lifted his head, and looked calmly about him. Every eye
was fixed on his face. That face was as firm as a rock. Two eyes near
the door were gleaming with the light of fiendish triumph. Ralph
returned his gaze to the judges. Still the silence was unbroken. It
seemed to hang in the air.

“Guilty or Not Guilty?”

There was no reply.

“Does the prisoner refuse to plead?” asked Justice Hide. Still there
was no reply. Not a whisper in the court; not the shuffle of a foot.
The judge's voice fell slowly on the ear,--

“Ralph Ray, we would not have you deceive yourself. If you do not
plead, it will be the same with you as if you had confessed.”

“Am I at liberty to stand mute?”

“Assuredly not,” Justice Millet burst out, pulling his robes about
him.

“Your pardon, brother; it is the law that the prisoner may stand mute
if he choose.”

Then turning to Ralph,--

“But why?”

“To save from forfeiture my lands, sheep, goods, and chattels, and
those of my mother and brother, falsely stated to be mine.”

Justice Millet gave an eager glance at Justice Hide.

“It is the law,” said the latter, apparently replying to an unuttered
question. “The estate of an offender cannot be seized to the King's
use before conviction. My Lord Coke is very clear on that point. It is
the law; we must yield to it.”

“God forefend else!” replied Justice Millet in his meekest tone.

“Ralph Ray,” continued the judge, “let us be sure that you know what
you do. If you stand mute a terrible punishment awaits you.”

Justice Millet interposed,--

“I repeat that the prisoner _must_ plead. In the ancient law of _peine
forte et dure_ an exception is expressly made of all cases of
regicide.”

“The indictment does not specify regicide as the prisoner's treason.”

Justice Millet hid his discomfiture in an ostentatious perusal of a
copy of the indictment.

“But do not deceive yourself,” continued the judge, turning again
towards the prisoner. “Do you know the penalty of standing mute? Do
you know that to save your estates to your family by refusing to
plead, you must suffer a terrible death,--a death without judgment, a
death too shocking perhaps for so much as bare contemplation? Do you
know this?”

The dense throng in the court seemed not to breathe at that awful
moment. Every one waited for the reply. It came slowly and
deliberately,--

“I know it.”

The paper dropped from the judge's hand, and fluttered to the floor.
In the court there was a half-uttered murmur of amazement. A man stood
there to surrender his life, with all that was near and dear to it.
Not dogged, trapped, made desperate by fate, but cheerfully and of his
own free will.

Wonder and awe fell on that firmament of faces. Brave fellows there
found the heart swell and the pulse beat quick as they saw that men--
plain, rude men, Englishmen, kinsmen--might still do nobly. Cowards
shrank closer together.

And, in the midst of all, the man who stood to die wore the serenest
look to be seen there. Not an eye but was upturned to his placid face.

The judge's voice broke the silence,--

“And was it with this knowledge and this view that you surrendered?”

Ralph folded his arms across his breast and bowed.

The silence could be borne no longer. The murmurs of the spectators
broke into a wild tumult of cheers, like the tossing of many waters;
like the roar and lash of mighty winds that rise and swell, then ebb
and surge again.

The usher of the court had not yet suppressed the applause, when it
was observed that a disturbance of another kind had arisen near the
door. A young woman with a baby in her arms was crushing her way in
past the javelin man stationed there, and was craning her neck to
catch sight of the prisoner above the dense throng that occupied every
inch of the floor.

“Let me have but a glance at him--one glance--for the dear God's sake
let me but see him--only once--only for a moment.”

The judge called for silence, and the officer was hurrying the woman
away when Ralph turned his face full towards the door.

“I see him now,” said the woman. “He's not my husband. No,” she added,
“but I've seen him before somewhere.”

“Where, my good woman? Where have you seen him before the day?”

This was whispered in her ear by a man who had struggled his way to
her side.

“Does he come from beyond Gaskarth?” she asked.

“Why, why?”

“This commotion ill befits the gravity of a trial of such grave
concernment,” said one of the judges in an austere tone.

In another moment the woman and her eager interlocutor had left the
court together.

There was then a brief consultation between the occupants of the
bench.

“The pardon is binding,” said one; “if it were otherwise it were the
hardest case that could be for half the people of England.”

“Yet the King came back without conditions,” replied the other.

There was a general bustle in the court. The crier proclaimed silence.

“The prisoner stands remanded for one week.”

Then Ralph was removed from the bar.




CHAPTER XXXIX. THE FIERY HAND.


They drove Robbie Anderson that night to the house of the old woman
with whom he lodged, but their errand was an idle one. Reuben Thwaite
jumped from the cart and rapped at the door. Old 'Becca Rudd opened
it, held a candle over her head, and peered into the darkness. When
she heard what sick guest they had brought her, she trembled from head
to foot, and cried to them not to shorten the life of a poor old soul
whose days were numbered.

“Nay, nay; take him away, take him away,” she said.

“Art daft, or what dusta mean?” said Mattha from his seat in the cart.

“Nay, but have mercy on me, have mercy on me,” cried 'Becca
beseechingly.

“Weel, weel,” said Mattha, “they do say as theer's no fools like auld
fools. Why, the lad's ram'lin'. Canst hear?--ram'lin'. Wadst hev us
keck him intil the dike to die like ony dog?”

“Take him away, take him away,” cried 'Becca, retiring inwards, her
importunity becoming every moment louder and more vehement.

“I reckon ye wad be a better stepmother to yon brocken-backt bitch of
yours an it had the mange?” said Mattha.

“Nay, but the plague--the plague. Ye've heard what the new preachers
are telling about the plague. Robbie's got it, Robbie's got the
plague; I'm sure of it, sure.”

'Becca set down the candle to wring her hands.

“So thoo's sure of it, ista?” said Mattha. “Weel, I'll tell thee what
_I_'s sure on, and that is that thoo art yan o' them folks as waddant
part with the reek off their kail. Ye'r nobbut an auld blatherskite,
'Becca, as preaches mair charity in a day ner ye'r ready to stand by
in a twelvemonth. Come, Reuben, whip up yer dobbin. Let's away to my
own house. I'd hev to be as poor as a kirk louse afore I'd turn my
back on a motherless lad as is nigh to death's door.”

“Don't say that, father,” whimpered Liza.

“Nay, Mattha, nay, man,” cried 'Becca, “it's nought of that. It's my
life that's in danger.”

“Shaf! that 'at is nowt is nivver in danger. Whear's the plague as wad
think it worth while to bodder wid a skinflint like thee? Good neet,
'Becca, good neet, and 'od white te, lass, God requite thee!”

So they drove to Matthew Branthwaite's cottage, and installed the sick
man in the disused workroom, where the loom had stood silent for
nearly ten years.

A rough shakedown was improvised, a log fire was speedily kindled, and
in half an hour Mrs. Branthwaite was sitting at Robbie's bedside
bathing his hot forehead with cloths damped in vinegar. The little
woman--timid and nervous in quieter times--was beginning to show some
mettle now.

“Robbie has the fever, the brain fever,” she said. She was right. The
old wife's diagnosis was as swift as thought. Next day they sent for
the doctor from Gaskarth. He came; looked wise and solemn; asked three
questions in six syllables apiece, and paused between them. Then he
felt the sick man's pulse. He might almost have heard the tick of it.
Louder was the noise of the beating heart. Still not a word. In the
dread stillness out came the lance, and Robbie was bled. Then sundry
hums and ahs, but no syllable of counsel or cheer.

“Is there any danger?” asked little Liza in a fretful tone. She was
standing with head averted from the bowl which was in her mother's
hands, with nervous fingers and palpitating breast.

The wise man replied in two guarded words.

Robbie had appeared to be conscious before the operation of the lance.
He was wandering again. He would soon be wildly delirious.

The great man took up his hat and his fee together. His silence at
least had been golden.

“Didsta iver see sic a dumb daft boggle?” said Mattha as the doctor
disappeared. “It cannot even speak when it's spoken to.”

The medical ghost never again haunted that particular ghost-walk.

Robbie lay four days insensible, and Mrs. Branthwaite was
thenceforward his sole physician and nurse. On the afternoon of the
third day of Robbie's illness--it was Sunday--Rotha Stagg left her own
peculiar invalid in the care of one of the farm women and walked over
to Mattha's house.

Willy Ray had not returned from Carlisle. He had exchanged scarcely
six words with her since the interview previously recorded. Rotha had
not come to Shoulthwaite for Willy's satisfaction. Neither would she
leave it for his displeasure.

When the girl reached the weaver's cottage and entered the sick-room,
Mattha himself was sitting at the fireside, with a pipe, puffing the
smoke up the chimney. Mrs. Branthwaite was bathing the sick man's
head, from which the hair had been cut away. Liza was persuading
herself that she was busy sewing at a new gown. The needle stuck and
stopped twenty times a minute. Robbie was delirious.

“Robbie, Robbie, do you know who has come to see you?” said Liza,
bending over him.

“Ey, mother, ey, here I am, home at last,” muttered Robbie.

“He's ram'lin' agen,” said Mattha from the chimney corner.

“Bless your old heart, mammy, but I'll mend my management. I will,
that I will. It's true _this_ time, mammy, ey, it is. No, no; try me
again just _once_, mammy!”

“He's forever running on that, poor lad,” whispered Mattha. “I reckon
it's been a sair point with him sin' he put auld Martha intil t'
grund.”

“Don't greet, mammy; don't greet.”

Poor Liza found the gown wanted close attention at that moment. It
went near enough to her eyes.

“I say it was fifty strides to the north of the bridge! Swear it? Ey,
swear it!” cried Robbie at a fuller pitch of his weakened voice.

“He's olas running on that, too,” whispered Mattha to Rotha. “Dusta
mind 'at laal Reuben said the same?”

In a soft and pleading tone Robbie mumbled on,--

“Don't greet, mammy, or ye'll kill me sure enough. Killing _you?_ Ey,
it's true it's true; but I'll mend my management--I _will_.” There
were sobs in Robbie's voice, but no tears in his bloodshot eyes.

“There, there, Robbie,” whispered Mrs. Branthwaite soothingly in his
ear; “rest thee still, Robbie, rest thee still.”

It was a pitiful scene. The remorse of the poor, worn, wayward,
tender-hearted lad seemed to rend the soul in his unconscious body.

“If he could but sleep!” said Mrs. Branthwaite; “but he cannot.”

Liza got up and went out.

Robbie struggled to raise himself on one elbow. His face, red as a
furnace, was turned aside as though in the act of listening for some
noise far away. Then in a thick whisper he said,--

“Fifty strides north of the bridge. No dreaming about it--north, I
say, north.”

Robbie sank back exhausted, and Rotha prepared to leave.

“It were that ducking of his heed did it, sure enough,” said Mattha,
“that and the drink together. I mind Bobbie's father--just sic like,
just sic like! Poor auld Martha, she _hed_ a sad bout of it, she hed,
what with father and son. And baith good at the bottom, too, baith,
poor lads.”

A graver result than any that Mattha dreamt of hung at this moment on
Robbie's insensibility, and when consciousness returned the
catastrophe had fallen.




CHAPTER XL. GARTH AND THE QUAKERS.


As Rotha left the weaver's cottage she found Liza in the porch.

“I'm just laughing at the new preachers,” she said huskily. She was
turning her head aside slyly to brush the tears from her eyes into a
shawl which was over her head.

“There they are by the Lion. It's wrong to laugh, but they are real
funny, aye!”

The artifice was too palpable to escape Rotha's observation. Without a
word she put her arms about Liza and kissed her. Then the lurking
tears gushed out openly, and the girl wept on her breast. They parted
in silence, and Rotha walked towards a little company gathered under
the glow of a red sun on the highway, and almost in front of the
village inn. They were the “new preachers” of whom Liza had spoken.
The same that had, according to Robbie's landlady, foretold the
plague. They were three men, and they stood in the middle of a ring of
men, women, and children. One of them, tall and gaunt, with long gray
hair and wild eyes, was speaking at the full pitch of his voice.
Another was emphasizing his words with loud hallelujahs. Then the
third dropped down on his knees in the road, and prayed with
earnestness in a voice that rang along the village street--silent
to-day, save for him--and echoed back and back. Before the prayer had
quite ended a hymn was begun in a jaunting measure, with a chorus that
danced to a spirit of joyfulness.

Then came another exhortation. It was heavy with gloomy prediction.
The world was full of oppression, and envy, and drunkenness, and vain
pleasures. Men had forsaken the light that should enlighten all men.
They were full of deceit and vanities. They put their trust in priests
and professors who were but empty hollow casks. “Yet the Lord is at
hand,” cried the preacher, “to thrash the mountains, and beat them to
dust.”

Another hymn followed, more jubilant than before. One by one the
people around caught the contagion of excitement. There were old men
there with haggard faces that told of the long hard fight with the
world in which they were of the multitude of the vanquished; old
women, too, jaded and tired, and ready to slip into oblivion, their
long day's duty done; mothers with babes in their arms and young
children nestling close at their sides; rollicking boys and girls as
well, with all the struggle of life in front of them.

The simple Quaker hymn told of a great home of rest far away, yet very
near.

The tumult had attracted the frequenters of the Red Lion, and some of
these had stepped out on to the causeway. Two or three of them were
already drunk. Among them was Garth, the blacksmith. He laughed
frantically, and shrieked and crowed at every address and every hymn.
When the preachers shouted “Hallelujah,” he shouted “Hallelujah” also;
shouted again and again, in season and out of season; shouted until he
was hoarse, and the perspiration poured down his crimsoning face. His
tipsy companions at first assisted him with noisy cheers. When one of
the men in the ring lifted up his voice in the ardor of prayer, Garth
yelled out yet louder to ask if he thought God Almighty was deaf.

The people began to tremble at the blacksmith's blasphemies. The
tipsiest of his fellows slunk away from his side.

The preacher spoke at one moment of the numbers of their following.

“You carry a bottle of liquor somewhere,” cried Garth; “that's why
they follow you.”

Wearied out by such a shrieking storm of discord, one of the three
Quakers--a little man with quick eyes and nervous lips--made his way
through the crowd to where the blacksmith stood at the outskirts of
it. Garth propped his back against the wall of the inn and laughed
hysterically at the preacher's remonstrance: “Woe to thee and such as
thee when God's love passes away from thee.”

Garth replied with a mocking blasphemy too terrible for record. He
repeated it, shouted it, screamed it.

In sheer horror the Quaker dropped on his knees in front of the
blacksmith and muttered a prayer that was almost inaudible:--

“God grant that the seven devils, yea seven times seven, may come out
of him!”

Then Garth was silent for a moment.

“I knew such a one as thou art five years ago,” said the Quaker; “and
where thinkest thou he died?”

“Where?” said Garth, with a drunken hiccup.

“But he was a saved man at last--saved by the light with which Christ
enlightened all men--saved--”

“Where?” repeated Garth, with a hideous imprecation.

“On the gallows--he had killed his own father--he was--”

“Curse you! Curse you on earth and in hell!”

The people who had crowded round held their hands to their ears to
shut out the fearful blasphemies. Garth, sobered somewhat by rage
which was no longer assumed but real, pushed them aside and strode
down the lane.

Rotha turned away from the crowd and walked towards Shoulthwaite.
Before her, at fifty paces, the blacksmith tramped doggedly on, with
head towards the ground. Drunk, mad, devilish as at this moment he
might be, Rotha felt an impulse to overtake him. She knew not what
power prompted her, or what idea or what hope. Never before had she
felt an instinct drawing her to this man. Yet she wished to speak with
him now. Would she had done so! Would she had done so--not for his
sake or yet for hers--but now, even now, while the impieties were hot
on his burning lips!

Rotha ran a step or two and stopped. Garth shambled sullenly on. He
never lifted his eyes to the sky.

When he reached his home he threw himself on the skemmel drawn up to
the hearth. He was sober now. His mother had been taking her Sunday
afternoon's sleep on the settle, which stood at one side of the
kitchen. His noisy entrance awoke her. He broke the peat with the
peat-stick and kicked it into the fire.

“What's come ower thee?” said Mrs. Garth, opening her eyes and
yawning.

“What's come over you more like?” growled Joe.

“What now?”

“Do you sell your own flesh and blood?” said Joe. “Sell? What's thy
mare's nest now, thou weathercock? One wouldn't think that butter wad
melt in thy mouth sometimes, and then agen--”

“I'm none so daft as daftly dealt with, mother,” interrupted the
blacksmith.

“I've telt thee afore thou'rt yan of the wise asses. What do you mean
by _sell?_”

“I reckon _you_ know when strangers in the street can tell me.”

The blacksmith coiled himself up in his gloomy reserve and stared into
the fire.

“Oh, thou's heard 'at yon man's in Doomsdale, eh?”

Joe grunted something that was inarticulate.

“I mean to hear the trial,” continued Mrs. Garth, with a purr of
satisfaction.

“Maybe you wouldn't like to see me in his place, mother? Oh, no;
certainly not.”

“Thou great bledderen fool,” cried Mrs. Garth, getting on to her feet
and lifting her voice to a threatening pitch; “whearaway hast been?”

Joe growled again, and crept closer over the fire, his mother's brawny
figure towering above him.




CHAPTER XLI. A HORSE'S NEIGH.


A bleared winter sun was sinking down through a scarf of mist. Rotha
was walking hurriedly down the lonnin that led from the house on the
Moss. Laddie, the collie, had attached himself to her since Ralph's
departure, and now he was running by her side.

She was on her way to Fornside, but on no errand of which she was
conscious. Willy Ray had not yet returned. Her father had not come
back from his long journey. Where was Willy? Where was her father?
What kept them away? And what of Ralph--standing as he did, in the
jaws of that Death into which her own hands had thrust him! Would hope
ever again be possible? These questions Rotha had asked herself a
hundred times, and through the responseless hours of the long days and
longer nights of more than a week she had lived on somehow, somehow,
somehow.

The anxiety was burning her heart away; it would be burnt as dry as
ashes soon. And she had been born a woman--a weak woman--a thing meant
to sit at home with her foot on the treadle of her poor little wheel,
while dear lives were risked and lost elsewhere.

Rotha was a changed being. She was no longer the heartsome lassie who
had taken captive the stoical fancy of old Angus. Tutored by
suffering, she had become a resolute woman. Goaded by something akin
to despair, she was now more dangerous than resolute.

She was to do strange things soon. Even her sunny and girlish
ingenuousness was to desert her. She was to become as cunning as
dauntless. Do you doubt it? Put yourself in her place. Think of what
she had done, and why she had done it; think of what came of it, and
may yet come of it. Then look into your own heart; or, better far,
look into the heart of another--you will be quicker to detect the
truth and the falsehood that lies _there_.

Then listen to what the next six days will bring forth.

The cottage at Fornside has never been occupied since the tailor
abandoned it. Hardly in Wythburn was there any one so poor as to covet
such shelter for a home. It was a single-storied house with its back
to the road. Its porch was entered from five or six steps that led
downwards from a little garden. It had three small rooms, with low
ceilings and paved floors. In the summer the fuchsia flecked its front
with white and red. In these winter days the dark ivy was all that
grew about it.

Lonely, cheerless, and now proscribed by the fears and superstitions
of the villagers, it stood as gaunt as a solitary pine on the mountain
head that has been blasted and charred by the lightning.

When Rotha reached it she hesitated as if uncertain whether to go in
or go back. She stood at the little wicket, while the dog bounded into
the garden. In another moment Laddie had run into the house itself.

How was this? She had locked the door. The key had been hidden as
usual in the place known only to her father and herself. Rotha hurried
down, and pushed her hand deep into the thatch covering the porch. The
key was gone. The door stood open.

And now, besides the pat of the dog's feet, she heard noises from
within.

Rotha put her hand to her heart. Could it be that her father had come
home? Was he here, here?

The girl stepped into the kitchen. Then a loud clash, as of a closing
chest, came from an inner room. In an instant there was the rustle of
a dress, and Mrs. Garth and Rotha were face to face in that dim
twilight.

The recoil of emotion was too much for the girl. She stood silent. The
woman looked at her for an instant with something more like a
frightened expression than had yet been seen on her hard face.

Then she brushed past her and away.

“Stop!” cried Rotha, recovering herself.

The woman was gone, and the girl did not pursue her.

Rotha went into the room which Mrs. Garth had come from. It was
Wilson's room. There was his trunk still, which none had claimed. The
trunk--the hasty closing of its lid had been the noise she heard! But
it had always been heavily locked. With feverish fingers Rotha
clutched at the great padlock that hung from the front of the trunk.
It had a bunch of keys suspended from it. They were strange to her.
Whose keys were they?

The trunk was not locked; the lid had merely been shut down. Rotha
raised it with trembling hands. Inside were clothes of various kinds,
but these had been thrust hurriedly aside, and beneath them were
papers--many papers--scattered loosely at the bottom. What were they?

It was growing dark. Rotha remembered that there was no candle in the
house, and no lamp that had oil. She thrust her hand down to snatch up
the papers, meaning to carry them away. She touched the dead man's
clothes, and shrank back affrighted. The lid fell heavily again.

The girl began to quiver in every limb.

Who could say that the spirits of the dead did not haunt the scenes of
their lives and deaths? Gracious heaven! she was in Wilson's room!

Rotha tottered her way out in the gathering gloom, clutching at the
door as she went. Back in the porch again, she felt for the key to the
outer door. It was in the lock. She should carry it with her this
time. Then she remembered the keys in the trunk. She must carry them
away also. She never asked herself why. What power of good or evil was
prompting the girl?

Calling the dog, she went boldly into the house again, and once more
into the dead man's room. She fixed the padlock, turned the key, drew
it out of its wards, and put the bunch of keys in her pocket. In two
minutes more she was on the high road, walking back to Shoulthwaite.

There was something in her heart that told her that to-day's event was
big with issues. And, truly, an angel of light had led her to that
dark house.

The sun was gone. A vapory mist was preceding the night. The dead day
lay clammy on her hands and cheeks.

When she reached the Fornside road, her eyes turned towards the
smithy. There it was, and a bright red glow from the fire, white at
its hissing heart, lit up the air about it. Rotha could hear the thick
breathing of the bellows and the thin tinkle of the anvil. Save for
these all was silent. What was the secret of the woman who lived
there? That it concerned her father, Ralph, herself, and all people
dear to her, was as clear as day to Rotha. The girl then resolved
that, come what should or could, that secret should be torn from the
woman's heart.

The moon was struggling feebly through a ridge of cloud, lighting the
sky at moments like a revolving lamp at sea. On the road home Rotha
passed two young people who were tripping along and laughing as they
went.

“Good night, Rotha,” said the young dalesman.

“Good night, dear,” said his sweetheart.

Rotha returned the salutations.

“Fine lass that,” said the young fellow in a whisper.

“Do you think so? She's too moapy for me,” replied his companion. “I
hate moapy folks.”

After this slight interruption the two resumed the sport of their good
spirits.

The moon had cleared the clouds now.

It was to be just such a night--save for the frost and wind--as that
fateful one on which Ralph and Rotha walked together from the Red
Lion. How happy that night had seemed to her then to be--happy, at
least, until the end! She had even sung under the moonlight. But her
songs had been truer than she knew--terribly, horribly true.

     One lonely foot sounds on the keep,
     And that's the warder's tread.

Step by step Rotha retraced every incident of that night's walk; every
word of Ralph's and every tone.

He had told her that her father was innocent, and that he knew it was
so.

He had asked her if she did not love her father, and she had said,
“Better than all the world.”

Had that been true, quite _true?_ Rotha stopped and plucked at a bough
in the fence.

When she had asked him the cause of his sadness, when she had hinted
that perhaps he was keeping something behind which might yet take all
the joy out of the glad news that he gave her--what, then, had he
said? He had told her there was nothing to come that need mar her
happiness or disturb her love. Had that also been true, _quite_ true?
No, no, no, neither had been true; but the falsehood had been hers.

She loved her father, yes; but not, no, not better than all the world.
And what had come after had marred her happiness and disturbed her
love. Where lay her love--where?

Rotha stopped again, and as though to catch her breath. Nature within
her seemed at war with itself. It was struggling to tear away a mask
that hid its own face. That mask must soon be plucked aside.

Rotha thought of her betrothal to Willy, and then a cold chill passed
over her.

She walked on until she came under the shadow of the trees beneath
which Angus Ray had met his death. There she paused and looked down.
She could almost conjure up the hour of the finding of the body.

At that moment the dog was snuffling at the very spot. Here it was
that she herself had slipped; here that Ralph had caught her in his
arms; here, again, that he had drawn her forward; here that they had
heard noises from the court beyond.

Stop--what noise was _that!_ It was the whinny of a horse! They had
heard that too. Her dream of the past and the present reality were
jumbling themselves together.

Again? No, no; that was the neigh--the real neigh--of a horse. Rotha
hastened forward. The dog had run on. A minute later Laddie was
barking furiously. Rotha reached the courtyard.

There stood the old mare, exactly as before!

Was it a dream? Had she gone mad? Rotha ran and caught the bridle.

Yes, yes! It was a reality. It was Betsy!

There was no coffin on her back; the straps that had bound it now
dangled to the ground.

But it was the mare herself, and no dream.

Yes, Betsy had come home.




CHAPTER XLII. THE FATAL WITNESS.


Long before the hour appointed for the resumption of the trial of
Ralph Ray, a great crowd filled the Market Place at Carlisle, and
lined the steps of the old Town Hall, to await the opening of the
doors. As the clock in the cupola was striking ten, three men inside
the building walked along the corridor to unbar the public entrance.

“I half regret it,” said one; “you have forced me into it. I should
never have touched it but for you.”

“Tut, man,” whispered another, “you saw how it was going. With yon man
on the bench and yon other crafty waistrel at the bar, the chance was
wellnigh gone. What hope was there of a conviction?”

“None, none; never make any more botherment about it, Master Lawson,”
 said the third.

“The little tailor is safe. He can do no harm as a witness.”

“I'm none so sure of that,” rejoined the first speaker.

The door was thrown open and the three men stepped aside to allow the
crush to pass them. One of the first to enter was Mrs. Garth. The
uncanny old crone cast a quick glance about her as she came in with
the rest, hooded close against the cold. Her eyes fell on one of the
three men who stood apart. For a moment she fixed her gaze steadfastly
upon him, and then the press from behind swept her forward. But in
that moment she had exchanged a swift and unmistakable glance of
recognition. The man's face twitched slightly. He looked relieved when
the woman had passed on.

Dense as had been the throng that filled the court on the earlier
hearing, the throng was now even yet more dense. The benches usually
provided for the public had been removed, and spectators stood on
every inch of the floor. Some crept up to the windows, and climbed on
to the window boards. One or two daring souls clambered over the
shoulders of their fellows to the principals of the roof, and sat
perched across them. The old court house was paved and walled with
people.

From the entrance at the western end the occupants of the seats before
the table filed in one by one. The first to come was the sheriff,
Wilfrey Lawson. With papers in hand, he stationed himself immediately
under the jurors' box and facing the bar. Then came the clerk of the
court, who was making an ostentatious display of familiarity with
counsel for the King, who walked half a pace behind him.

The judges took their seats. As they entered, the gentleman of the
rubicund complexion was chatting in a facetious vein with his brother
judge, who, however, relaxed but little of the settled austerity of
his countenance under the fire of many jests.

Silence was commanded, and Ralph Ray was ordered to the bar. He had
scarcely taken his place there when the name of Simeon Stagg was also
called. For an instant Ralph looked amazed. The sheriff observed his
astonishment and smiled. The next moment Sim was by his side. His face
was haggard; his long gray-and-black hair hung over his temples. He
was led in. He clutched feverishly at the rail in front. He had not
yet lifted his eyes. After a moment he raised them, and met the eyes
of Ralph turned towards him. Then he shuffled and sidled up to Ralph's
elbow. The people stretched their necks to see the unexpected
prisoner.

After many preliminary formalities it was announced that the grand
jury had found a true bill for murder against the two prisoners.

The indictment was read. It charged Ralph Ray and Simeon Stagg with
having murdered with malice aforethought James Wilson, agent to the
King's counsel.

The prisoners were told to plead. Ralph answered promptly and in a
clear tone, “Not Guilty.” Sim hesitated, looked confused, stammered,
lifted his eyes as if inquiringly to Ralph's face, then muttered
indistinctly, “Not Guilty.”

The judges exchanged glances. The clerk, with a sneer on his lip,
mumbled something to counsel. The spectators turned with a slight
bustle among themselves. Their pleas had gone against the
prisoners--at least against Ralph.

When the men at the bar were asked how they would be tried, Ralph
turned to the bench and said he had been kept close prisoner for seven
days, none having access to him. Was he to be called to trial, not
knowing the charge against him until he was ordered to the bar?

No attention was paid to his complaint, and the jury was empanelled.
Then counsel rose, and with the customary circumlocution opened the
case against the prisoners. In the first place, he undertook to
indicate the motive and occasion of the horrid, vile, and barbarous
crime which had been committed, and which, he declared, scarce
anything in the annals of justice could parallel; then, he would set
forth the circumstances under which the act was perpetrated; and,
finally, he proposed to show what grounds existed for inferring that
the prisoners were guilty thereof.

He told the court that the deceased James Wilson, as became him
according to the duty of his secret office, had been a very zealous
person. In his legal capacity he had sought and obtained a warrant for
the arrest of the prisoner Ray. That warrant had never been served.
Why? The dead body of Wilson had been found at daybreak in a lonely
road not far from the homes of both prisoners. The warrant was not on
the body. It had been missing to that day. His contention would be
that the prisoners had obtained knowledge of the warrant; that they
had waylaid the deceased agent in a place and at a time most
convenient for the execution of their murderous design. With the
cunning of clever criminals, they had faced the subsequent coroner's
inquiry. One of them, being the less artful, had naturally come under
suspicion. The other, a cunning and dangerous man, had even taken an
active share in defending his confederate. But being pursued by a
guilty conscience, they dared not stay at the scene of their crime,
and both had fled from their homes. All this would be justified by
strong and undeniable circumstances.

Counsel resumed his seat amid the heavy breathings and inaudible
mutterings of the throng behind him. He was proceeding to call his
witnesses, when Ralph asked to be heard.

“Is it the fact that I surrendered of my own free will and choice?”

“It is.” “Is it assumed that I was prompted to that step also by a
guilty conscience?”

Counsel realized that he was placed on the horns of a dilemma.
Ignoring Ralph, he said,--

“My lords, the younger prisoner _did_ surrender. He surrendered to a
warrant charging him with conspiring to subvert the King's authority.
He threw himself on the mercy of his Sovereign, and claimed the
benefit of the pardon. And why? To save himself from indictment on the
capital charge; at the price, peradventure, of a fine or a year's
imprisonment to save himself from the gallows. Thus he tried to
hoodwink the law; but, my lords,”--and counsel lifted himself to his
utmost height,--“the law is not to be hoodwinked.”

“God forfend else!” echoed Justice Millet, shifting in his seat and
nodding his head with portentous gravity.

“I was loath to interrupt you,” said Justice Hide, speaking calmly and
for the first time, “or I should have pointed out wherein your
statement did not correspond with the facts of the prisoner Ray's
conduct as I know it. Let us without delay hear the witnesses.”

The first witness called was a woman thinly and poorly clad, who came
to the box with tears in her eyes, and gave the name of Margaret
Rushton. Ralph recognized her as the young person who had occasioned a
momentary disturbance near the door towards the close of the previous
trial. Sim recognized her also, but his recollection dated farther
back.

She described herself as the wife of a man who had been outlawed, and
whose estates had been sequestered. She had been living the life of a
vagrant woman.

“Was your husband named John Rushton?” asked Ralph.

“Yes,” she replied meekly, and all but inaudibly.

“John Rushton of Aberleigh!”

“The same.”

“Did you ever hear him speak of an old comrade--Ralph Ray?”

“Yes, yes,” answered the witness, lifting her hands to her face and
sobbing aloud.

“The prisoner wastes the time of the court. Let us proceed.”

Ralph saw the situation at a glance. The woman's evidence--whatever it
might be--was to be forced from her. “Have you seen these prisoners
before?”

“Yes, one of them.”

“Perhaps both?”

“Yes, perhaps both.”

“Pray tell my lords and the jury what you know concerning them.”

The woman tried to speak and stopped, tried again and stopped.

Counsel, coming to her relief, said,--

“It was in Wythburn you saw them; when was that?”

“I passed through it with my two children at Martinmas,” the witness
began falteringly.

“Tell my lords and the jury what happened then.”

“I had passed by the village, and had come to a cottage that stood at
the angle of two roads. The morning was cold, and my poor babies were
crying. Then it came on to rain. So I knocked at the cottage, and an
old man opened the door.”

“Do you see the old man in this court?”

“Yes--there,” pointing to where Sim stood in the dock with downcast
eyes.

There was a pause.

“Come, good woman, let my lords and the jury hear what further you
know of this matter. You went into the cottage!”

“He said I might warm the children at the fire; their little limbs
were as cold as stone.”

“Well, well?”

“He seemed half crazed, I thought; but he was very kind to me and my
little ones. He gave them some warm milk, and said we might stay till
the weather cleared. It did not clear all day. Towards nightfall the
old man's daughter came home. She was a dear fine girl, God bless
her!”

The silence of the court was only disturbed by a stifled groan from
the bar, where Sim still stood with downcast eyes. Ralph gazed through
a blinding mist at the rafters overhead.

“She nursed the little ones, and gave them oaten cake and barley
bread. The good people were poor themselves; I could see they were. It
rained heavier than ever, so the young woman made a bed for us in a
little room, and we slept in the cottage until morning.”

“Was anything said concerning the room you slept in?” “They said it
was their lodger's room; but he was away, and would not return until
the night following.”

“Next day you took the road towards the North?”

“Yes, towards Carlisle. They told me that if my husband were ever
taken he would be brought to Carlisle. That was why I wished to get
here. But I had scarce walked a mile--I had a baby at the breast and a
little boy who could just toddle beside me--I had scarce walked a mile
before the boy became ill, and could not walk. I first thought to go
back to the cottage, but I was too weak to carry both children. So I
sat with my little ones by the roadside.”

The witness paused again. Ralph was listening with intense eagerness.
He was leaning over the rail before him to catch every syllable. When
the woman had regained some composure he said quietly,--

“There is a bridge thereabouts that spans a river. Which side of the
bridge were you then?”

“The Carlisle side; that is to say, the north.”

The voice of counsel interrupted a further inquiry.

“Pray tell my lords and the jury what else you know, good woman.”

“We should have perished of cold where we sat, but looking up I saw
that there was a barn in a field close by. It was open to the front,
but it seemed to be sheltered on three sides, and had some hay in it.
So I made my way to it through a gate, and carried the children.”

“What happened while you were there?--quick, woman, let us get to the
wicked fact itself.”

“We stayed there all day, and when the night came on I covered the
little ones in the hay, and they cried themselves to sleep.”

The tears were standing in the woman's eyes. The eyes of others were
wet.

“Yes, yes, but what _occurred?_” said counsel, to whom the weeping of
outcast babes was obviously less than an occurrence.

“_I_ could not sleep,” said the woman hoarsely; and lifting her voice
to a defiant pitch, she said, “Would that the dear God had let me
sleep that night of all nights of my life!”

“Come, good woman,” said counsel more soothingly, “what next?”

“I listened to the footsteps that went by on the road, and so the
weary hours trailed on. At last they had ceased to come and go. It was
then that I heard a horse's canter far away to the north.”

The witness was speaking in a voice so low as to be scarcely audible
to the people, who stood on tiptoe and held their breath to hear.

“My little boy cried in his sleep. Then all was quiet again.”

Sim shuddered perceptibly. He felt his flesh creep.

“The thought came to me that perhaps the man on the horse could give
me something to do the boy good. If he came from a distance, he would
surely carry brandy. So I labored out of the barn and trudged through
the grass to the hedge. Then I heard footsteps on the road. They were
coming towards me.”

“Was it dark?”

“Yes, but not very dark. I could see the hedge across the way. The man
on foot and the man on the horse came together near where I stood.”

“How near--twenty paces?”

“Less. I was about to call, when I heard the man on foot speak to the
other, who was riding past him.”

“You saw both men clearly?”

“No,” replied the woman firmly; “not clearly. I saw the one on the
road. He was a little man, and he limped in his walk.”

In the stillness of the court Ralph could almost hear the woman
breathe.

“They were quarrelling, the two men; you heard what they said?” said
counsel, breaking silence.

“It's not true,” cried the witness, in a hurried manner, “_I_ heard
nothing.”

“This is no suborned witness, my lords,” said counsel in a cold voice,
and with a freezing smile. “Well, woman?”

“The tall man leapt off his horse, and there was a struggle. The
little man was swearing. There was a heavy fall, and all was quiet
once more.”

As she spoke the woman recoiled to the back of the box, and covered
her face in her hands.

“What manner of man was the taller one?” “He had a strong face with
big features and large eyes. I saw him indistinctly.”

“Do you see him now?”.

“I cannot swear; but--but I think I do.”

“Is the prisoner who stands to the left the man you saw that night?”

“The voice is the same, the face is similar, and he wears the same
habit--a long dark coat lined with light flannel.”

“Is that all you know of the matter?”

“I knew that a crime had been committed in my sight. I felt that a
dead body lay close beside me. I was about to turn away, when I heard
a third man come up and speak to the man on the horse.”

“You knew the voice?”

“It was the cottager who had given us shelter. I ran back to the barn,
snatched up my two children in their sleep, and fled away across the
fields--I know not where.”

Justice Hide asked the witness why she had not spoken of this before;
three months had elapsed since then.

She replied that she had meant to do so, but it came into her mind
that perhaps the cottager was somehow concerned in the crime, and she
remembered how good he and his daughter had been to her.

“How had she come to make the disclosures now?”

The witness explained that when she crushed her way into the court a
week ago it was with the idea that the prisoner might be her husband.
He was not her husband, but when she saw his face she remembered that
she had seen him before. A man in the body of the court had followed
her out and asked her questions.

“Who was the man?” asked the judge, turning to the sheriff.

The gentleman addressed pointed to a man near at hand, who rose at
this reference, with a smile of mingled pride and cunning, as though
he felt honored by this public disclosure of his astuteness. He was a
small man with a wrinkled face, and a sinister cast in one of his
eyes, which lay deep under shaggy brows. We have met him before.

The judge looked steadily at him as he rose in his place. After a
minute or two he turned again to look at him. Then he made some note
on a paper in his hand.

The witness looked jaded and worn with the excitement. During her
examination Sim had never for an instant upraised his eyes from the
ground. The eagerness with which Ralph had watched her was written in
every muscle of his face. When liberty was given him to question her,
he asked in a soft and tender voice if she knew what time of the night
it might be when she had seen what she had described.

Between nine and ten o'clock as near as she could say, perhaps fully
ten.

Was she sure which side of the bridge she was on--north or south?

“Sure; it was north of the bridge.”

Ralph asked if the records of the coroner's inquiry were at hand. They
were not. Could he have them examined? It was needless. But why?

“Because,” said Ralph, “it was sworn before the coroner that the body
was found to the south of the bridge--fifty yards to the south of it.”

The point was treated with contempt and some derisive laughter. When
Ralph pressed it, there was humming and hissing in the court.

“We must not expect that we can have exact and positive proof,” said
Justice Millet; “we would come as near as we can to circumstances by
which a fact of this dark nature can be proved. It is easy for a
witness to be mistaken on such a point.”

The young woman Margaret Rushton was being dismissed.

“One word,” said Justice Hide. “You say you have heard your husband
speak of the prisoner Ray; how has he spoken of him?”

“How?--as the bravest gentleman in all England!” said the woman
eagerly.

Sim lifted his head, and clutched the rail. “God--it's true, it's
true!” he cried hysterically, in a voice that ran through the court.

“My lords,” said counsel, “you have heard the truth wrung from a
reluctant witness, but you have not heard all the circumstances of
this horrid fact. The next witness will prove the motive of the
crime.”

A burly Cumbrian came into the box, and gave the name of Thomas
Scroope. He was an agent to the King's counsel. Ralph glanced at him.
He was the man who insulted the girl in Lancaster.

He said he remembered the defendant Ray as a captain in the trained
bands of the late Parliament. Ray was always proud and arrogant. He
had supplanted the captain whose captaincy he afterwards held.

“When was that?”

“About seven years agone,” rejoined the witness; adding in an
undertone, and as though chuckling to himself, “he's paid dear enough
for that sin' then.”

Ralph interrupted.

“Who was the man I supplanted, as you say--the man who has made me pay
dear for it, as you think?”

No answer.

“Who?”

“No matter that,” grumbled the witness. His facetiousness was gone.

There was some slight stir beneath the jurors' box.

“Tell the court the name of the man you mean.”

Counsel objected to the time of the court being wasted with such
questions.

Justice Hide overruled the objection.

Amid much sensation, the witness gave the name of the sheriff of
Cumberland, Wilfrey Lawson.

Continuing his evidence in a defiant manner, the witness said he
remembered the deceased agent, James Wilson. He saw him last the day
before his death. It was in Carlisle they met. Wilson showed witness a
warrant with which he was charged for Ray's arrest, and told him that
Ray had often threatened him in years past, and that he believed he
meant to take his life. Wilson had said that he intended to be
beforehand, for the warrant was a sure preventive. He also said that
the Rays were an evil family; the father was a hard, ungrateful brute,
who had ill repaid him for six years' labor. The mother was best; but
then she was only a poor simple fool. The worst of the gang was this
Ralph, who in the days of the Parliament had more than once threatened
to deliver him--Wilson--to the sheriff--the other so-called sheriff,
not the present good gentleman.

Ralph asked the witness three questions.

“Have we ever met before?”

“Ey, but we'll never meet again, I reckon,” said the man, with a
knowing wink.

“Did you serve under me in the army of the Parliament?”

“Nowt o' t' sort,” with a growl.

“Were you captured by the King's soldiers, and branded with a hot
iron, as a spy of their own who was suspected of betraying them?”

“It's a' a lie. I were never brandet.”

“Pull up the right sleeves of your jerkin and sark.”

The witness refused.

Justice Hide called on the keeper to do so.

The witness resisted, but the sleeves were drawn up to the armpit. The
flesh showed three clear marks as of an iron band.

The man was hurried away, amid hissing in the court.

The next witness was the constable, Jonathan Briscoe. He described
being sent after Wilson early on the day following that agent's
departure from Carlisle. His errand was to bring back the prisoner. He
arrived at Wythburn in time to be present at the inquest. The prisoner
Stagg was then brought up and discharged.

Ralph asked if it was legal to accuse a man a second time of the same
offence.

Justice Millet ruled that the discharge of a coroner (even though he
were a resident justice as well) was no acquittal.

The witness remembered how at the inquiry the defendant Ray had
defended his accomplice. He had argued that it was absurd to suppose
that a man of Stagg's strength could have killed Wilson by a fall.
Only a more powerful man could have done so.

“Had you any doubt as to who that more powerful man might be?”

“None, not I. I knew that the man whose game it was to have the
warrant was the likest man to have grabbed it. It warn't on the body.
There was not a scrap of evidence against Ray, or I should have taken
him then and there.”

“You tried to take him afterwards, and failed.”

“That's true enough. The man has the muscles of an ox.”

The next two witnesses were a laborer from Wythburn, who spoke again
to passing Sim on the road on the night of the murder, and meeting
Wilson a mile farther north, and Sim's landlord, who repeated his
former evidence.

There was a stir in the court as counsel announced his last witness. A
woman among the spectators was muttering something that was inaudible
except to the few around her. The woman was Mrs. Garth. Willy Ray
stood near her, but could not catch her words.

The witness stepped into the box. There was no expression of surprise
on Ralph's face when he saw who stood there to give evidence against
him. It was the man who had been known in Lancaster as his “Shadow”;
the same that had (with an earlier witness) been Robbie Anderson's
companion in his night journey on the coach; the same that passed
Robbie as he lay unconscious in Reuben Thwaite's wagon; the same that
had sat in the bookseller's snug a week ago; the same that Mrs. Garth
had recognized in the corridor that morning; the same that Justice
Hide had narrowly scrutinized when he rose in the court to claim the
honor of ferreting the facts out of the woman Rushton.

He gave the name of Mark Wilson.

“Your name again?” said Justice Hide, glancing at a paper in his hand.

“Mark Wilson.”

Justice Hide beckoned the sheriff and whispered something. The sheriff
crushed his way into an inner room.

“The deceased James Wilson was your brother?”

“He was.”

“Tell my lords and the jury what you know of this matter.”

“My brother was a zealous agent of our gracious King,” said the
witness, speaking in a tone of great humility. “He even left his
home--his wife and family--in the King's good cause.”

At this moment Sim was overtaken by faintness. He staggered, and would
have fallen. Ralph held him up, and appealed to the judges for a seat
and some water to be given to his friend. The request was granted, and
the examination continued.

The witness was on the point of being dismissed when the sheriff
re-entered, and, making his way to the bench, handed a book to Justice
Hide. At the same instant Sim's attention seemed to be arrested to the
most feverish alertness. Jumping up from the seat on which Ralph had
placed him, he cried out in a thin shrill voice, calling on the
witness to remain. There was breathless silence in the court.

“You say that your brother,” cried Sim,--“God in heaven, what a
monster he was!--you say that he left his wife and family. Tell us,
did he ever go back to them?”

“No.”

“Did you ever hear of money that your brother's wife came into after
he'd deserted her--that was what he did, your lordships, deserted her
and her poor babby--did you ever hear of it?”

“What if I did?” replied the witness, who was apparently too much
taken by surprise to fabricate a politic falsehood.

“Did you know that the waistrel tried to get hands on the money for
himself?”

Sim was screaming out his questions, the sweat standing in round drops
on his brow. The judges seemed too much amazed to remonstrate.

“Tell us, quick. Did he try to get hands on it?”

“Perhaps; what then?”

“And did he get it?”

“No.”

“And why not--why not?”

The anger of the witness threw him off his guard.

“Because a cursed scoundrel stepped in and threatened to hang him if
he touched the woman's money.”

“Aye, aye! and who was that cursed scoundrel?”

No answer.

“Who, quick, who?”

“That man there!” pointing to Ralph.

Loud murmurs came from the people in the court. In the midst of them a
woman was creating a commotion. She insisted on going out. She cried
aloud that she would faint. It was Mrs. Garth again. The sheriff
leaned over the table to ask if these questions concerned the inquiry,
but Sim gave no time for protest. He never paused to think if his
inquiries had any bearing on the issue.

“And now tell the court your name.”

“I have told it.”

“Your _true_ name, and your brother's.”

Justice Hide looked steadily at the witness. He held an open book in
his hand.

“Your _true_ name,” he said, repeating Sim's inquiry.

“Mark Garth!” mumbled the witness. The judge appeared to expect that
reply.

“And your brother's?”

“Wilson Garth.”

“Remove the perjurer in charge.”

Sim sank back exhausted, and looked about him as one who had been
newly awakened from a dream.

The feeling among the spectators, as also among the jurors, wavered
between sympathy for the accused and certainty of the truth of the
accusation, when the sheriff was seen to step uneasily forward and
hand a paper to counsel. Glancing hastily at the document, the lawyer
rose with a smile of secure triumph and said that, circumstantial as
the evidence on all essential points had hitherto been, he was now in
a position to render it conclusive.

Then handing the paper to Ralph, he asked him to say if he had ever
seen it before. Ralph was overcome; gasping as if for breath, he
raised one hand involuntarily to his breast.

“Tell the court how you came by the instrument in your hand.”

There was no reply. Ralph had turned to Sim, and was looking into his
face with what appeared to be equal pity and contrition.

The paper was worn, and had clearly been much and long folded. It was
charred at one corner as if at some moment it had narrowly escaped the
flames.

“My lords,” said counsel, “this is the very warrant which the deceased
Wilson carried from Carlisle for the arrest of the prisoner who now
holds it; this is the very warrant which has been missing since the
night of the murder of Wilson; and where, think you, my lords, it was
found? It was found--you have heard how foolish be the wise--look now
how childishly a cunning man can sometimes act, how blundering are
clever rogues!--it was found this morning on the defendant Ray's
person while he slept, in an inner breast pocket, which was stitched
up, and seemed to have been rarely used.”

“That is direct proof,” said Justice Millet, with a glance at his
brother on the bench. “After this there can be no doubt in any mind.”

“Peradventure the prisoner can explain how he came by the document,”
 said Justice Hide.

“Have you anything to say as to how you became possessed of it?”

“Nothing.”

“Will you offer the court no explanation?”

“None.”

“Would the answer criminate you?”

No reply.

For Ralph the anguish of years was concentrated in that moment. He
might say where he was on the night of the murder, but then he had Sim
only for witness. He thought of Robbie Anderson--why was he not here?
But no, Robbie was better away; he could only clear him of this guilt
by involving his father. And what evidence would avail against the
tangible witness of the warrant? He had preserved that document with
some vague hope of serving Sim, but here it was the serpent in the
breast of both.

“This old man,” he said,--his altered tone startled the
listeners,--“this old man,” he said, pointing to Sim at his side, “is
as innocent of the crime as the purest soul that stands before the
White Throne.”

“And what of yourself?”

“As for me, as for me,” he added, struggling with the emotion that
surged in his voice, “in the sight of Him that searcheth all hearts I
have acquittal. I have sought it long and with tears of Him before
whom we are all as chaff.”

“Away with him, the blasphemer!” cried Justice Millet. “Know where you
are, sir. This is an assembly of Christians. Dare you call God to
acquit you of your barbarous crimes?”

The people in the court took up the judge's word and broke out into a
tempest of irrepressible groans. They were the very people who had
cheered a week ago.

Sim cowered in a corner of the box, with his lank fingers in his long
hair.

Ralph looked calmly on. He was not to be shaken now. There was one way
in which he could quell that clamor and turn it into a tumult of
applause, but that way should not be taken. He could extricate himself
by criminating his dead father, but that he should never do. And had
he not come to die? Was not this the atonement he had meant to make?
It was right, it was right, and it was best. But what of Sim; must he
be the cause of Sim's death also? “This poor old man,” he repeated,
when the popular clamor had subsided, “he is innocent.”

Sim would have risen, but Ralph guessed his purpose and kept him to
his seat. At the same moment Willy Ray among the people was seen
struggling towards the witness-bar. Ralph guessed his purpose and
checked him, too, with a look. Willy stood as one petrified. He saw
only one of two men for the murderer--Ralph or his father.

“Let us go together,” whispered Sim; and in another moment the judge
(Justice Millet) was summing up. He was brief; the evidence of the
woman Rushton and of the recovered warrant proved everything. The case
was as clear as noonday. The jurors need not leave the box.

Without retiring, the jury found a verdict of guilty against both
prisoners.

The crier made proclamation of silence, and the awful sentence of
death was pronounced.

It was remarked that Justice Hide muttered something about a “writ of
error,” and that when he rose from the bench he motioned the sheriff
to follow him.




CHAPTER XLIII. LOVE KNOWN AT LAST.


Early next morning Willy Ray arrived at Shoulthwaite, splashed from
head to foot, worn and torn. He had ridden hard from Carlisle, but not
so fast but that two unwelcome visitors were less than half an hour's
ride behind him.

“Home again,” he said, in a dejected tone, throwing down his whip as
he entered the kitchen, “yet _home_ no longer.”

Rotha struggled to speak. “Ralph, where is he? Is he on the way?”
 These questions were on her lips, but a great gulp was in her throat,
and not a word would come.

“Ralph's a dead man,” said Willy with affected deliberation, pushing
off his long boots.

Rotha fell back apace. Willy glanced up at her.

“As good as dead,” he added, perceiving that she had taken his words
too literally. “Ah, well, it's over now, it's over; and if you had a
hand in it, girl, may God forgive you!”

Willy said this with the air of a man who reconciles himself to an
injury, and is persuading his conscience that he pardons it. “Could
you not give me something to eat?” he asked, after a pause.

“Is that all you have to say to me?” said Rotha, in a voice as husky
as the raven's.

Willie glanced at her again. He felt a passing pang of remorse.

“I had forgotten, Rotha; your father, he is in the same case with
Ralph.”

Then he told her all; told her in a simple way, such as he believed
would appeal to what he thought her simple nature; told her of the two
trials and final conviction, and counselled her to bear her trouble
with as stout a heart as might be.

“It will be ended in a week,” he said, in closing his narrative; “and
then, Heaven knows what next.” Rotha stood speechless by the chair of
the unconscious invalid, with a face more pale than ashes, and fingers
clinched in front of her.

“It comes as a shock to you, Rotha, for you seemed somehow to love
your poor father.”

Still the girl was silent. Then Willy's sympathies, which had for two
minutes been as unselfish as short-sighted, began to revolve afresh
about his own sorrows.

“I can scarce blame you for what you did,” he said; “no, I can scarce
blame you, when I think of it. He was not your brother, as he was
mine. You could know nothing of a brother's love; no, you could know
nothing of that.”

“What _is_ the love of a brother?” said Rotha.

Willy started at the unfamiliar voice.

“What would be the love of a world of brothers to such a love as
_mine?_”

Then stepping with great glassy eyes to where Willy sat, the girl
clutched him nervously and said, “I loved him.”

Willy looked up with wonder in his face.

“Yes, I! You talk _your_ love; it is but a drop to the ocean I bear
him. It is but a grain to the desert of love in my heart that shall
never, never blossom.”

“Rotha!” cried Willy, in amazement.

“Your love! Why look you, under the wing of death--now that I may
never hope to win him--I tell you that I love Ralph.”

“Rotha!” repeated Willy, rising to his feet.

“Yes, and shall love him when the grass is over him, or me, or both!”

“Love him?”

“To the last drop of my blood, to the last hour of my life, until
Death's cold hand lies chill on this heart, until we stand together
where God is, and all is love for ever and ever, I tell you I love
him, and shall love him, as God Himself is my witness.”

The girl glowed with passion. Her face quivered with emotion, and her
upturned eyes were not more full of inspiration than of tears.

Willy sank back into his seat with a feeling akin to awe.

“Let it be so, Rotha,” he said a moment later; “but Ralph is doomed.
Your love is barren; it comes too late. Remember what you once said,
that death comes to all.” “But there is something higher than death
and stronger,” cried Rotha, “or heaven itself is a lie and God a
mockery. No, they shall not die, for they are innocent.”

“Innocence is a poor shield from death. It was either father or
Ralph,” replied Willy, “and for myself I care not which.”

Then at a calmer moment he repeated to her afresh the evidence of the
young woman Rushton, whom she and her father had housed at Fornside.

“You are sure she said 'fifty yards to the _north_ of the bridge'?”
 interrupted Rotha.

“Sure,” said Willy; “Ralph raised a question on the point, but they
flung it aside with contempt.”

“Robbie Anderson,” thought Rotha. “What does Robbie know of this that
he was forever saying the same in his delirium? Something he _must_
know. I shall run over to him at once.”

But just then the two officers of the sheriff's court arrived again at
Shoulthwaite, and signified by various forms of freedom and
familiarity that it was a part of their purpose to settle there until
such time as judgment should have taken its course, and left them the
duty of appropriating the estate of a felon in the name of the crown.

“Come, young mistress, lead us up to our room, and mind you see
smartly to that breakfast. Alack-a-day; we're as hungry as hawks.”

“You come to do hawks' business, sir,” said Rotha, “in spoiling
another's nest.”

“Ha! ha! ha! happy conceit, forsooth! But there's no need to glare at
us like that, my sharp-witted wench. Come, lead on, but go slowly,
there. This leg of mine has never mended, bating the scar, since
yonder unlucky big brother of yours tumbled me on the mountains.”

“He's not my brother.”

“Sweetheart, then, ey? Why, these passages are as dark as the grave.”

“I wish they were as silent, and as deep too, for those who enter
them.”

“Ay, what, Jonathan? Grave, silent, deep--but then you would be buried
with us, my pretty lassie.”

“And what of that? Here's your room, sirs. Peradventure it will serve
until you take every room.” “Remember the breakfast,” cried the little
man, after Rotha's retreating figure. “We're as hungry as--as--”

“Hold your tongue, and come in, David. Brush the mud from your
pantaloons, and leave the girl to herself.”

“The brazen young noddle,” muttered David.

It was less than an hour later when Rotha, having got through her
immediate duties, was hastening with all speed to Mattha Brander's
cottage. In her hand, tightly grasped beneath her cloak, was a bunch
of keys, and on her lips were the words of the woman's evidence and of
Robbie's delirium. “It was fifty yards to the north of the bridge.”

This was her sole clew. What could she make of it?




CHAPTER XLIV. THE CLEW DISCOVERED.


An hour before Rotha left Shoulthwaite, Robbie Anderson was lying on a
settle before the fire in the old weaver's kitchen. Mattha himself and
his wife were abroad, but Liza had generously and courageously
undertaken the task of attending to the needs of the convalescent.

“Where's all my hair gone?” asked Robbie, with a puzzled expression.
He was rubbing his close-cropped head.

Liza laughed roguishly.

“Maybe it's fifty yards north of the bridge,” she said, with her head
aside.

Robbie looked at her with blank amazement.

“Why, who told you that, Liza?” he said.

“Told me what?”

“Ey? _That!_” repeated Robbie, no more explicit.

“Foolish boy! Didn't you tell us yourself fifty times?”

“So I did. Did I though? What am I saying? When did I tell you?”

Robbie's eyes were staring out of his head. His face, not too ruddy at
first, was now as pale as ashes.

Liza began to whimper.

“Why do you look like that?” she said.

“Look? Oh, ey, ey! I'm a ruffian, that's what I am. Never mind, lass.”

Robbie's eyes regained their accustomed expression, and his features,
which had been drawn down, returned to their natural proportions.

Liza's face underwent a corresponding change.

“Robbie, have you 'downed' him--that Garth?”

“Ey?”

The glaring eyes were coming back. Liza, frightened again, began once
more to whimper prettily.

“I didn't mean to flayte you, Liza,” Robbie said coaxingly. “You're a
fair coax when you want something,” said Liza, trying to disengage
herself from the grasp of Robbie's arm about her waist. He might be an
invalid, Liza thought, but he was wonderfully strong, and he was
holding her shockingly tight. What _was_ the good of struggling?

Robbie snatched a kiss.

“Oh you--oh you--oh! oh! If I had known that you were so wicked--oh!”

“Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, or I will never let you go,
never,” cried Robbie.

“Never?” Liza felt that she _must_ forgive this tyrant.

“Well, if you'll loosen this arm I'll--I'll _try_.”

“Liza, how much do you love me?” inquired Robbie.

“Did you speak to me?”

“Oh, no, to crusty old 'Becca down the road. How much do you love me?”

Robbie's passion was curiously mathematical.

“Me? How much? About as much as you might put in your eye.”

Robbie pretended to look deeply depressed. He dropped his head, but
kept, nevertheless, an artful look out of the corner of the eye which
was alleged to be the measure of his sweetheart's affection.

Thinking herself no longer under the fire of Robbie's glances, Liza's
affectation of stern disdain melted into a look of tenderness.

Robbie jerked his head up sharply. The little woman was caught. She
revenged herself by assuming a haughty coldness. But it was of no use.
Robbie laughed and crowed and bantered.

At this juncture Mattha Branth'et came into the cottage.

The weaver was obviously in a state of profound agitation. He had just
had a “fratch” with the Quaker preachers on the subject of election.

“I rub't 'm t' wrang way o' t' hair,” said the old man, “when I axt
'em what for they were going aboot preaching if it were all settled
aforehand who was to be damned and who was to be saved. 'Ye'r a child
of the devil,' says one. 'Mebbee so,' says I, 'and I dunnet know if
the devil iver had any other relations; but if so, mebbee yersel's his
awn cousin.'”

It was hard on Matthew that, after upholding Quakerism for years
against the sneers of the Reverend Nicholas Stevens, he should be thus
disowned and discredited by the brotherhood itself.

“Tut! theer's six o' tean an' hofe a duzzen of t' tudder,” said the
old sage, dismissing the rival theologians from his mind forever.

“Oh, Robbie, lad,” said Matthew, as if by a sudden thought, “John
Jackson met Willy Ray coming frae Carlisle, and what think ye hes
happent?”

“Nay, what?” said Robbie, turning pale again.

“Ralph Ray and Sim Stagg are condemned to death for t' murder of auld
Wilson.”

Robbie leapt to his feet.

“The devil!”

“Come, dunnet ye tak on like the Quakers,” said Matthew.

Robbie had caught up his coat and hat.

“Why, where are you going?” said Liza.

“Going? Aye? Going?”

“Yes, where? You're too weak to go anywhere. You'll have another
fever.”

A light wagon was running on the road outside. Reuben Thwaite was
driving.

Robbie rushed to the door, and hailed him.

“Going off with thread again, Reuben?”

“That's reets on't,” answered the little man.

“Let me in with you?”

And Robbie climbed into the cart.

Mattha got up and went out in the road.

       *       *       *       *       *

The two men had hardly got clear away when Rotha entered the cottage
all but breathless.

“Robbie, where is he?”

“Gone, just gone, not above two minutes,” replied Liza, still
whimpering.

“Where?”

“I scarce know--to Penrith, I think. There was no keeping him back.
When father came in and told him what had happened at Carlisle, he
flung away and would not be hindered. He has gone off in Reuben's
wagon.”

“Which way?”

“They took the low road.”

“Then I've missed them,” said Rotha, sinking into a chair in a
listless attitude.

“And he's as weak as water, and he'll take another fever, as I told
him, and ramble on same as--”

“Liza,” interrupted Rotha, “did you ever tell him--in play I mean--did
you ever repeat anything he had said when he was unconscious?”

“Not that about his mammy?”

“No, no; but anything else?”

“I mind I told him what he said over and over again about his fratch
with that Garth.”

“Nothing else?”

“Why, yes, now I think on't. I mind, too, that I told him he was
always running on it that something was fifty yards north of the
bridge, and he could swear it, swear it in hea--”

“What did he say to _that?_” asked Rotha eagerly.

“Say! he said nothing, but he glowered at me till I thought sure he
was off again.”

“Is that all?”

“All what, Rotha?”

“They said in evidence that Ralph--it was a lie, remember--they said
that Wilson was killed fifty yards to the north of the bridge. Now his
body was found as far to the south of it. Robbie knows something. I
hoped to learn what he knows; but oh, everything is against
me--everything, everything.”

Rising hastily, she added, “Perhaps Robbie has gone to Carlisle. I
must be off, Liza.”

In another moment she was hurrying up the road.

       *       *       *       *       *

Taking the high path, the girl came upon the Quaker preachers,
surrounded by a knot of villagers. To avoid them she turned up an
unfrequented angle of the road. There, in the recess of a gate, unseen
by the worshippers, but commanding a view of them, and within hearing
of all that was sung and said, stood Garth, the blacksmith. He wore
his leathern apron thrown over one shoulder. This was the hour of
mid-day rest. He had not caught the sound of Rotha's light footstep as
she came up beside him. He was leaning over the gate and listening
intently. There was more intelligence and also more tenderness in his
face than Rotha had observed before.

She paused, and seemed prompted to a nearer approach, but for the
moment she held back. The worshippers began to sing a simple Quaker
hymn. It spoke of pardon and peace:--

     Though your sins be red as scarlet,
       He shall wash them white as wool.

Garth seemed to be touched. His hard face softened; his lips parted,
and his eyes began to swim.

When the singing ceased, he repeated the refrain beneath his breath.
“What if one could but think it?” he muttered, and dropped his head
into his hands.

Rotha stepped up and tapped his shoulder.

“Mr. Garth,” she said.

He started, and then struggled to hide his discomposure. There was
only one way in which a man of his temperament and resource could hope
to do it--he snarled.

“What do you want with me?”

“It was a beautiful hymn,” said Rotha, ignoring his question.

“Do you think so?” he growled, and turned his head away.

“What if one could but think it?” she said, as if speaking as much to
herself as to him.

Garth faced about, and looked at her with a scowl.

The girl's eyes were as meek as an angel's.

“It's what I was thinking mysel', that is,” he mumbled after a pause;
then added aloud with an access of irritation, “Think what?”

“That there is pardon for us all, no matter what our sins--pardon and
peace.”

“Humph!”

“It is beautiful; religion is very beautiful, Mr. Garth.”

The blacksmith forced a short laugh.

“You'd best go and hire yourself to the Quakers. They would welcome a
woman preacher, no doubt.”

She would have bartered away years of her life at this instant for one
glimpse of what was going on in that man's heart. If she had found
corruption there, sin and crime, she would have thanked God for it as
for manna from above. Rotha clutched the keys beneath her cloak and
subdued her anger.

“You scarce seem yourself to-day, Mr. Garth,” she said.

“All the better,” he replied, with a mocking laugh. “I've heard that
they say my own sel' is a bad sel'.”

The words were hardly off his lips when he turned again sharply and
faced Rotha with an inquiring look. He had reminded himself of a
common piece of his mother's counsel; but in the first flash of
recollection it had almost appeared to him that the words had been
Rotha's, not his.

The girl's face was as tender as a Madonna's.

“Maybe I _am_ a little bit out of sorts to-day; maybe so. I've felt
daizt this last week end; I have, somehow.”

Rotha left him a minute afterwards. Continuing her journey, she drew
the bunch of keys from under her cloak and examined them.

They were the same that she had found attached to Wilson's trunk on
the night of her own and Mrs. Garth's visit to the deserted cottage at
Fornside. There were perhaps twenty keys in all, but two only bore any
signs of recent or frequent use. One of these was marked with a cross
scratched roughly on the flat of the ring. The other had a piece of
white tape wrapped about the shaft. The rest of the keys were worn red
with thick encrustation of rust. And now, by the power of love, this
girl with the face of an angel in its sweetness and simplicity--this
girl, usually as tremulous as a linnet--was about to do what a callous
man might shrink from.

She followed the pack-horse road beyond the lonnin that turned up to
Shoulthwaite, and stopped at the gate of the cottage that stood by the
smithy near the bridge. Without wavering for an instant, without the
quivering of a single muscle, she opened the gate and walked up to the
door.

“Mrs. Garth,” she called.

A young girl came out. She was a neighbor's daughter.

“Why, she's away, Rotha, Mistress Garth is,” said the little lassie.

“Away, Bessy?” said Rotha, entering the house and seating herself. “Do
you know where she's gone?”

“Nay, that I don't; but she told mother she'd be away three or four
days.”

“So you're minding house for her,” said Rotha vacantly, her eyes
meantime busily traversing the kitchen; they came back to the little
housekeeper's face in a twinkling.

“Deary me, what a pretty ribbon that is in your hair, Bessy. Do you
know it makes you quite smart. But it wants just a little bow like
this--there, there.”

The guileless child blushed and smiled, and sidled slyly up to where
she could catch a sidelong glance at herself in a scratched mirror
that hung against the wall.

“Tut, Bessy, you should go and kneel on the river bank just below, and
look at yourself in the still water. Go, lass, and come back and tell
me what you think now.”

The little maiden's vanity prompted her to go, but her pride urged her
to remain, lest Rotha should think her too vain. Pride conquered, and
Bessy hung down her pretty head and smiled. Rotha turned wearily about
and said, “I'm very thirsty, and I can't bear that well water of Mrs.
Garth's.”

“Why, she's not got a well, Rotha.”

“Hasn't she? Now, do you know, I thought she had, but it must be
'Becca Rudd's well I'm thinking of.”

Bessy stepped outside for a moment, and came back with a basin of
water in her hand.

“What sort of water is this, Bessy--river water?” said Rotha
languidly, with eyes riveted on an oak chest that stood at one side of
the kitchen.

“Oh, no; spring water,” said the little one, with many protestations
of her shaking head.

“Now, do you know, Bessy--you'll think it strange, won't you?--do you
know, I never care for spring water.”

“I'll get you a cup of milk,” said Bessy.

“No, no; it's river water _I_ like. Just slip away and get me a cup of
it, there's a fine lass, and I'll show you how to tie the ribbon for
yourself.”

The little one tripped off. Vanity reminded her that she could kill
two birds with one stone. Instantly she had gone Rotha rose to her
feet and drew out the keys. Taking the one with the tape on it, she
stepped to the oak chest and tried it on the padlock that hung in
front of it. No; that was not the lock it fitted. There was a corner
cupboard that hung above the chest. But, no; neither had the cupboard
the lock which fitted the key in Rotha's hand.

There was a bedroom leading out of the kitchen. Rotha entered it and
looked around. A linen trunk, a bed, and a chair were all that it
contained. She went upstairs. There were two bedrooms there, but no
chest, box, cabinet, cupboard, not anything having a lock which a key
like this might fit.

Bessy would be back soon. Rotha returned to the kitchen. She went
again into the adjoining bedroom. Yes, under the bed was a trunk, a
massive plated trunk. She tried to move it, but it would not stir. She
went down on her knees to examine it. It had two padlocks, but neither
suited the key. Back to the kitchen, she sat down half bewildered and
looked around.

At that instant the little one came in, with a dimple in her rosy
cheeks and a cup of water in her hand.

Rotha took the water and tried to drink.

She was defeated once more. She put the keys into her pocket. Was she
ever to be one step nearer the heart of this mystery?

She rose wearily and walked out, forgetting to show the trick of the
bow to the little housekeeper who stood with a rueful pout in the
middle of the floor.

There was one thing left to do; with this other key, the key marked
with a cross, she could open Wilson's trunk in her father's cottage,
look at the papers, and perhaps discover wherein lay their interest
for Mrs. Garth. But first she must examine the two places in the road
referred to in the evidence at the trial.

In order to do this at once, Rotha turned towards Smeathwaite when she
left the blacksmith's cottage, and walked to the bridge.

The river ran in a low bed, and was crossed by the road at a sharp
angle. Hence the bridge lay almost out of sight of persons walking
towards it.

Fifty yards to the north of it was the spot where the woman Rushton
said she saw the murder. Fifty yards to the south of it was the spot
where the body was picked up next morning.

Rotha had reached the bridge, and was turning the angle of the road,
when she drew hastily back. Stepping behind a bush for further
concealment, she waited. Some one was approaching. It was Mrs. Garth.
The woman walked on until she came to within fifty paces of where
Rotha stood. Then she stopped. The girl observed her movements,
herself unseen.

Mrs. Garth looked about her to the north and south of the road and
across the fields on either hand. Then she stepped into the dike and
prodded the ground for some yards and kicked the stones that lay
there.

Rotha's breath came and went like a tempest.

Mrs. Garth stooped to look closely at a huge stone that lay by the
highway. Then she picked up a smaller stone and seemed to rub it on
the larger one, as if she wished to remove a scratch or stain.

Rotha was sure now.

Mrs. Garth stood on the very spot where the crime was said to have
been committed. This woman, then, and her son were at the heart of the
mystery. It was even as she had thought.

Rotha could hear the beat of her own heart. She plunged from behind
the bush one step into the road. Then she drew back.

The day was cold but dry, and Mrs. Garth heard the step in front of
her. She came walking on with apparent unconcern. Rotha thought of her
father and Ralph condemned to die as innocent men.

The truth that would set them free lay with seething dregs of
falsehood at the bottom of this woman's heart. It should come up; it
should come up.

When Mrs. Garth had reached the bridge Rotha stepped out and
confronted her. The woman gave a little start and then a short forced
titter.

“Deary me, lass, ye mak a ghost of yersel', coming and going sa
sudden.”

“And you make ghosts of other people.” Then, without a moment's
warning, Rotha looked close into her eyes and said, “Who killed James
Wilson? Tell me quick, quick.”

Mrs. Garth flinched, and for the instant looked confused.

“Tell me, woman, tell me; who killed him _there_--there where you've
been beating the ground to conceal the remaining traces of a
struggle?”

“Go off and ask thy father,” said Mrs. Garth, recovering herself; and
then she added, with a sneer, “but mind thou'rt quick, or he'll never
tell thee in this world.” “Nor will you tell me in the next. Woman,
woman!” cried Rotha in another tone, “woman, have you any bowels? You
have no heart, I know; but can you stand by and be the death of two
men who have never, never done you wrong?”

Rotha clutched Mrs. Garth's dress in the agony of her appeal.

“You have a son, too. Think of him standing where they stand, an
innocent man.”

Rotha had dropped to her knees in the road, still clinging to Mrs.
Garth's dress.

“What's all this to me, girl? Let go yer hod, do you hear? Will ye let
go? What wad I know about Wilson--nowt.”

“It's a lie,” cried Rotha, starting to her feet. “What were you doing
in his room at Fornside?”

“Tush, maybe I was only seeking that fine father of thine. Let go your
hod, do you hear? Let go, or I'll--I'll--”

Rotha had dropped the woman's dress and grasped her shoulders. In
another instant the slight pale-faced girl had pulled this brawny
woman to her knees. They were close to the parapet of the bridge, and
it was but a few inches high.

“As sure as God's in heaven,” cried Rotha with panting breath and
flaming eyes, “I'll fling you into this river if you utter that lie
again. Woman, give me the truth! Cast away these falsehoods, that
would blast the souls of the damned in hell.”

“Get off. Wilta not? Nay, then, but I'll mak thee, and quick.”

The struggle was short. The girl was flung aside into the road.

Mrs. Garth rose from her knees with a bitter smile on her lips. “I mak
na doubt 'at thou wouldn't be ower keen to try the same agen,” she
said, going off. “Go thy ways to Doomsdale, my lass, and ax yer next
batch of questions there. I've just coom't frae it mysel', do you
know?”

Late the same evening, as the weary sun went down behind the smithy,
Rotha hastened from the cottage at Fornside back to the house on the
Moss at Shoulthwaite. She had a bundle of papers beneath her cloak,
and the light of hope in her face.

The clew was found.




CHAPTER XLV. THE CONDEMNED IN DOOMSDALE.


When Ralph, accompanied by Sim, arrived at Carlisle and surrendered
himself to the high sheriff, Wilfrey Lawson, he was at once taken
before the magistrates, and, after a brief examination, was ordered to
wait his trial at the forthcoming assizes. He was then committed to
the common gaol, which stood in the ruins of the old convent of Black
Friars. The cell he occupied was shared by two other prisoners--a man
and a woman. It was a room of small dimensions, down a small flight of
steps from the courtyard, noisome to the only two senses to which it
appealed--gloomy and cold. It was entered from a passage in an outer
cell, and the doors to both were narrow, without so much as the
ventilation of an eye-hole, strongly bound with iron, and double
locked. The floor was the bare earth, and there was no furniture
except such as the prisoners themselves provided. A little window near
to the ceiling admitted all the light and air and discharged all the
foul vapor that found entrance and egress.

The prisoners boarded themselves. For an impost of 7s per week, an
under gaoler undertook to provide food for Ralph and to lend him a
mattress. His companions in this wretched plight were a miserable pair
who were suspected of a barbarous and unnatural murder. They had been
paramours, and their victim had been the woman's husband. Once and
again they had been before the judges, and though none doubted their
guilt, they had been sent back to await more conclusive or more
circumstantial evidence. Whatever might hitherto have been the ardor
of their guilty passion, their confinement together in this foul cell
had resulted in a mutual loathing. Within the narrow limits of these
walls neither seemed able to support the barest contact with the
other. They glared at each other in the dim light with ghoul-like
eyes, and at night they lay down at opposite sides of the floor on
bundles of straw for beds. This straw, having served them in their
poverty for weeks and even months, had fermented and become filthy and
damp.

Such was the place and such the society in which Ralph spent the seven
days between the day on which he surrendered and that on which he was
indicted for treason.

The little window looked out into the streets, and once or twice daily
Simeon Stagg, who discovered the locality of Ralph's confinement, came
and exchanged some words of what were meant for solace with his
friend. It was small comfort Ralph found in the daily sight of the
poor fellow's sorrowful face; but perhaps Ralph's own brighter
countenance and cheerier tone did something for the comforter himself.

Though the two unhappy felons were made free of the spacious courtyard
for an hour every day, the like privilege was not granted to Ralph,
who was kept close prisoner, and, except on the morning of his trial,
was even denied water for washing and cleansing.

When he was first to appear before the judges of assize, this prisoner
of state, who had voluntarily surrendered himself, after many
unsuccessful efforts at capturing him, was bound hand and foot. On the
hearing of his case being adjourned, he was taken back to the cell
which he had previously shared; but whether he felt that the unhappy
company was more than he could any longer support, or whether the foul
atmosphere of the stinking room seemed the more noisome from the
comparative respite of a crowded court, he determined to endure the
place no longer. He asked to be permitted to write to the governor of
the city. The request was not granted. Then, hailing Sim from the
street, he procured by his assistance a bundle of straw and a candle.
The straw, clean and sweet, he exchanged with his fellow-prisoners for
that which had served them for beds. Then, gathering the rotten stuff
into a heap in the middle of the floor, he put a light to it and
stirred it into a fire. This was done partly to clear the foul
atmosphere, which was so heavy and dank as to gather into beads of
moisture on the walls, and partly to awaken the slugglish interest of
the head gaoler, whose rooms, as Ralph had learned, were situated
immediately above this cell. The former part of the artifice failed
(the filthy straw engendered as much stench as it dissipated), but the
latter part of it succeeded effectually. The smoke found its way where
the reeking vapor which was natural to the cell could not penetrate.

Ralph was removed forthwith to the outer room. But for the improvement
in his lodgings he was punished indirectly. Poor Sim had dislocated a
bar of the window in pushing the straw into Ralph's hands, and for
this offence he was apprehended and charged with prison breaking. Four
days later the paltry subterfuge was abandoned, as we know, for a more
serious indictment. Ralph's new abode was brighter and warmer than the
old one, and had no other occupant. Here he passed the second week of
his confinement. The stone walls of this cell had a melancholy
interest. They were carved over nearly every available inch with
figures of men, birds, and animals, cut, no doubt, by the former
prisoners to beguile the weary hours.

In these quarters life was at least tolerable; but tenancy of so
habitable a place was not long to be Ralph's portion.

When the trial for murder had ended in condemnation, Ralph and Sim
were removed from the bar, not to the common gaol from whence they
came, but to the castle, and were there committed to a pestilential
dungeon under the keep. This dungeon was known as Doomsdale. It was
indeed a “seminary of every vice and of every disease.” Many a lean
and yellow culprit, it was said, had carried up from its reeking floor
into the court an atmosphere of pestilence which avenged him on his
accusers. Some affirmed that none who ever entered it came out and
lived. The access to it was down a long flight of winding stairs, and
through a cleft hewn out of the bare rock on which the castle stood.
It was wet with the waters that oozed out of countless fissures and
came up from the floor and stood there in pools of mire that were
ankle deep.

Ralph was scarcely the man tamely to endure a horrible den like this.
Once again he demanded to see the governor, but was denied that
justice.

As a prisoner condemned to die, he, with Sim, was allowed to attend
service daily in the chapel of the castle. The first morning of his
imprisonment in this place he availed himself of the privilege.
Crossing the castle green towards the chapel, he attempted to approach
the governor's quarters, but the guard interposed. Throughout the
service he was watchful of any opportunity that might arise, but none
appeared. At the close he was being taken back to Doomsdale, side by
side with his companion, when he saw the chaplain, in his surplice,
crossing the green to his rooms. Then, at a sudden impulse, Ralph
pushed aside the guard, and, tapping the clergyman on the shoulder,
called on him to stop and listen.

“We are condemned men,” he said; “and if the law takes its course, in
six days we are to die; but in less time than that we will be dead
already if they keep us in that hell on earth.”

The chaplain stared at Ralph's face with a look compounded equally of
amazement and fear.

“Take him away,” he cried nervously to the guard, who had now regained
possession of their prisoner.

“You are a minister of the Gospel,” said Ralph.

“Your servant,” said the clergyman, with mock humility.

“My servant, indeed!” said Ralph; “my servant before God, yet beware
of hypocrisy. You are a Christian minister, and you read in your Bible
of the man who was cast into a lion's den, and of the three men who
were thrown into the fiery furnace. But what den of lions was ever so
deadly as this, where no fire would burn in the pestilential air?”

“He is mad,” cried the chaplain, sidling off; “look at his eyes.” The
guard were making futile efforts to hurry Ralph away, but he shouted
again, in a voice that echoed through the court,--

“You are a Christian minister, and your Master sent his disciples over
all the earth without purse or scrip, but you lie here in luxury,
while we die there in disease. Look to it, man, look to it! A
reckoning day is at hand as sure as the same God is over us all!”

“The man is mad and murderous!” cried the affrighted chaplain. “Take
him away.”

Not waiting for his order to be executed, the spick-and-span wearer of
the unsoiled surplice disappeared into one of the side rooms of the
court.

This extraordinary scene might have resulted in a yet more rigorous
treatment of the prisoners, but it produced the opposite effect.
Within the same hour Ralph and Sim were removed from Doomsdale and
imprisoned in a room high up in the Donjon tower.

Their new abode was in every way more tolerable than the old one. It
had no fire, and it enjoyed the questionable benefit of being
constantly filled with nearly all the smoke of every fire beneath it.
The dense clouds escaped in part through a hole in the wall where a
stone had been disturbed. This aperture also served the less desirable
purpose of admitting the rain and the wind.

Here the days were passed. They were few and short. Doomsdale itself
could not have made them long.

With his long streaky hair hanging wild about his temples, Sim sat
hour after hour on a low bench beneath the window, crying at intervals
that God would not let them die.




CHAPTER XLVI. THE SKEIN UNRAVELLED.


It was Thursday when they were condemned, and the sentence was to be
carried into effect on the Thursday following. Saturday, Sunday, and
Monday passed by without any event of consequence. On Tuesday the
under gaoler opened the door of their prison, and the sheriff entered.
Ralph stepped out face to face with him. Sim crept closer into the
shadow.

“The King's warrant has arrived,” he said abruptly.

“And is this all you come to tell us?” said Ralph, no less curtly.

“Ray, there is no love between you and me, and we need dissemble
none.”

“And no hate--at least on my part,” Ralph added.

“I had good earnest of your affections,” answered the sheriff with a
sneer; “five years' imprisonment.” Then waving his hand with a gesture
indicative of impatience, he continued, “Let that be as it may. I come
to talk of other matters.”

Resting on a bench, he added,--

“When the trial closed on Thursday, Justice Hide, who showed you more
favor than seemed to some persons of credit to be meet and seemly,
beckoned me to the antechamber. There he explained that the evidence
against you being mainly circumstantial, the sentence might perchance,
by the leniency of the King, be commuted to one of imprisonment for
life.”

A cold smile passed over Ralph's face.

“But this great mercy--whereof I would counsel you to cherish no
certain hope--would depend upon your being able and willing to render
an account of how you came by the document--the warrant for your own
arrest--which was found upon your person. Furnish a credible story of
how you came to be possessed, of that instrument, and it may occur--I
say it _may_ occur--that by our Sovereign's grace and favor this
sentence of death can yet be put aside.”

Sim had risen to his feet in obvious excitement.

Ralph calmly shook his head.

“I neither will nor can,” he said emphatically.

Sim sank back into his seat.

A look of surprise in the sheriff's face quickly gave way to a look of
content and satisfaction.

“We know each other of old, and I say there is no love between us,” he
observed, “but it is by no doing of mine that you are here.
Nevertheless, your response to this merciful tender shows but too
plainly how well you merit your position.”

“It took you five days to bring it--this merciful tender, as you term
it,” said Ralph.

“The King is now at Newcastle, and there at this moment is also
Justice Hide, in whom, had you been an innocent man, you must have
found an earnest sponsor. I bid you good day.”

The sheriff rose, and, bowing to the prisoner with a ridiculous
affectation of mingled deference and superiority, he stepped to the
door.

“Stop,” said Ralph: “you say we know each other of old. That is false!
To this hour you have never known, nor do you know now, why I stand
here condemned to die, and doomed by a harder fate to take the life of
this innocent old man. You have never known me: no, nor yourself
neither--never! But you shall know both before you leave this room.
Sit down.”

“I have no time to waste in idle disputation,” said the sheriff
testily; but he sat down, nevertheless, at his prisoner's bidding, as
meekly as if the positions had been reversed.

“That scar across your brow.” said Ralph, “you have carried since the
day I have now to speak of.”

“You know it well,” said the sheriff bitterly. “You have cause to know
it.”

“I have,” Ralph answered.

After a pause, in which he was catching the thread of a story half
forgotten, he continued: “You said I supplanted you in your captaincy.
Pehaps so; perhaps not. God will judge between us. You went over to
the Royalist camp, and you were among the garrison that had reduced
this very castle. The troops of the Parliament came up one day and
summoned you to surrender. The only answer your general gave us was to
order the tunnel guns to fire on the white flag. It went down. We lay
entrenched about you for six days. Then you sent out a dispatch
assuring us that your garrison was well prepared for a siege, and that
nothing would prevail with you to open your gates. That was a lie!”

“Well?”

“Your general lied; the man who carried your general's dispatch was a
liar too, but he told the truth for a bribe.”

“Ah! then the saints were not above warming the palm?”

“He assured our commander we might expect a mutiny in your city if we
continued before it one day longer; that your castle was garrisoned
only by a handful of horse, and two raw, undisciplined regiments of
militia; that even from these desertions occurred hourly, and that
some of your companies were left with only a score of men. This was at
night, and we were under an order to break up next morning. That order
was countermanded. Your messenger was sent back the richer by twenty
pounds.”

“How does this concern me?” asked the sheriff.

“You shall hear. I had been on the outposts that night, and, returning
to the camp, I surprised two men robbing, beating, and, as I thought,
murdering a third. One of the vagabonds escaped undetected, but with a
blow from the butt of my musket which he will carry to his grave. The
other I thrashed on the spot. He was the bailiff Scroope, whom you put
up to witness against me. Their victim was the messenger from the
castle, and he was James Wilson, otherwise Wilson Garth. You know
this? No? Then listen. Rumor of his treachery, and of the price he had
been paid for it, had already been bruited abroad, and the two
scoundrels had gone out to waylay and rob him. He was lamed in the
struggle and faint from loss of blood. I took him back and bound up
his wound. He limped to the end of his life.”

“Still I fail to see how this touches myself,” interrupted the
sheriff.

“Really? I shall show you. Next morning, under cover of a thick fog,
we besieged the city. We got beneath your guns and against your gates
before we were seen. Then a company of horse came out to us. _You_
were there. You remember it? Yes? At one moment we came within four
yards. I saw you struck down and reel out of the saddle. 'This man,' I
thought, 'believes in his heart that I did him a grievous wrong. I
shall now do him a signal service, though he never hear of it until
the Judgment Day.' I dismounted, lifted you up, bound a kerchief about
your head, and was about to replace you on your horse. At that instant
a musket-shot struck the poor beast, and it fell dead. At the same
instant one of our own men fell, and his riderless horse was prancing
away. I caught it, threw you on to its back, turned his head towards
the castle, and drove it hard among your troops. Do you know what
happened next?”

“Happened next--” repeated the sheriff mechanically, with astonishment
written on every feature of his face.

“No, you were insensible,” continued Ralph. “At that luckless moment
the drum beat to arms in a regiment of foot behind us. The horse knew
the call and answered it. Wheeling about, it carried you into the
heart of our own camp. There you were known, tried as a deserter, and
imprisoned. Perhaps it was natural that you should set down your ill
fortune to me.”

The sheriff's eyes were riveted on Ralph's face, and for a time he
seemed incapable of speech.

“Is this truth?” he asked at length.

“God's truth,” Ralph answered.

“The kerchief--what color was it?”

“Yellow.”

“Any name or mark on it? I have it to this day.”

“None--wait; there was a rose pricked out in worsted on one corner.”

The sheriff got up, with lips compressed and wide eyes. He made for
the door, and pulled at it with wasted violence. It was opened from
the other side by the under gaoler, and the sheriff rushed out.

Without turning to the right or left, he went direct to the common
gaol. There, in the cell which Ralph had occupied between the first
trial and the second one, Mark Garth, the perjurer, lay imprisoned.

“You hell-hound,” cried the sheriff, grasping him by the hair and
dragging him into the middle of the floor. “I have found out your
devilish treachery,” he said, speaking between gusts of breath. “Did
you not tell me that it was Ray who struck me this blow--this”
 (beating with his palm the scar on his brow)? “It was a lie--a damned
lie!”

“It was,” said the man, glaring back, with eyes afire with fury.

“And did you not say it was Ray who carried me into their camp--an
insensible prisoner?”

“That was a lie also,” the man gasped, never struggling to release
himself from the grip that held him on the floor.

“And did you not set me on to compass the death of this man, but for
whom I should now myself be dead?”

“You speak with marvellous accuracy, Master Lawson,” returned the
perjurer.

The sheriff looked down at him for a moment, and then flung him away.

“Man, man! do you know what you have done?” he cried in an altered
tone. “You have charged my soul with your loathsome crime.”

The perjurer curled his lip.

“It was _I_ who gave you that blow,” he said, with a cruel smile,
pointing with his thin finger at the sheriff's forehead. It was false.

“You devil!” cried the sheriff, “and you have killed the man who saved
your brother's life, and consorted with one of two who would have been
his murderers.”

“I was myself the second,” said the man, with fiendish calmness. It
was the truth. “I carry the proof of it here,” he added, touching a
place at the back of his head where the hair, being shorn away,
disclosed a deep mark.

The sheriff staggered back with frenzied eyes and dilated nostrils.
His breast heaved; he seemed unable to catch his breath.

The man looked at him with a mocking smile struggling over clinched
teeth. As if a reptile had crossed his path, Wilfrey Lawson turned
about and passed out without another word.

He returned to the castle and ascended the Donjon tower.

“Tell me how you became possessed of the warrant,” he said. “Tell me,
I beg of you, for my soul's sake as well as for your life's sake.”

Ralph shook his head.

“It is not even yet too late. I shall take horse instantly for
Newcastle.”

Sim had crept up, and, standing behind Ralph, was plucking at his
jerkin.

Ralph turned about and looked wistfully into the old man's face. For
an instant his purpose wavered.

“For the love of God,” cried the sheriff, “for your own life's sake,
for this poor man's sake, by all that is near and dear to both, I
charge you, if you are an innocent man, give me the means to prove you
such.”

But again Ralph shook his head.

“Then you are resolved to die?”

“Yes! But for my old friend here--save him if you will and can.”

“You will give me no word as to the warrant?”

“None.”

“Then all is over.”

But going at once to the stables in the courtyard, he called to a
stableman,--

“Saddle a horse and bring it round to my quarters in half an hour.”

In less time than that Wilfrey Lawson was riding hard towards
Newcastle.




CHAPTER XLVII. THE BLACK CAMEL AT THE GATE.


Next morning after Rotha's struggle with Mrs. Garth at the bridge, the
rumor passed through Wythburn that the plague was in the district.
Since the advent of the new preachers the people had seen the dreaded
scourge dangling from the sleeve of every stranger who came from the
fearsome world without. They had watched for the fatal symptoms: they
had waited for them: they had invited them. Every breeze seemed to be
freighted with the plague wind; every harmless ailment seemed to be
the epidemic itself.

Not faith in the will of God, not belief in destiny, not fortitude or
fatalism, not unselfishness or devil-may-care indifference, had saved
the people from the haunting dread of being mown down by the unseen
and insidious foe.

And now in very truth the plague seemed to have reached their doors.
It was at the cottage by the smithy. Rumor said that Mrs. Garth had
brought it with her from Carlisle, but it was her son who was stricken
down.

The blacksmith had returned home soon after Rotha had left him. His
mother was there, and she talked to him of what she had heard of the
plague. This was in order to divert his attention from the subject
that she knew to be uppermost in his thoughts--the trial, and what had
come of it. She succeeded but too well.

Garth listened in silence, and then slunk off doggedly to the smithy.

“I'm scarce well enough for work to-day,” he said, coming back in half
an hour.

His mother drew the settle to the fire, and fixed the cushions that he
might lie and rest.

But no rest was to be his. He went back to the anvil and worked till
the perspiration dripped from his forehead. Then he returned to the
house.

“My mouth is parched to-day, somehow,” he said; “did you say a parched
mouth was a sign?”

“Shaf, lad! thou'rt hot wi' thy wark.”

Garth went back once more to the smithy, and, writhing under the
torture of suspense, he worked until the very clothes he wore were
moist to the surface. Then he went into the house again.

“How my brain throbs!” he said; “surely you said the throbbing brain
was a sign, mother; and my brain _does_ throb.”

“Tut, tut! it's nobbut some maggot thou's gitten intil it.”

“My pulse, too, it gallops, mother. You said the galloping pulse was a
sign. Don't say you did not. I'm sure of it, I'm sure of it; and _my_
pulse gallops. I could bear the parched mouth and the throbbing brain
if this pulse did not run so fast.”

“Get away wi' thee, thou dummel-heed. What fagot has got hold on thy
fancy now?”

There was only the swollen gland wanted to make the dread symptoms
complete.

Garth went back to the anvil once more. His eyes rolled in his head.
They grew as red as the iron that he was welding. He swore at the boy
who helped him, and struck him fiercely. He shouted frantically, and
flung away the hammer at every third blow. The boy slunk off, and went
home affrighted. At a sudden impulse, Garth tore away the shirt from
his breast, and thrust his left hand beneath his right arm. With that
the suspense was ended. A mood of the deepest sadness and dejection
supervened. Shuddering in every limb beneath all his perspiration, the
blacksmith returned for the last time to the house.

“I wouldn't mind the parched mouth and the throbbing brain; no, nor
the galloping pulse, mother; but oh, mother, mother, the gland, it's
swelled; ey, ey, it's swelled. I'm doomed, I'm doomed. No use saying
no. I'm a dead man, that's the truth, that's the truth, mother.”

And then the disease, whether plague or other fever, passed its fiery
hand over the throbbing brain of the blacksmith, and he was put to bed
raving.

Little Betsy, like the boy in the smithy, stole away to her own home
with ghastly stories of the blacksmith's illness and delirium.

At first the neighbors came to inquire, prompted partly by curiosity,
but mainly by fear. Mrs. Garth shut the door, and refused to open it
to any comers.

To enforce seclusion was not long a necessity. Desertion was soon the
portion of the Garths, mother and son. More swift than a bad name
passed the terrible conviction among the people at Wythburn that at
last, at long last, the plague, the plague itself, was in their midst.

The smithy cottage stood by the bridge, and to reach the market town
by the road it was necessary to pass it within five yards. Pitiful,
indeed, were the artifices to escape contagion resorted to by some who
professed the largest faith in the will of God. They condemned
themselves to imprisonment within their own houses, or abandoned their
visits to Gaskarth, or made a circuit of a mile across the breast of a
hill, in order to avoid coming within range of the proscribed
dwelling.

After three days of rumor and surmise, there was not a soul in the
district would go within fifty yards of the house that was believed to
hold the pestilence. No doctor approached it, for none had been
summoned. The people who brought provisions left them in the road
outside, and hailed the inmates. Mrs. Garth sat alone with her
stricken son, and if there had been eyes to see her there in her
solitude and desolation, perhaps the woman who seemed hard as flint to
the world was softening in her sorrow. When the delirium passed away,
and Garth lay conscious, but still feverish, his mother was bewailing
their desertion.

“None come nigh to us, Joey, none come nigh. That's what the worth of
neighbors is, my lad. They'd leave us to die, both on us; they'd leave
us alone to die, and none wad come nigh.”

“Alone, mother! Did you say alone?” asked Garth.

“We're not alone, mother. Some one _has_ come nigh to us.”

Mrs. Garth looked up amazed, and half turned in her seat to glance
watchfully around.

“Mother,” said Garth, “did you ever pray?”

“Hod thy tongue, lad, hod thy tongue,” said Mrs. Garth, with a
whimper.

“Did you ever pray, mother?” repeated Garth, his red eyes aflame, and
his voice cracking in his throat. “Whisht, Joey, whisht!”

“Mother, we've not lived over well, you and I; but maybe God would
forgive us, after all.”

“Hod thy tongue, my lad; do, now, do.”

Mrs. Garth fumbled with the bedclothes, and tucked them about the
sufferer.

Her son turned his face full upon hers, and their eyes met.

“Dunnet look at me like that,” she said, trying to escape his gaze.
“What's comin' ower thee, my lad, that thou looks so, and talks so?”

“What's coming over me, mother? Shall I tell thee? It's Death that's
coming over me; that's what it is, mother--Death!”

“Dunnet say that, Joey.”

The old woman threw her apron over her head and sobbed.

Garth looked at her, with never a tear in his wide eyes.

“Mother,” said the poor fellow again in his weak, cracked
voice,--“mother, did you ever pray?”

Mrs. Garth uncovered her head. Her furrowed face was wet. She rocked
herself and moaned.

“Ey, lad, I mind that I did when I was a wee bit of a girl. I had rosy
cheeks then, and my own auld mother wad kiss me then. Ey, it's true.
We went to church on a Sunday mornin' and all the bells ringin'. Ey, I
mind that, but it's a wa', wa' off, my lad, it's a wa', wa' off.”

The day was gaunt and dreary. Toward nightfall the wind arose, and
sometimes its dismal wail seemed to run around the house. The river,
too, now swollen and turbulent, that flowed beneath the neighboring
bridge, added its voice of lamentation as it wandered on and on to the
ocean far away.

In the blacksmith's cottage another wanderer was journeying yet faster
to a more distant ocean. The darkness closed in. Garth was tossing on
his bed. His mother was rocking herself at his side. All else was
still.

Then a step was heard on the shingle without, and a knock came to the
door. The blacksmith struggled to lift his head and listen. Mrs. Garth
paused in her rocking and ceased to moan.

“Who ever is it?” whispered Garth.

“Let them stay where they are, whoever it be,” his mother mumbled,
never shifting from her seat. The knock came again.

“Nay, mother, nay; it is too late to--”

He had said no more when the latch was lifted, and Rotha Stagg walked
into the room.

“I've come to help to nurse you, if you please,” she said, addressing
the sick man.

Garth looked steadily at her for a moment, every feature quivering.
Shame, fear, horror--any sentiment but welcome--was written on his
face. Then he straggled to twist his poor helpless body away; his
head, at least, he turned from her to the wall.

“It wad look better of folk if they'd wait till they're axt,” muttered
Mrs. Garth, with downcast eyes.

Rotha unpinned the shawls that had wrapped her from the cold, and
threw them over a chair. She stirred the fire and made it burn
brightly; there was no other light in the room. The counterpane, which
had been dragged away in the restlessness of the sufferer, she spread
afresh. Reaching over the bed, she raised the sick man's head tenderly
on her arm while she beat out his pillow. Never once did he lift his
eyes to hers.

Mrs. Garth still rocked herself in her seat. “Folks should wait till
they're wanted,” she mumbled again; but the words broke down into a
stifled sob.

Rotha lit a candle that stood at hand, went to the cupboard in the
corner of the adjoining kitchen, and took out a jar of barley; then to
the hearth and took up a saucepan. In two minutes she was boiling
something on the fire.

Mrs. Garth was following every movement with watchful eyes.

Presently the girl came to the bedside again with a basin in her hand.

“Take a little of this, Mr. Garth,” she said. “Your mouth is parched.”

“How did you know that?” he muttered, lifting his eyes at last.

She made no reply, but held her cool hand to his burning forehead. He
motioned to her to draw it away. She did so.

“It's not safe--it's not safe for you, girl,” he said in his thin
whisper, his breath coming and going between every word.

She smiled, put back her hand and brushed the dank hair from his moist
brow.

Mrs. Garth got up from her seat by the bedside and hobbled to the
fire. There she sat on a low stool, and threw her apron over her head.

Again raising the blacksmith from his pillow, Rotha put a spoonful of
barley-water to his withered lips. He was more docile than a child
now, and let her have her will.

For a moment he looked at her with melancholy eyes, and then, shifting
his gaze, he said,--

“You had troubles enow of your own, Rotha, without coming to share
ours--mother's and mine.”

“Yes,” she answered, and a shadow crossed the cheerful face.

“Will they banish him?” he said with quick-coming breath. “Mother says
so; will they banish him from the country?”

“Yes, perhaps; but it will be to another and a better country,” said
Rotha, and dropped her head.

Garth glanced inquiringly into her face. His mother shifted on her
stool.

“How, how?” he said, nervously clutching at the bedclothes.

“Why do you bother him, girl?” said Mrs. Garth, turning about. “Rest
thee, my lad, rest thee still.”

“Mother,” said Garth, drawing back his head, but never shifting the
determination of his gaze from Rotha's face, “what does she mean?”

“Haud thy tongue, Joey.”

“What does she mean, mother?”

“Whisht! Never heed folks that meddle afore they're axt.”

Mrs. Garth spoke peevishly, rose from her seat, and walked between
Rotha and the bed.

Garth's wide eyes were still riveted on the girl's face.

“Never mind that she's not asked,” he said; “but what does she mean,
mother? What lie is it that she comes to tell us!”

“No lie, Mr. Garth,” said Rotha, with tearful eyes. “Ralph and father
are condemned to die, and they are innocent.”

“Tush! get away wi' thee!” mumbled Mrs. Garth, brushing the girl aside
with her elbow. The blacksmith glared at her, and seemed to gasp for
breath.

“It _is_ a lie; mother, tell her it _is_ a lie.”

“God knows it is not,” cried Rotha passionately.

“Say I believed it,” said Garth, rising convulsively on one elbow,
with a ghastly stare; “say I believed that the idiots had condemned
them to death for a crime they never committed--never; say I believed
it--but it's a lie, that's what it is. Girl, girl, how can you come
with a lie on your lips to a poor dying man? Cruel! cruel! Have you no
pity, none, for a wretched dying man?”

The tears rolled down Rotha's cheeks. Mrs. Garth returned to her
stool, and rocked herself and moaned.

The blacksmith glared from one to the other, the sweat standing in
heavy beads on his forehead.

Then an awful scream burst from his lips. His face was horribly
distorted.

“It is true,” he cried, and fell back and rolled on the bed.

All that night the fiery hand lay on the blacksmith's brain, and he
tossed in a wild delirium.

The wind's wail ran round the house, and the voice of that brother
wanderer, the river beneath the bridge crept over the silence when the
sufferer lay quiet and the wind was still.

No candle was now lighted, but the fire on the hearth burnt bright.
Mrs. Garth sat before it, hardly once glancing up.

Again and again her son cried to her with the yearning cry of a little
child. At such times the old woman would shrink within herself, and
moan and cower over the fire, and smoke a little black pipe.

Hour after hour the blacksmith rolled in his bed in a madness too
terrible to record. The memory of his blasphemies seemed to come back
upon him in his raving, and add fresh agony to his despair.

A naked soul stood face to face with the last reality, battling
meantime, with an unseen foe. There was to be no jugglery now.

Oh! that awful night, that void night, that night of the wind's wail
and the dismal moan of the wandering river, and the frequent cry of a
poor, miserable, desolate, despairing, naked soul! Had its black wings
settled forever over all the earth?

No. The dawn came at last. Its faint streak of light crept lazily in
at the curtainless window.

Then Garth raised himself in his bed.

“Give me paper--paper and a pen--quick, quick!” he cried.

“What would you write, Joe?” said Rotha.

“I want to write to him--to Ralph--Ralph Ray,” he said, in a voice
quite unlike his own.

Rotha ran to the chest in the kitchen and opened it. In a side shelf
pens were there and paper too. She came back, and put them before the
sick man.

But he was unconscious of what she had done.

She looked into his face. His eyes seemed not to see.

“The paper and pen!” he cried again, yet more eagerly.

She put the quill into his hand and spread the paper before him.

“What writing is this,” he cried, pointing to the white sheet; “this
writing in red?”

“Where?”

“Here--everywhere.”

The pen dropped from his nerveless fingers.

“To think they will take a dying man!” he said. “You would scarce
think they would have the heart, these people. You would scarce think
it, would you?” he said, lifting his poor glassy eyes to Rotha's face.

“Perhaps they don't know,” she answered soothingly, and tried to
replace him on his pillow.

“That's true,” he muttered; “perhaps they don't know how ill I am.”

At that instant he caught sight of his mother's ill-shapen figure
cowering over the fire. Clutching Rotha's arm with one hand, he
pointed at his mother with the other, and said, with an access of
strength,--

“I've found her out; I've found her out.”

Then he laughed till it seemed to Rotha that the blood stood still in
her heart.

When the full flood of daylight streamed into the little room, Garth
had sunk into a deep sleep.




CHAPTER XLVIII. “OUT, OUT, BRIEF CANDLE.”


As the clock struck eight Rotha drew her shawls about her shoulders
and hurried up the road.

At the turning of the lonnin to Shoulthwaite she met Willy Ray. “I was
coming to meet you,” he said, approaching.

“Come no closer,” said Rotha, thrusting out the palm of one hand; “you
know where I've been--there, that is near enough.”

“Nonsense, Rotha!” said Willy, stepping up to her and putting a hand
on her arm. There was confidence in the touch.

“To-morrow is the day,” Willy added, in an altered tone. “I am leaving
for Carlisle at noon--that is, in four hours.”

“Could you not wait four hours longer?” said Rotha.

“I could if you wish it; but why?”

“I don't know--that is, I can't say--but wait until four o'clock, I
beg of you.”

The girl spoke with deep earnestness.

“I shall wait,” said Willy, after a pause.

“And you'll meet me at the bridge by the smithy?” said Rotha.

Willy nodded assent.

“At four precisely,” he said.

“This is all I came to ask. I must go back.”

“Rotha, a word: what is your interest in these Garths? Does it concern
your father and Ralph?”

“I'll tell you at the bridge,” said Rotha, sidling off.

“Every one is aghast at your going,” he said.

“I have better reasons than any one knows of,” she replied.

“And better faith, and a nobler heart,” he added feelingly as he
turned his head away.

Garth was still asleep when she got back to the cottage. A feeble
gleam of winter sunshine came languidly through the little window. It
fell across the bed and lit up the blue eyelids and discolored lips of
the troubled sleeper.

The fire had smouldered out. Only a charred bough and a damp clod of
peat lay black among the gray ashes on the hearth.

As Rotha re-entered Mrs. Garth got up from the stool on which she had
sat the long night through. There was a strange look on her face.
During the heavy hours she had revolved within herself a dark problem
which to her was unsolvable, and the puzzle was still printed on her
face. Drawing the girl aside, she said in a grating whisper,--

“Tell me, do ye think it's reet what the lad says?”

“About Ralph and father?” asked Rotha.

“Tush! about hissel'. Do ye think he'll die?”

Rotha dropped her head.

“Tell me: do ye think so?”

Rotha was still silent. Mrs. Garth looked searchingly into her face,
and in answer to the unuttered reply, she whispered vehemently,--

“It's a lie. He'll be back at his anvil to-morrow. Why do you come wi'
yer pale face to me? Crying? What's it for? tell me!”

And the old woman shook the girl roughly by the shoulders.

Rotha made no response. The puzzled expression on Mrs. Garth's face
deepened at that instant, but as she turned aside she muttered again,
with every accent of determination,--

“He'll be back at his anvil to-morrow, that he will.”

The blacksmith awoke as serene as a child. When he looked at Rotha his
hard, drawn face softened to the poor semblance of a smile. Then a
shadow crossed it, and once more he turned his head to the wall.

And now to Rotha the hours went by with flying feet. Every hour of
them was as precious to her as her heart's blood. How few were the
hours of morning! The thing which above all she came here to do was
not being done. A dull dead misery seemed to sit cold on her soul.

Rotha tended the sufferer with anxious care, and when the fitful sleep
slid over him, she sat motionless with folded hands, and gazed through
the window. All was still, sombre, chill, and dreary. The wind had
slackened; the river ran smoother. In a field across the valley a
woman was picking potatoes. No other human creature was visible.

Thus the hours wore on. At one moment Garth awoke with a troubled
look, and glanced watchfully around. His mother was sitting in her
accustomed seat, apparently asleep. He clutched at Rotha's gown, and
made a motion to her to come closer. She did so, a poor breath of hope
fluttering in her breast. But just then Mrs. Garth shifted in her
seat, and faced about towards them. The blacksmith drew back his hand,
and dropped his half-lifted head.

Towards noon Mrs. Garth got up and left the bedroom. Her son had
appeared to be asleep but he was alert to every movement. Again he
plucked Rotha's gown, and essayed to speak. But Mrs. Garth returned in
a moment, and not a word was said.

Rotha's spirits flagged. It was as though she were crawling hour after
hour towards a gleam of hope that fled farther and farther away.

The darkness was gathering in, yet nothing was done. Then the clock
struck four, and Rotha drew on her shawl once more, and walked to the
bridge.

Willy was there, a saddled horse by his side.

“You look jaded and out of heart, Rotha,” he said.

“Can you stay four hours longer?” she asked.

“Until eight o'clock? It will make the night ride cold and long,” he
answered.

“True, but you can stay until eight, can you not?”

“You know why I go. God knows it is not to be present at that last
scene of all: that will be soon after daybreak.”

“You want to see him again. Yes; but stay until eight o'clock. I would
not make an idle request, Willy. No, not at a solemn hour like this.”

“I shall stay,” he said.

The girl's grief-worn face left no doubt in his mind of her purpose.
They parted.

When Rotha re-entered the sick-room a candle was burning on a table by
the bedside. Mrs. Garth still crouched before the fire. The blacksmith
was awake. As he lifted his eyes to Rotha's face, the girl saw that
they wore the same watchful and troubled expression as before.

“Shall I read to you, Mr. Garth?” she asked, taking down from a shelf
near the rafters a big leather-bound book. It was a Bible,
dust-covered and with rusty clasps, which had lain untouched for
years.

“Rotha,” said Garth, “read to me where it tells of sins that are as
scarlet being washed whiter nor wool.”

The girl found the place. She read aloud in the rich, soft voice that
was like the sigh of the wind through the long grass. The words might
have brought solace to another man. The girl's voice might have rested
on the ear as a cool hand rests on a throbbing brow. But neither words
nor voice brought peace to Garth. His soul seemed to heave like a sea
lashed by a storm.

At length he reached out a feeble hand and touched the hand of the
girl.

“I have a sin that is red as scarlet,” he said. But before he could
say more, his mother had roused herself and turned to him with what
Rotha perceived to be a look of warning.

It was plainly evident that but for Mrs. Garth, the blacksmith would
make that confession which she wished above all else to hear.

Then Rotha read again. She read of the prodigal son, and of Him who
would not condemn the woman that was a sinner. It was a solemn and
terrible moment. The fathomless depths of the girl's voice, breaking
once and again to a low wail, then rising to a piercing cry, went with
the words themselves like an arrow to the heart of the dying man.
Still no peace came to him. Chill was the inmost chamber of his soul;
no fire was kindled there. His face was veiled in a troubled
seriousness, when, at a pause in the reading, he said,--

“There can be no rest for me, Rotha, till I tell you something that
lies like iron at my heart.”

“Whisht thee, lad; whisht thee and sleep. Thou'rt safe to be well
to-morrow,” said Mrs. Garth in a peevish whimper.

“Mother, mother,” cried Garth aloud in a piteous tone of appeal and
remonstrance, “when, when will you see me as I am?”

“Tush, lad! thou'rt mending fast. Thou'rt safe to be at thy fire
to-morrow.”

“Ey, mother,” replied the blacksmith, lifting himself feebly and
glaring at her now with a fierce light in his eyes,--“eh, mother, but
it will be the everlasting fire if I'm to die with this black sin
heavy on my soul.”

In spite of her self-deception, the woman's mind had long been busy
with its own secret agony, and at these words from her son the rigid
wrinkles of her face relaxed, and she turned her head once more aside.

Rotha felt that the moment had at length arrived. She must speak now
or never. The one hope for two innocent men who were to die as soon as
the world woke again to daylight lay in this moment.

“Mr. Garth,” she began falteringly, “if a sin lies heavy on your soul,
it is better to tell God of it and cast yourself on the mercy of our
Heavenly Father.”

Gathering strength, the girl continued: “And if it is a dark secret
that touches others than yourself--if others may suffer, or are
suffering, from it even now--if this is so, I pray of you, as you hope
for that Divine mercy, confess it now, confess it before it is too
late--fling it forth from your stifled heart--do not bury its dead
body there, and leave it to be revealed only at that judgment when
every human deed, be it never so secret, shall be stripped naked
before the Lord, that retribution may be measured out for ever and
ever.”

Rotha had risen to her feet, and was leaning over the bed with one
hand in an attitude of acutest pain, convulsively clutching the hand
of the blacksmith.

“Oh, I implore you,” she continued, “speak out what is in your heart
for your own sake, as well as the sake of others. Do not lose these
precious moments. Be true! be true at last! at last! Then let it be
with you as God shall order. Do not carry this sin to the eternal
judgment. Blessed, a thousand times blessed, will be the outpouring of
a contrite heart. God will hear it.”

Garth looked into the girl's inspired face.

“I don't see my way clearly,” he said. “I'm same as a man that gropes
nigh midway through yon passage underground at Legberthwaite. The
light behind me grows dimmer, dimmer, dimmer, and not yet comes the
gleam of the light in front. I'm not at the darkest; no, I'm not.”

“A guest is knocking at your heart, Mr. Garth. Will you open to him?”
 Then, in another tone, she added: “To-morrow at daybreak two men will
die in Carlisle--my father and Ralph Ray--and they are innocent!”

“Ey, it's true,” said the blacksmith, breaking down at length.

Then struggling once more to lift himself in bed, he cried, “Mother,
tell her _I_ did it, and not Ralph. Tell them all that it was I myself
who did it. Tell them I was driven to it, as God is my judge.”

The old woman jumped up, and, putting her face close to her son's, she
whispered,--

“Thou madman! What wadsta say?”

“Mother, dear mother, my mother,” he cried, “think of what you would
do; think of me standing, as I must soon stand--very soon--before
God's face with this black crime on my soul. Let me cast it off from
me forever. Do not tempt me to hide it! Rotha, pray with her; pray
that she will not let me stand before God thus miserably burthened,
thus red as scarlet with a foul, foul sin!”

Garth's breath was coming and going like a tempest. It was a terrible
moment. Rotha flung herself on her knees. She had not been used to
pray, but the words gushed from her.

“Dear Father in heaven,” she prayed, “soften the hearts of all of us
here in this solemn hour. Let us remember our everlasting souls. Let
us not barter them for the poor comforts of this brief life. Father,
thou readest all hearts. No secret so secret, none so closely hidden
from all men's eyes, but Thou seest it and canst touch it with a
finger of fire. Help us here to reveal our sins to Thee. If we have
sinned deeply, forgive us in Thy heavenly mercy; in Thy infinite
goodness grant us peace. Let Thy angel hover over us even now, even
now, now.”

And the angel of the Lord was indeed with them in that little cottage
among the desolate hills.

Rotha rose up and turned to Garth.

“Under the shadow of death,” she said, “tell me, I implore you, how
and when you committed the crime for which father and Ralph are
condemned to die to-morrow.”

Mrs. Garth had returned once more to her seat. The blacksmith's
strength was failing him. His agitation had nigh exhausted him. Tears
were now in his eyes, and when he spoke in a feeble whisper, a sob was
in his throat.

“He was my father,” he said, “God forgive me--Wilson was my
father--and he left us to starve, mother and me; and when he came back
to us here we thought Ralph Ray had brought him to rob us of the
little that we had.” “God forgive me, too,” said Mrs. Garth, “but
that was wrong.”

“Wrong?” inquired the blacksmith.

“Ey, it came out at the trial,” muttered his mother.

Garth seemed overcome by a fresh flood of feeling. Rotha lifted a
basin of barley-water to his lips.

“Yes, yes; but how was it done--how?”

“He did not die where they threw him--Ralph--Angus--whoever it was--he
got up some while after and staggered to this house--he said Ray had
thrown him and he was hurt--Ray, that was all. He wanted to come in
and rest, but I flung the door in his face and he fell. Then he got
up, and shrieked out something--it was something against myself; he
called me a bastard, that's the fact. Then it was as if a hand behind
me pushed me on. I opened the door and struck him. I didn't know that
I had a hammer in my hand, but I had. He fell dead.”

“Well, well, what next?”

“Nothing--yes--late the same night I carried him back to where I
thought he had come from--and that's all!”

The little strength Garth had left was wellnigh spent.

“Would you sign a paper saying this?” asked Rotha, bending over him.

“Ey, if there would be any good in it.”

“It might save the lives of father and Ralph; but your mother would
need to witness it.”

“She will do that for me,” said Garth feebly. “It will be the last
thing I'll ask of her. She will go herself and witness it.”

“Ey, ey,” sobbed the broken woman, who rocked herself before the fire.

Rotha took the pen and paper, and wrote, in a hand that betrayed her
emotion,--

“This is to say that I, Joseph Garth, being near my end, yet knowing
well the nature of my act, do confess to having committed the crime of
killing the man known as James Wilson, for whose death Ralph Ray and
Simeon Stagg stand condemned.”

“Can you sign it now, Joe?” asked Rotha, as tenderly as eagerly.

Garth nodded assent. He was lifted to a sitting position. Rotha spread
the paper before him, and then supported him from behind with her
arms.

He took the pen in his graspless hand, and essayed to write. Oh, the
agony of that effort! How every futile stroke of that pen went to the
girl's heart like a stab of remorse! The name was signed at length,
and in some sorry fashion. The dying man was restored to his pillow.

Peace came to him there and then.

The clock struck eight.

Rotha hurried out of the house and down the road to the bridge. The
moon had just broken over a ridge of black cloud. It was bitterly
cold.

Willy Ray stood with his horse at the appointed place.

“How agitated you are, Rotha; you tremble like an aspen,” he said.
“And where are your shawls?”

“Look at this paper,” she said. “You can scarce see to read it here;
but it is a confession. It states that it was poor Joe Garth who
committed the murder for which father and Ralph are condemned to die
at daybreak.”

“At last! Thank God!” exclaimed Willy.

“Take it--put it in your breast--keep it safe as you value your
eternal soul--ride to Carlisle as fast as your horse will carry you,
and place it instantly before the sheriff.”

“Is it signed?”

“Yes.”

“And witnessed?”

“The witness will follow in person--a few hours--a very few--and she
will be with you there.”

“Rotha, God has put it into your heart to do this thing, and He has
given you more than the strength of a strong man!”

“In how many hours might one ride to Carlisle at the fastest--in the
night and in a cart?” asked the girl eagerly.

“Five, perhaps, if one knew every inch of the way.”

“Then, before you set out, drive round to Armboth, and ask Mr. Jackson
to bring his wagon across to this bridge at midnight. Let him not say
'No' as he hopes for his salvation! And now, good bye again, and God
speed you on your journey!”

Willy carried a cloak over his arm. He was throwing it across Rotha's
unprotected shoulders.

“No, no,” she said, “you need it yourself. I shall be back in a
minute.”

And she was gone almost before he was aware.

Willy was turning away when he heard a step behind. It was the
Reverend Nicholas Stevens, lantern in hand, lighting himself home from
a coming-of-age celebration at Smeathwaite. As he approached, Willy
stepped up to him.

“Stop,” cried the parson, “was she who parted from you but now the
daughter of the man Simeon Stagg?”

“The same,” Willy answered.

“And she comes from the home of the infected blacksmith?”

“She is there again, even now,” said Willy. “I thought you might wish
to take the solace of religion to a dying man--Garth is dying.”

“Back--away--do not touch me--let me pass,” whispered the parson in an
accent of dread, shrinking meantime from the murderous stab of the
cloak which Willy carried over his arm.

Rotha was in the cottage once again almost before she had been missed.

Joe was dozing fitfully. His mother was sighing and whimpering in
turns. Her wrinkled face, no longer rigid, was a distressing
spectacle. When Rotha came close to her she whispered,--

“The lad was wrang, but I dare not have telt 'im so. Yon man were none
of a father to Joe, though he were my husband, mair's the pity.”

Then getting up, glancing nervously at her son, lifting a knife from
the table, creeping to the side of the bed and ripping a hole in the
ticking, she drew out a soiled and crumpled paper.

“Look you, lass, I took this frae the man's trunk when he lodged wi'
yer father and yersel' at Fornside.”

It was a copy of the register of Joe's birth, showing that he was the
son of a father unknown.

“I knew he must have it. He always threatened that he'd get it. He wad
have made mischief wi' it somehow.”

Mrs. Garth spoke in whispers, but her voice broke her son's restless
sleep. Garth was sinking fast, but he looked quieter when his eyes
opened again. “I think God has forgiven me my great crime,” he said
calmly, “for the sake of the merciful Saviour, who would not condemn
the woman that was a sinner.”

Then he crooned over the Quaker hymn,--

     Though your sins be red as scarlet,
       He shall wash them white as wool.

Infinitely touching was it to hear his poor, feeble, broken voice
spend its last strength so.

“Sing to me, Rotha,” he said, pausing for breath.

“Yes, Joe. What shall I sing?”

“Sing 'O Lord, my God,'” he answered. And then, over the murmuring
voice of the river, above the low wail of the rising wind, the girl's
sweet, solemn voice, deep with tenderness and tears, sang the simple
old hymn,--

     O Lord, my God,
       A broken heart
       Is all my part:
     Spare not Thy rod,
       That I may prove
       Therein Thy love.

“Ey, ey,” repeated Garth, “a broken heart is _all_ my part.”

Very tremulous was the voice of the singer as she sang,--

     O Lord, my God,
       Or ere I die,
       And silent lie
     Beneath the sod,
       Do Thou make whole
       This bruisèd soul.

“This bruised soul,” murmured the blacksmith.

Rotha had stopped, and buried her face in her hands.

“There's another verse, Rotha; there's another verse.”

But the singer could sing no more. Then the dying man himself sang in
his feeble voice, and with panting breath,--

     Dear Lord, my God--
       Weary and worn,
       Bleeding and torn--
     Spare now Thy rod.
       Sorely distressed--
       Lord, give me rest.

There was a bright light in his eyes. And surely victory was his at
last. The burden was cast off forever. “Lord, give me rest,” he
murmured again, and the tongue that uttered the prayer spoke no more.

Rotha took his hand. His pulse sank--slower, slower, slower. His end
was like the going out of a lamp--down, down, down--then a fitful
flicker--and then--

Death, the merciful mediator; Death, the Just Judge; Death, the
righter of the wronged; Death was here--here!

Mrs. Garth's grief was uncontrollable. The hard woman was as nerveless
as a baby now. Yet it was not at first that she would accept the
evidence of her senses. Reaching over the bed, she half raised the
body in her arms.

“Why, he's dead, my boy he's dead!” she cried. “Tell me he's not dead,
though he lies sa still.”

Rotha drew her away, and, stooping, she kissed the cold wasted
whitened lips.

At midnight a covered cart drove up to the cottage by the smithy. John
Jackson was on the seat outside. Rotha and Mrs. Garth got into it.
Then they started away.

As they crossed the bridge and turned the angle of the road that shut
out the sight of the darkened house they had left, the two women
turned their heads towards it and their hearts sank within them as
they thought of him whom they left behind. Then they wept together.




CHAPTER XLIX. PEACE, PEACE, AND REST.


In Carlisle the time of the end was drawing near. Throughout the
death-day of the blacksmith at Wythburn the two men who were to die
for his crime on the morrow sat together in their cell in the Donjon
tower.

Ralph was as calm as before, and yet more cheerful. The time of
atonement was at hand. The ransom was about to be paid. To break the
hard fate of a life, of many lives, he had come to die, and death was
here!

Bent and feeble, white as his smock, and with staring eyes, Sim
continued to protest that God would not let them die at this time and
in this place.

“If He does,” he said, “then it is not true what they have told us,
that God watches over all!”

“What is that you are saying, old friend?” returned Ralph. “Death
comes to every one. The black camel kneels at the gate of all. If it
came to some here and some there, then it would be awful indeed.”

“But to die before our time is terrible, it is,” said Sim.

“Before our time--what time?” said Ralph. “To-day or to-morrow--who
shall say which is your time or mine?”

“Aye, but to die like this!” said Sim, and rocked himself in his seat.

“And is it not true that a short death is the sovereign good hap of
life?”

“The shame of it--the shame of it,” Sim muttered.

“That touches us not at all,” said Ralph. “Only the guilty can feel
the shame of a shameful death. No, no; death is kindest. And yet, and
yet, old friend, I half repent me of my resolve. The fatal warrant,
which has been the principal witness against us, was preserved in the
sole hope that one day it might serve you in good stead. For your
sake, and yours only, would to God that I might say where I came by it
and when!”

“No, no, no,” cried Sim, with a sudden access of resolution; “I _am_
the guilty man after all, and it is but justice that _I_ should die.
But that _you_ should die also--you that are as innocent as the babe
unborn--God will never look down on it, I tell you. God will never
witness it; never, never!”

At that moment the organ of the chapel of the castle burst on the ear.
It was playing for afternoon service. Then the voices of the choir
came, droned and drowsed and blurred, across the green and through the
thick walls of the tower. The sacred harmonies swept up to them in
their cell as the intoned Litanies sweep down a long cathedral aisle
to those who stand under the sky at its porch. Deep, rich, full, pure,
and solemn. The voice of peace, peace, and rest.

The two men shut their eyes and listened.

In that world on which they had turned their backs men were
struggling, men were fighting, men's souls were being torn by passion.
In that world to which their faces were set no haunting, hurrying
footsteps ever fell; no soul was yet vexed by fierce fire, no dross of
budded hope was yet laid low. All was rest and peace.

The gaoler knocked. A visitor was here to see Ralph. He had secured
the permission of the under sheriff to see him for half an hour alone.

Sim rose, and prepared to follow the gaoler.

“No,” said Ralph, motioning him back; “it is too late for secrets to
come between you and me. He must stay,” he added, turning to the
gaoler.

A moment later Robbie Anderson entered. He was deeply moved.

“I was ill and insensible at the time of the trial,” he said.

Then he told the long story of his fruitless quest.

“My evidence might have saved you,” he said. “Is it yet too late?”

“Yes, it is too late,” said Ralph.

“I think I could say where the warrant came from.”

“Robbie, remember the vow you took never to speak of this matter
again.”

At mention of the warrant, Sim had once more crept up eagerly. Ralph
saw that the hope of escape still clung to him. Would that muddy
imperfection remain with him to the last?

“Robbie, if you ever had any feeling for me as a friend and comrade,
let this thing lie forever undiscovered in your mind.”

Unable to speak, the young dalesman bent his head.

“As for Sim, it wounds me to the soul. But for myself, what have I now
to live for? Nothing. I tried to save the land to my mother and
brother. How is she?”

“Something better, as I heard.”

“Poor mother! And--Rotha--is she--”

“She is well.”

“Thank God! Perhaps when these sad events are long gone by, and have
faded away into a dim memory, perhaps then she will be happy in my
brother's love.”

“Willy?” said Robbie, with look and accent of surprise.

Then there was a pause.

“She has been an angel,” said Robbie feelingly.

“Better than that--she has been a woman; God bless and keep her!” said
Ralph.

Robbie glanced into Ralph's face; tears stood in his eyes.

Sim sat and moaned.

“My poor little Rotie,” he mumbled. “My poor little lost Rotie!”

The days of her childhood had flowed back to him. She was a child once
more in his memory.

“Robbie,” said Ralph, “since we have been here one strange passage has
befallen me, and I believe it is real and not the effect of a
disturbed fancy.”

“What is it, Ralph?” said Robbie.

“The first night after we were shut up in this place, I thought in the
darkness, being fully awake, that one opened the door. I turned my
head, thinking it must be the gaoler. But when I looked it was Rotha.
She had a sweet smile on her dear face. It was a smile of hope and
cheer. Last night, again, I was awakened by Sim crying in his
sleep--the strange, shrill, tearless night-cry that freezes the blood
of the listener. Then I lay an hour awake. Again I thought that one
opened the door. I looked to see Rotha. It was she. I believe she was
sent to us in the spirit as a messenger of peace and hope--hope of
that better world which we are soon to reach.”

The gaoler knocked. Robbie's time had expired. “How short these last
moments seem!” said Ralph; “yet an eternity of last moments would be
brief. Farewell, my lad! God bless you!”

The dalesmen shook hands. Their eyes were averted.

Robbie took his leave with many tears.

Then rose again the voices of the unseen choir within the chapel. The
organ pealed out in loud flute tones that mounted like a lark, higher,
higher, higher, winging its way in the clear morning air. It was the
chant of a returning angel scaling heaven. Then came the long sweeps
of a more solem harmony. Peace, peace! And rest! And rest!




CHAPTER L. NEXT MORNING.


Next morning at daybreak the hammering of the carpenters had ceased in
the Market Place, and their lamps, that burned dim in their sockets,
like lights across a misty sea, were one by one put out. Draped in
black, the ghastly thing that they had built during the night stood
between the turrets of the guard-house.

Already the townspeople were awake. People were hurrying to and fro.
Many were entering the houses that looked on to the market. They were
eager to secure their points of vantage from which to view that
morning's spectacle.

The light came slowly. It was a frosty morning. At seven o'clock a
thin vapor hung in the air and waved to and fro like a veil. It
blurred the face of the houses, softened their sharp outlines, and
seemed at some moments to carry them away into the distance. The sun
rose soft and white as an autumn moon behind a scarf of cloud.

At half past seven the Market Place was thronged. On every inch of the
ground, on every balcony, in every window, over every portico, along
the roofs of the houses north, south, east, and west, clinging to the
chimney-stacks, hanging high up on the pyramidical turrets of the
guard-house itself, astride the arms of the old cross, peering from
between the battlements of the cathedral tower and the musket lancets
of the castle, were crowded, huddled, piled, the spectators of that
morning's tragedy.

What a motley throng! Some in yellow and red, some in black; men,
women, and children lifted shoulder-high. Some with pale faces and
bloodshot eyes, some with rubicund complexion and laughing lips, some
bantering as if at a fair, some on the ground hailing their fellows on
the roofs. What a spectacle were they in themselves!

There at the northeast of the Market Place, between Scotch Street amid
English Street, were half a hundred men and boys in blouses, seated on
the overhanging roof of the wooden shambles. They were shouting sorry
jests at half a dozen hoydenish women who looked out of the windows of
a building raised on pillars over a well, known as Carnaby's Folly.

On the roof of the guard-house stood five or six soldiers in red
coats. One fellow, with a pipe between his lips, leaned over the
parapet to kiss his hand to a little romping serving-wench who giggled
at him from behind a curtain in a house opposite. There was an open
carriage in the very heart of that throng below. Seated within it was
a stately gentleman with a gray peaked beard, and dressed in black
velvet cloak and doublet, having lace collar and ruffles; and side by
side with him was a delicate young maiden muffled to the throat in
fur. The morning was bitterly cold, but even this frail flower of
humanity had been drawn forth by the business that was now at hand.
Where is she now, and what?

A spectacle indeed, and for the eye of the mind a spectacle no less
various than for the bodily organ.

Bosoms seared and foul and sick with uncleanliness. Hearts bound in
the fetters of crime. Hot passions broken loose. Discord rampant. Some
that smote the breast nightly in the anguish of remorse. Some that
knew not where to hide from the eye of conscience the secret sin that
corroded the soul.

Lonely, utterly lonely, in this dense throng were some that shuddered
and laughed by turns.

There were blameless men and women, too, drawn by curiosity and by
another and stronger magnet that they knew of. How would the condemned
meet their end? Would it be with craven timidity or with the
intrepidity of heroes, or again with the insensibility of brutes?
Death was at hand--the inexorable, the all-powerful. How could mortal
man encounter it face to face? This was the great problem then; it is
the great problem now.

Two men were to be executed at eight that morning. Again and again the
people turned to look at the clock. It hung by the side of the dial in
the cupola of the old Town Hall. How slowly moved its tardy figures!
God forgive them, there were those in that crowd who would have helped
forward, if they could, its passionless pulse. And a few minutes more
or fewer in this world or the next, of what account were they in the
great audit of men who were doomed to die?

       *       *       *       *       *

In a room of the guard-house the condemned sat together. They had been
brought from the castle in the night.

“We shall fight our last battle to-day,” said Ralph. “The enemy will
take our camp, but, God willing, we shall have the victory. Never
lower the flag. Cheer up! Keep a brave heart! A few swift minutes
more, and all will be well!”

Sim was crouching at a fire, wringing his lean hands or clutching his
long gray hair.

“Ralph, it shall never be! God will never see it done!”

“Put away the thought,” replied Ralph. “God has brought us here.”

Sim jumped to his feet and cried, “Then I will never witness it--
never!”

Ralph put his hand gently but firmly on Sim's arm and drew him back to
his seat.

The sound of singing came from without, mingled with laughter and
jeers.

“Hark!” cried Sim, “hearken to them again; nay, hark!”

Sim put his head aside and listened. Then, leaping up, he shouted yet
more wildly than before, “No, no! never, never!”

Ralph took him once more by the arm, and the poor worn creature sank
into his seat with a low wail.

       *       *       *       *       *

There was commotion in the corridors and chief chamber of the
guard-house.

“Where is the sheriff?” was the question asked on every hand.

Willy Ray was there, and had been for hours closeted with the
sheriff's assistant.

“Here is the confession duly signed,” he said for the fiftieth time,
as he walked nervously to and fro.

“No use, none. Without the King's pardon or reprieve, the thing must
be done.”

“But the witnesses will be with us within the hour. Put it back but
one little hour and they must be here.”

“Impossible. We hold the King's warrant, and must obey it to the
letter.”

“God in heaven! Do you not see yourself, do you not think that if this
thing is done, two innocent men will die?”

“It is not for me to think. My part is to act.”

“Where is your chief? Can you go on without him?”

“We can and must.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The clock in the Market Place registered ten minutes to eight.
A pale-faced man in the crowd started a hymn.

“Stop his mouth,” cried a voice from the roof of the shambles, “the
Quaker rascal!” And the men in blouses started a catch. But the
singing continued; others joined in it, and soon it swelled to a long
wave of song and flowed over that human sea.

But the clock was striking, and before its last bell had ceased to
ring, between the lines of the hymn, a window of the guard-house was
thrown open and a number of men stepped out.

In a moment the vast concourse was hushed to the stillness of death.

“Where is Wilfrey Lawson?” whispered one.

The sheriff was not there. The under sheriff and a burly fellow in
black were standing side by side.

Among those who were near to the scaffold on the ground in front of it
was one we know. Robbie Anderson had tramped the Market Place the long
night through. He had not been able to tear himself from the spot. His
eye was the first to catch sight of two men who came behind the
chaplain. One of these walked with a firm step, a broad-breasted man,
with an upturned face. Supported on his arm the other staggered along,
his head on his breast, his hair whiter, and his step feebler than of
old. Necks were craned forward to catch a glimpse of them.

       *       *       *       *       *

“This is terrible,” Sim whispered.

“Only a minute more, and it will be over,” answered Ralph.

Sim burst into tears that shook his whole frame.

“Bravely, old friend,” Ralph said, melted himself, despite his words
of cheer. “One minute, and we shall meet again. Bravely, then, and
fear not.”

Sim was struggling to regain composure. He succeeded. His tears were
gone, but a wild look came into his face. Ralph dreaded this more than
tears.

“Be quiet, Sim,” he whispered; “be still, and say no word.”

The under sheriff approached Ralph.

“Have you any statement to make?” he said.

“None.”

“Nor you?” said the officer, turning to Ralph's companion.

Sim was trying to overcome his emotion.

“He has nothing to say,” said Ralph quietly. Then he whispered again
in Sim's ear, “Bravely.”

Removing his arm from Sim's convulsive grasp, he threw off his long
coat. At that moment the bleared sun lit up his lifted face. There was
a hush of awe.

Then, with a frantic gesture, Sim sprang forward, and seizing the arm
of the under sheriff, he cried hysterically,--

“Ay, but I _have_ something to say. He is innocent--take me back and
let me prove it--he is innocent--it's true--it's true--I say it's
true--let me prove it.”

With a face charged with sorrow, Ralph walked to Sim and said, “One
moment more and we had clasped hands in heaven.”

       *       *       *       *       *

But now there was a movement at the back. The sheriff himself was seen
stepping from the window to the scaffold. He was followed by Willy Ray
and John Jackson. Two women stood together behind, Rotha and Mrs.
Garth.

Willy came forward and fell on his brother's neck.

“God has had mercy upon us,” he cried, amid a flood of tears.

Ralph looked amazed. The sheriff said something to him which he did
not hear. The words were inaudible to the crowd, but the quick
sympathy of the great heart of the people caught the unheard message.

“A reprieve! a reprieve!” shouted fifty voices.

A woman fainted at the window behind. It was Rotha.

The two men were led off with staring eyes. They walked like men in a
dream.

Saved! saved! saved!

Then there went up a mighty shout. It was one vast voice, more loud
than the blast on the mountains, more deep than the roar of the sea!




CHAPTER LI. SIX MONTHS AFTER.


It was the height of a Cumbrian summer. Bracken Mere was as smooth as
a sheet of glass. The hills were green, gray, and purple to the
summits, and their clear outlines stood out against the sky. The sky
itself would have been cloudless but for one long scarf of plaited
white which wore away across a lake of blue. The ghyll fell like a
furled flag. The thin river under the clustering leaves sang beneath
its breath. The sun was hot and the air was drowsed by the hum of
insects.

And full of happy people was the meadow between the old house on the
Moss and the pack-horse road in front of it. It was the day of the
Wythburn sports, and this year it was being celebrated at
Shoulthwaite. Tents had been pitched here and there in out-of-the-way
corners of the field, and Mrs. Branthwaite, with her meek face, was
appointed chief mistress and dispenser of the hospitality of the
Shoulthwaite household.

“This is not taty-and-point,” said her husband, with a twinkle in his
eyes and a sensation of liquidity about the lips as he came up to
survey the outspread tables.

Mattha Branthwaite was once more resplendent in those Chapel-Sunday
garments with which, in the perversity of the old weaver's unorthodox
heart, that auspicious day was not often honored. Mrs. Ray had been
carried out in her chair by her stalwart sons. Her dear old face
looked more mellow and peaceful than before. Folks said the paralysis
was passing away. Mattha himself, who never at any time took a
melancholy view of his old neighbor's seizure, stands by her chair
to-day and fires off his sapient saws at her with the certainty that
she appreciates every saw of them.

“The dame's to the fore yit,” he says, “and lang will be.”

At Mrs. Ray's feet her son Willy lies on the grass in a blue jerkin
and broad-brimmed black hat with a plume. Willy's face is of the type
on which trouble tells. Behind him, and leaning on the gate that leads
from the court to the meadow, is Ralph, in a loose jacket with deep
collar and a straw hat. He looks years younger than when we saw him
last. He is just now laughing heartily at a batch of the
schoolmaster's scholars who are casting lots close at hand. One
bullet-headed little fellow has picked up a couple of pebbles, and
after putting them through some unseen and mysterious manoeuvres
behind him, is holding them out in his two little fists, saying,--

     Neevy, neevy nack,
     Whether hand will ta tack--
     T' topmer or t' lowmer?

“What hantle of gibberish is that?” says Monsey Laman himself.

“_I_ is to tumble the poppenoddles,” cries the bullet-headed
gentleman. And presently the rustic young gamester is tossing
somersets for a penny.

In the middle of the meadow, and encircled by a little crowd of
excited male spectators, two men are trying a fall at wrestling.
Stripped to the waist, they are treating each other to somewhat
demonstrative embraces.

At a few yards' distance another little circle, of more symmetrical
outlines, and comprising both sexes, are standing with linked hands. A
shame-faced young maiden is carrying a little cushion around her
companions. They are playing the “cushion game.”

At one corner of the field there is a thicket overgrown with wild
roses, white and red. Robbie Anderson, who has just escaped from a
rebellious gang of lads who have been climbing on his shoulders and
clinging to his legs, is trying to persuade Liza Branthwaite that
there is something curious and wonderful lying hidden within this
flowery ambush.

“It's terrible nice,” he says, rather indefinitely. “Come, lass, come
and see.”

Liza refuses plump.

The truth is that Liza has a shrewd suspicion that the penalty of
acquiescence would be a kiss. Now, she has no particular aversion to
that kind of commerce, but since Robbie is so eager, she has resolved,
like a true woman, that his appetite shall be whetted by a temporary
disappointment.

“Not I,” she says, with arms akimbo and a rippling laugh of knowing
mockery. Presently her sprightly little feet are tripping away.

Still encircled by half a score of dogs, Robbie returns to the middle
of the meadow, where the wrestlers have given way to some who are
preparing for a race up the fell. Robbie throws off his coat and cap,
and straps a belt about his waist.

“Why, what's this?” inquires Liza, coming up at the moment, with
mischief in her eyes, and bantering her sweetheart with roguish jeers.
“_You_ going to run! Why, you are only a bit of a boy, you know. How
can _you_ expect to win?”

“Just you wait and see, little lass,” says Robbie, with undisturbed
good humor.

“You'll slidder all the way down the fell, sure enough,” saves Liza.

“All right; just you get a cabbish-skrunt poultice ready for my broken
shins,” says Robbie.

“I would scarce venture if I were you,” continues Liza, to the vast
amusement of the bystanders. “Wait till you're a man, Robbie.”

The competitors--there are six of them--are now stationed; the signal
is given, and away they go.

The fell is High Seat, and it is steep and rugged. The first to round
the “man” at the summit and reach the meadow again wins the prize.

Over stones, across streams, tearing through thickets, through belts
of trees--look how they go! Now they are lost to the sight of the
spectators below; now they are seen, and now they are hidden; now
three of the six emerge near the top.

The excitement in the field is at full pitch. Liza is beside herself
with anxiety.

“It's Robbie--no, yes--no--egg him on, do; te-lick; te-smack.”

One man has rounded the summit, and two others follow him
neck-and-neck. They are coming down, jumping, leaping, flying. They're
here, here, and it is--yes, it _is_ Robbie that leads!

“Well done! Splendid! Twelve minutes! Well done! Weel, weel, I oles do
say 'at ye hev a lang stroke o' the grund, Robbie,” says Mattha.

“And what do _you_ say?” says Robbie, panting, and pulling on his coat
as he turns to Liza, who is trying to look absent and unconcerned.

“Ay! Did you speak to me? I say that perhaps you didn't go round the
'man' at all. You were always a bit of a cheat, you know.”

“Then here goes for cheating you.” Robbie had caught Liza about the
waist, and was drawing her to that rose-covered thicket. She found he
was holding her tight. He was monstrously strong. What ever _was_ the
good of trying to get away?

Two elderly women were amused spectators of Liza's ineffectual
struggles.

“I suppose you know they are to be wedded,” said one.

“I suppose so,” rejoined the other; “and I hear that Ralph is to let a
bit of land to Robbie; he has given him a horse, I'm told.”

Matthew Branthwaite had returned to his station by Mrs. Ray's chair.

“Whear's Rotha?” says the old weaver.

“She said she would come and bring her father,” said Willy from the
grass, where he still lay at his mother's feet.

“It was bad manishment, my lad, to let the lass gang off agen with Sim
to yon Fornside.”

Mattha is speaking with an insinuating smile.

“Could ye not keep her here? Out upon tha for a good to nowt.”

Willy makes no reply to the weaver's banter.

At that moment Rotha and her father are seen to enter the meadow by a
gate at the lower end.

Ralph steps forward and welcomes the new-comers.

Sim has aged fast these last six months, but he is brighter looking
and more composed. The dalespeople have tried hard to make up to him
for their former injustice. He receives their conciliatory attentions
with a somewhat too palpable effort at cordiality, but he is only less
timid than before.

Ralph leads Rotha to a vacant chair near to where his mother sits.

“A blithe heart maks a blooming look,” says Mattha to the girl.
Rotha's face deserves the compliment. To-day it looks as fresh as it
is always beautiful. But there is something in it now that we have
never before observed. The long dark lashes half hide and half reveal
a tenderer light than has hitherto stolen into those deep brown eyes.
The general expression of the girl's face is not of laughter nor yet
of tears, but of that indescribable something that lies between these
two, when, after a world of sadness, the heart is glad--the sunshine
of an April day.

“This seems like the sunny side of the hedge at last, Rotha,” says
Ralph, standing by her side, twirling his straw hat on one hand.

There is some bustle in their vicinity. The schoolmaster, who prides
himself on having the fleetest foot in the district, has undertaken to
catch a rabbit. Trial of speed is made, and he succeeds in two hundred
yards.

“Theer's none to match the laal limber Frenchman,” says Mattha, “for
catching owte frae a rabbit to a slap ower the lug at auld Nicky
Stevens's.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughs Reuben Thwaite, rather boisterously, as he comes
up in time to hear the weaver's conceit.

“There's one thing I never caught yet, Master Reuben,” says Monsey.

“And what is it?” says the little blink-eyed dalesman.

“A ghost on a lime-and-mould heap!”

“Ha! ha! ha! He's got a lad's heart the laal man has,” says Mattha,
with the manner of a man who is conscious that he is making an
original observation.

And now the sun declines between the Noddle Fell and Bleaberry. The
sports are over, but not yet is the day's pleasure done. When darkness
has fallen over meadow and mountain the kitchen of the house on the
Moss is alive with bright faces. The young women of Wythburn have
brought their spinning-wheels, and they sit together and make some
pretence to spin. The young men are outside. The old folks are in
another room with Mrs. Ray.

Presently a pebble is heard to crack against the window pane.

“What ever can it be?” says one of the maidens with an air of profound
amazement.

One venturesome damsel goes to the door “Why, it's a young man!” she
says, with overpowering astonishment.

The unexpected creature enters the kitchen, followed by a longish line
of similar apparitions. They seat themselves on the table, on the
skemmels, on the stools between the spinners--anywhere, everywhere.

What sport ensues! what story-telling! what laughing! what singing!

Ralph comes downstairs, and is hailed with welcomes on all hands. He
is called upon for a song. Yes, he can sing. He always sang in the old
days. He must sing now.

“I'll sing you something I heard in Lancaster,” he says.

“What about--the Lancashire witches?”

“Who writ it--little Monsey?”

“No, but a bigger man than Monsey,” said Ralph with a smile.

“He _would_ be a mite if he were no bigger than the schoolmaster,” put
in that lady of majestic stature, Liza Branthwaite.

Then Ralph sang in his deep baritone, “Fear no more the heat o' the
sun.”

And the click of the spinning-wheels seemed to keep time to the slow
measure of the fine old song.

Laddie, the collie, was there. He lay at Ralph's feet with a solemn
face. He was clearly thinking out the grave problems attaching to the
place of dogs on this universe.

“Didn't I hear my name awhile ago?” said a voice from behind the door.
The head of the speaker emerged presently. It was Monsey Laman. He had
been banished with the “old folks.”

“Come your ways in, schoolmaster,” cried Robbie Anderson. “Who says
'yes' to a bout of play-acting?”

As a good many said “Yes,” an armchair was forthwith placed at one
corner of the kitchen with its back to the audience. Monsey mounted
it. Robbie went out of doors, and, presently re-entering with a
countenance of most woeful solemnity, approached the chair, bent on
one knee, and began to speak,--

     Oh wad I were a glove upo' yon hand
     'At I med kiss yon feàce.

A loud burst of laughter rewarded this attempt on the life of the
tragic muse. But when the schoolmaster, perched aloft, affecting a
peuking voice (a strangely unnecessary artistic effort), said,--

“Art thou not Romeo and a Montague?” and the alleged Romeo on his
knees replied, “Nowther, sweet lass, if owther thoo offend,” the
laughter in the auditorium reached the point of frantic screams. The
actors, like wise artists, were obviously indifferent to any question
of the kind of impression produced, and went at their task with
conscientious ardor.

The little schoolmaster smiled serenely, enchantingly, bewitchingly.
Robbie panted and gasped, and sighed and moaned.

“Did you ever see a man in such a case?” said Liza, wiping away the
hysterical tears of merriment that coursed down her cheeks.

“Wait a bit,” said Robbie, rather stepping out of his character.

It was a part of the “business” of this tragedy, as Robbie had seen it
performed in Carlisle, that Romeo should cast a nosegay up into the
balcony to Juliet. Robbie had provided himself with the “property” in
question, and, pending the moment at which it was necessary to use it,
he had deposited it on the floor behind him. But in the fervor of
impersonation, he had not observed that Liza had crept up and stolen
it away.

“Where's them flowers?” cried Romeo, scarcely _sotto voce_.

When the nosegay was yielded up to the lover on his knees, it was
found to be about three times as big as Juliet's head.

The play came to an abrupt conclusion; the spinning-wheels were pushed
aside, a fiddle was brought out, and then followed a dance.

“Iverything has a stopping spot but time,” said Mattha Branthwaite,
coming in, his hat and cloak on.

The night was spent. The party must break up.

The girls drew on their bonnets and shawls, and the young men
shouldered the wheels.

A large company were to sail up the mere to the city in the row-boat,
and Rotha, Ralph, and Willy walked with them to Water's Head. Sim
remained with Mrs. Ray.

What a night it was! The moon was shining at the full from a sky of
deep blue that was studded with stars. Not a breath of wind was
stirring. The slow beat of the water on the shingle came to the ear
over the light lap against the boat. The mere stretched miles away. It
seemed to be as still as a white feather on the face of the dead, and
to be alive with light. Where the swift but silent current was cut
asunder by a rock, the phosphorescent gleams sent up sheets of
brightness. The boat, which rolled slowly, half-afloat and
half-ashore, was bordered by a fringe of silver. When at one moment a
gentle breeze lifted the water into ripples, countless stars floated,
down a white waterway from yonder argent moon. Not a house on the
banks of the mere; not a sign of life; only the low plash of wavelets
on the pebbles. Hark! What cry was that coming clear and shrill? It
was the curlew. And when the night bird was gone she left a silence
deeper than before.

The citizens, lads and lasses, old men and dames, got into the boat.
Robbie Anderson and three other young fellows took the oars.

“We'll row ourselves up in a twinkling,” said Liza, as Ralph and Willy
pushed the keel off the shingle.

“Hark ye the lass!” cried Mattha. “We hounds slew the hare, quo' the
terrier to the cur.”

The sage has fired off the last rustic proverb that we shall ever hear
from his garrulous old lips.

When they were fairly afloat, and rowing hard up the stream, the girls
started a song.

The three who stood together at the Water's Head listened long to the
dying voices.

A step on the path broke their trance. It was a lone woman, bent and
feeble. She went by them without a word.

The brothers exchanged a look.

“Poor Joe,” said Rotha, almost in a whisper.

But the girl's cup of joy could bear this memory. She knew her love at
last.

Willy stepped between Rotha and Ralph. He was deeply moved. He was
about to yield up the dream of his life. He tried to speak, and
stopped. He tried again, and stopped once more. Then he took Rotha's
hand and put it into Ralph's, and turned away in silence.

       *       *       *       *       *

And now these two, long knit together, soul to soul, parted by sorrow,
purified by affliction, ennobled by suffering, stand in this white
moonlight hand in hand.

Hereafter the past is dead to them, and yet lives. What was sown in
sorrow is raised in joy; what was sown in affliction is raised in
peace; what was sown in suffering is raised in love.

And thus the tired old world wags on, and true it is to-day as
yesterday that WHOM GOD'S HAND RESTS ON HAS GOD AT HIS RIGHT HAND.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Shadow of a Crime, by Hall Caine

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