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.