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?”