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!”