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!”