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.”