Under the rude old Town Hall at Carlisle there was a shop which was
kept by a dealer in second-hand books. The floor within was paved, and
the place was lighted at night by two lamps, which swung from the
beams of the ceilings. At one end a line of shelves served to separate
from the more public part of the shop a little closet of a room,
having a fire, and containing in the way of furniture a table, two or
three chairs, and a stuffed settle.
In this closet, within a week of the events just narrated, a man of
sinister aspect, whom we have met more than once already in other
scenes, sat before a fire.
“Not come down yet, Pengelly?” said, this man to the bookseller, a
tottering creature in a long gown and velvet skull cap.
“Not yet.”
“Will he ever come? It's all a fool's errand, too, I'll swear it is.”
Then twisting his shoulders as though shivering, he added,--
“Bitter cold, this shop of yours.”
“Warmer than Doomsdale, eh?” replied the bookseller with a grin as he
busied himself dusting his shelves.
The other chuckled. He took a stick that lay on the hearth and broke
the fire into a sharp blaze. The exercise was an agreeable one. It was
accompanied by agreeable reflections, too.
“I hear a foot on the stair.” A man entered the shop.
“No use, none,” said the new-comer. “It's wasted labor talking to
Master Wilfrey.”
The tone was one of vexation.
“Did ye tell him what I heard about Justice Hide and his carryings on
at Newcastle?”
“Ey, and I told 'im he'd never bring it off with Hide on the bench.”
“And what did the chiel say to it?”
“'Tut,' he said, says he, 'Millet is wi' 'im on the circuit, and he'll
see the law's safe on treason.'”
“So he will not touch the other indictment?”
“'It's no use,' says he, 'the man's sure to fall for treason,' he
says, 'and it's all botherment trying to force me to indict 'im for
murder.'”
“Force him! Ha! ha! that's good, that is; force him, eh?”
The speaker renewed his attentions to the fire.
“He'll be beaten,” he added,--“he'll be beaten, will Master Wilfrey.
With Hide oh the bench there'll be no conviction for treason. And then
the capital charge will go to the wall, and Ray will get away scot
free.”
“It baffles me yet aboot Ray, his giving himself up.”
“Shaf, man! Will ye never see through the trick? It was to stand for
treason and claim the pardon, or be fined, or take a year in
Doomsdale, and escape the gallows. He's a cunning taistrel. He'll do
aught to save his life.”
“You're wrong there; I cannot but say you're wrong there. I know the
man, and as I've told you there's nothing in the world he dare not do.
Why, would you credit it, I saw 'im one day--”
“Tut, haud yer tongue. Ye'd see him tremble one day if this sheriff of
yours were not flayt by his own shadow. Ye'd see him on Haribee; aye,
and maybe ye _will_ see him there yet, sheriff or no sheriff.”
This was said with a bitterness indicative of fierce and deadly
hatred.
Shifting uneasily under the close gaze of his companion, the other
said,--
“What for do you look at me like that? I've no occasion to love him,
have I?”
“Nor I, nor I,” said the first speaker, his face distorted with evil
passions; “and you shall spit on his grave yet, Master Scroope, that
you shall; and dance on it till it does yer soul good; you shall, you
shall, sheriff or none.”
Just then a flourish of trumpets fell on the ear. Conversation was
interrupted while the men, with the bookseller, stepped to the door.
Numbers of townspeople were crowding into the Market Place.
Immediately afterwards there came at a swift pace through Scotch
Street a gayly bedecked carriage, with outriders in gold lace and a
trumpeter riding in front.
“The judges--going through to King's Arms Lane,” observed the
bookseller.
“What o'clock do the 'sizes start, Mr. Pengelly?” asked a loiterer
outside.
“Ten in the morning, that's when the grand jury sit,” the bookseller
answered.