A bleared winter sun was sinking down through a scarf of mist. Rotha
was walking hurriedly down the lonnin that led from the house on the
Moss. Laddie, the collie, had attached himself to her since Ralph's
departure, and now he was running by her side.
She was on her way to Fornside, but on no errand of which she was
conscious. Willy Ray had not yet returned. Her father had not come
back from his long journey. Where was Willy? Where was her father?
What kept them away? And what of Ralph--standing as he did, in the
jaws of that Death into which her own hands had thrust him! Would hope
ever again be possible? These questions Rotha had asked herself a
hundred times, and through the responseless hours of the long days and
longer nights of more than a week she had lived on somehow, somehow,
somehow.
The anxiety was burning her heart away; it would be burnt as dry as
ashes soon. And she had been born a woman--a weak woman--a thing meant
to sit at home with her foot on the treadle of her poor little wheel,
while dear lives were risked and lost elsewhere.
Rotha was a changed being. She was no longer the heartsome lassie who
had taken captive the stoical fancy of old Angus. Tutored by
suffering, she had become a resolute woman. Goaded by something akin
to despair, she was now more dangerous than resolute.
She was to do strange things soon. Even her sunny and girlish
ingenuousness was to desert her. She was to become as cunning as
dauntless. Do you doubt it? Put yourself in her place. Think of what
she had done, and why she had done it; think of what came of it, and
may yet come of it. Then look into your own heart; or, better far,
look into the heart of another--you will be quicker to detect the
truth and the falsehood that lies _there_.
Then listen to what the next six days will bring forth.
The cottage at Fornside has never been occupied since the tailor
abandoned it. Hardly in Wythburn was there any one so poor as to covet
such shelter for a home. It was a single-storied house with its back
to the road. Its porch was entered from five or six steps that led
downwards from a little garden. It had three small rooms, with low
ceilings and paved floors. In the summer the fuchsia flecked its front
with white and red. In these winter days the dark ivy was all that
grew about it.
Lonely, cheerless, and now proscribed by the fears and superstitions
of the villagers, it stood as gaunt as a solitary pine on the mountain
head that has been blasted and charred by the lightning.
When Rotha reached it she hesitated as if uncertain whether to go in
or go back. She stood at the little wicket, while the dog bounded into
the garden. In another moment Laddie had run into the house itself.
How was this? She had locked the door. The key had been hidden as
usual in the place known only to her father and herself. Rotha hurried
down, and pushed her hand deep into the thatch covering the porch. The
key was gone. The door stood open.
And now, besides the pat of the dog's feet, she heard noises from
within.
Rotha put her hand to her heart. Could it be that her father had come
home? Was he here, here?
The girl stepped into the kitchen. Then a loud clash, as of a closing
chest, came from an inner room. In an instant there was the rustle of
a dress, and Mrs. Garth and Rotha were face to face in that dim
twilight.
The recoil of emotion was too much for the girl. She stood silent. The
woman looked at her for an instant with something more like a
frightened expression than had yet been seen on her hard face.
Then she brushed past her and away.
“Stop!” cried Rotha, recovering herself.
The woman was gone, and the girl did not pursue her.
Rotha went into the room which Mrs. Garth had come from. It was
Wilson's room. There was his trunk still, which none had claimed. The
trunk--the hasty closing of its lid had been the noise she heard! But
it had always been heavily locked. With feverish fingers Rotha
clutched at the great padlock that hung from the front of the trunk.
It had a bunch of keys suspended from it. They were strange to her.
Whose keys were they?
The trunk was not locked; the lid had merely been shut down. Rotha
raised it with trembling hands. Inside were clothes of various kinds,
but these had been thrust hurriedly aside, and beneath them were
papers--many papers--scattered loosely at the bottom. What were they?
It was growing dark. Rotha remembered that there was no candle in the
house, and no lamp that had oil. She thrust her hand down to snatch up
the papers, meaning to carry them away. She touched the dead man's
clothes, and shrank back affrighted. The lid fell heavily again.
The girl began to quiver in every limb.
Who could say that the spirits of the dead did not haunt the scenes of
their lives and deaths? Gracious heaven! she was in Wilson's room!
Rotha tottered her way out in the gathering gloom, clutching at the
door as she went. Back in the porch again, she felt for the key to the
outer door. It was in the lock. She should carry it with her this
time. Then she remembered the keys in the trunk. She must carry them
away also. She never asked herself why. What power of good or evil was
prompting the girl?
Calling the dog, she went boldly into the house again, and once more
into the dead man's room. She fixed the padlock, turned the key, drew
it out of its wards, and put the bunch of keys in her pocket. In two
minutes more she was on the high road, walking back to Shoulthwaite.
There was something in her heart that told her that to-day's event was
big with issues. And, truly, an angel of light had led her to that
dark house.
The sun was gone. A vapory mist was preceding the night. The dead day
lay clammy on her hands and cheeks.
When she reached the Fornside road, her eyes turned towards the
smithy. There it was, and a bright red glow from the fire, white at
its hissing heart, lit up the air about it. Rotha could hear the thick
breathing of the bellows and the thin tinkle of the anvil. Save for
these all was silent. What was the secret of the woman who lived
there? That it concerned her father, Ralph, herself, and all people
dear to her, was as clear as day to Rotha. The girl then resolved
that, come what should or could, that secret should be torn from the
woman's heart.
The moon was struggling feebly through a ridge of cloud, lighting the
sky at moments like a revolving lamp at sea. On the road home Rotha
passed two young people who were tripping along and laughing as they
went.
“Good night, Rotha,” said the young dalesman.
“Good night, dear,” said his sweetheart.
Rotha returned the salutations.
“Fine lass that,” said the young fellow in a whisper.
“Do you think so? She's too moapy for me,” replied his companion. “I
hate moapy folks.”
After this slight interruption the two resumed the sport of their good
spirits.
The moon had cleared the clouds now.
It was to be just such a night--save for the frost and wind--as that
fateful one on which Ralph and Rotha walked together from the Red
Lion. How happy that night had seemed to her then to be--happy, at
least, until the end! She had even sung under the moonlight. But her
songs had been truer than she knew--terribly, horribly true.
One lonely foot sounds on the keep,
And that's the warder's tread.
Step by step Rotha retraced every incident of that night's walk; every
word of Ralph's and every tone.
He had told her that her father was innocent, and that he knew it was
so.
He had asked her if she did not love her father, and she had said,
“Better than all the world.”
Had that been true, quite _true?_ Rotha stopped and plucked at a bough
in the fence.
When she had asked him the cause of his sadness, when she had hinted
that perhaps he was keeping something behind which might yet take all
the joy out of the glad news that he gave her--what, then, had he
said? He had told her there was nothing to come that need mar her
happiness or disturb her love. Had that also been true, _quite_ true?
No, no, no, neither had been true; but the falsehood had been hers.
She loved her father, yes; but not, no, not better than all the world.
And what had come after had marred her happiness and disturbed her
love. Where lay her love--where?
Rotha stopped again, and as though to catch her breath. Nature within
her seemed at war with itself. It was struggling to tear away a mask
that hid its own face. That mask must soon be plucked aside.
Rotha thought of her betrothal to Willy, and then a cold chill passed
over her.
She walked on until she came under the shadow of the trees beneath
which Angus Ray had met his death. There she paused and looked down.
She could almost conjure up the hour of the finding of the body.
At that moment the dog was snuffling at the very spot. Here it was
that she herself had slipped; here that Ralph had caught her in his
arms; here, again, that he had drawn her forward; here that they had
heard noises from the court beyond.
Stop--what noise was _that!_ It was the whinny of a horse! They had
heard that too. Her dream of the past and the present reality were
jumbling themselves together.
Again? No, no; that was the neigh--the real neigh--of a horse. Rotha
hastened forward. The dog had run on. A minute later Laddie was
barking furiously. Rotha reached the courtyard.
There stood the old mare, exactly as before!
Was it a dream? Had she gone mad? Rotha ran and caught the bridle.
Yes, yes! It was a reality. It was Betsy!
There was no coffin on her back; the straps that had bound it now
dangled to the ground.
But it was the mare herself, and no dream.
Yes, Betsy had come home.