An hour before Rotha left Shoulthwaite, Robbie Anderson was lying on a
settle before the fire in the old weaver's kitchen. Mattha himself and
his wife were abroad, but Liza had generously and courageously
undertaken the task of attending to the needs of the convalescent.
“Where's all my hair gone?” asked Robbie, with a puzzled expression.
He was rubbing his close-cropped head.
Liza laughed roguishly.
“Maybe it's fifty yards north of the bridge,” she said, with her head
aside.
Robbie looked at her with blank amazement.
“Why, who told you that, Liza?” he said.
“Told me what?”
“Ey? _That!_” repeated Robbie, no more explicit.
“Foolish boy! Didn't you tell us yourself fifty times?”
“So I did. Did I though? What am I saying? When did I tell you?”
Robbie's eyes were staring out of his head. His face, not too ruddy at
first, was now as pale as ashes.
Liza began to whimper.
“Why do you look like that?” she said.
“Look? Oh, ey, ey! I'm a ruffian, that's what I am. Never mind, lass.”
Robbie's eyes regained their accustomed expression, and his features,
which had been drawn down, returned to their natural proportions.
Liza's face underwent a corresponding change.
“Robbie, have you 'downed' him--that Garth?”
“Ey?”
The glaring eyes were coming back. Liza, frightened again, began once
more to whimper prettily.
“I didn't mean to flayte you, Liza,” Robbie said coaxingly. “You're a
fair coax when you want something,” said Liza, trying to disengage
herself from the grasp of Robbie's arm about her waist. He might be an
invalid, Liza thought, but he was wonderfully strong, and he was
holding her shockingly tight. What _was_ the good of struggling?
Robbie snatched a kiss.
“Oh you--oh you--oh! oh! If I had known that you were so wicked--oh!”
“Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, or I will never let you go,
never,” cried Robbie.
“Never?” Liza felt that she _must_ forgive this tyrant.
“Well, if you'll loosen this arm I'll--I'll _try_.”
“Liza, how much do you love me?” inquired Robbie.
“Did you speak to me?”
“Oh, no, to crusty old 'Becca down the road. How much do you love me?”
Robbie's passion was curiously mathematical.
“Me? How much? About as much as you might put in your eye.”
Robbie pretended to look deeply depressed. He dropped his head, but
kept, nevertheless, an artful look out of the corner of the eye which
was alleged to be the measure of his sweetheart's affection.
Thinking herself no longer under the fire of Robbie's glances, Liza's
affectation of stern disdain melted into a look of tenderness.
Robbie jerked his head up sharply. The little woman was caught. She
revenged herself by assuming a haughty coldness. But it was of no use.
Robbie laughed and crowed and bantered.
At this juncture Mattha Branth'et came into the cottage.
The weaver was obviously in a state of profound agitation. He had just
had a “fratch” with the Quaker preachers on the subject of election.
“I rub't 'm t' wrang way o' t' hair,” said the old man, “when I axt
'em what for they were going aboot preaching if it were all settled
aforehand who was to be damned and who was to be saved. 'Ye'r a child
of the devil,' says one. 'Mebbee so,' says I, 'and I dunnet know if
the devil iver had any other relations; but if so, mebbee yersel's his
awn cousin.'”
It was hard on Matthew that, after upholding Quakerism for years
against the sneers of the Reverend Nicholas Stevens, he should be thus
disowned and discredited by the brotherhood itself.
“Tut! theer's six o' tean an' hofe a duzzen of t' tudder,” said the
old sage, dismissing the rival theologians from his mind forever.
“Oh, Robbie, lad,” said Matthew, as if by a sudden thought, “John
Jackson met Willy Ray coming frae Carlisle, and what think ye hes
happent?”
“Nay, what?” said Robbie, turning pale again.
“Ralph Ray and Sim Stagg are condemned to death for t' murder of auld
Wilson.”
Robbie leapt to his feet.
“The devil!”
“Come, dunnet ye tak on like the Quakers,” said Matthew.
Robbie had caught up his coat and hat.
“Why, where are you going?” said Liza.
“Going? Aye? Going?”
“Yes, where? You're too weak to go anywhere. You'll have another
fever.”
A light wagon was running on the road outside. Reuben Thwaite was
driving.
Robbie rushed to the door, and hailed him.
“Going off with thread again, Reuben?”
“That's reets on't,” answered the little man.
“Let me in with you?”
And Robbie climbed into the cart.
Mattha got up and went out in the road.
* * * * *
The two men had hardly got clear away when Rotha entered the cottage
all but breathless.
“Robbie, where is he?”
“Gone, just gone, not above two minutes,” replied Liza, still
whimpering.
“Where?”
“I scarce know--to Penrith, I think. There was no keeping him back.
When father came in and told him what had happened at Carlisle, he
flung away and would not be hindered. He has gone off in Reuben's
wagon.”
“Which way?”
“They took the low road.”
“Then I've missed them,” said Rotha, sinking into a chair in a
listless attitude.
“And he's as weak as water, and he'll take another fever, as I told
him, and ramble on same as--”
“Liza,” interrupted Rotha, “did you ever tell him--in play I mean--did
you ever repeat anything he had said when he was unconscious?”
“Not that about his mammy?”
“No, no; but anything else?”
“I mind I told him what he said over and over again about his fratch
with that Garth.”
“Nothing else?”
“Why, yes, now I think on't. I mind, too, that I told him he was
always running on it that something was fifty yards north of the
bridge, and he could swear it, swear it in hea--”
“What did he say to _that?_” asked Rotha eagerly.
“Say! he said nothing, but he glowered at me till I thought sure he
was off again.”
“Is that all?”
“All what, Rotha?”
“They said in evidence that Ralph--it was a lie, remember--they said
that Wilson was killed fifty yards to the north of the bridge. Now his
body was found as far to the south of it. Robbie knows something. I
hoped to learn what he knows; but oh, everything is against
me--everything, everything.”
Rising hastily, she added, “Perhaps Robbie has gone to Carlisle. I
must be off, Liza.”
In another moment she was hurrying up the road.
* * * * *
Taking the high path, the girl came upon the Quaker preachers,
surrounded by a knot of villagers. To avoid them she turned up an
unfrequented angle of the road. There, in the recess of a gate, unseen
by the worshippers, but commanding a view of them, and within hearing
of all that was sung and said, stood Garth, the blacksmith. He wore
his leathern apron thrown over one shoulder. This was the hour of
mid-day rest. He had not caught the sound of Rotha's light footstep as
she came up beside him. He was leaning over the gate and listening
intently. There was more intelligence and also more tenderness in his
face than Rotha had observed before.
She paused, and seemed prompted to a nearer approach, but for the
moment she held back. The worshippers began to sing a simple Quaker
hymn. It spoke of pardon and peace:--
Though your sins be red as scarlet,
He shall wash them white as wool.
Garth seemed to be touched. His hard face softened; his lips parted,
and his eyes began to swim.
When the singing ceased, he repeated the refrain beneath his breath.
“What if one could but think it?” he muttered, and dropped his head
into his hands.
Rotha stepped up and tapped his shoulder.
“Mr. Garth,” she said.
He started, and then struggled to hide his discomposure. There was
only one way in which a man of his temperament and resource could hope
to do it--he snarled.
“What do you want with me?”
“It was a beautiful hymn,” said Rotha, ignoring his question.
“Do you think so?” he growled, and turned his head away.
“What if one could but think it?” she said, as if speaking as much to
herself as to him.
Garth faced about, and looked at her with a scowl.
The girl's eyes were as meek as an angel's.
“It's what I was thinking mysel', that is,” he mumbled after a pause;
then added aloud with an access of irritation, “Think what?”
“That there is pardon for us all, no matter what our sins--pardon and
peace.”
“Humph!”
“It is beautiful; religion is very beautiful, Mr. Garth.”
The blacksmith forced a short laugh.
“You'd best go and hire yourself to the Quakers. They would welcome a
woman preacher, no doubt.”
She would have bartered away years of her life at this instant for one
glimpse of what was going on in that man's heart. If she had found
corruption there, sin and crime, she would have thanked God for it as
for manna from above. Rotha clutched the keys beneath her cloak and
subdued her anger.
“You scarce seem yourself to-day, Mr. Garth,” she said.
“All the better,” he replied, with a mocking laugh. “I've heard that
they say my own sel' is a bad sel'.”
The words were hardly off his lips when he turned again sharply and
faced Rotha with an inquiring look. He had reminded himself of a
common piece of his mother's counsel; but in the first flash of
recollection it had almost appeared to him that the words had been
Rotha's, not his.
The girl's face was as tender as a Madonna's.
“Maybe I _am_ a little bit out of sorts to-day; maybe so. I've felt
daizt this last week end; I have, somehow.”
Rotha left him a minute afterwards. Continuing her journey, she drew
the bunch of keys from under her cloak and examined them.
They were the same that she had found attached to Wilson's trunk on
the night of her own and Mrs. Garth's visit to the deserted cottage at
Fornside. There were perhaps twenty keys in all, but two only bore any
signs of recent or frequent use. One of these was marked with a cross
scratched roughly on the flat of the ring. The other had a piece of
white tape wrapped about the shaft. The rest of the keys were worn red
with thick encrustation of rust. And now, by the power of love, this
girl with the face of an angel in its sweetness and simplicity--this
girl, usually as tremulous as a linnet--was about to do what a callous
man might shrink from.
She followed the pack-horse road beyond the lonnin that turned up to
Shoulthwaite, and stopped at the gate of the cottage that stood by the
smithy near the bridge. Without wavering for an instant, without the
quivering of a single muscle, she opened the gate and walked up to the
door.
“Mrs. Garth,” she called.
A young girl came out. She was a neighbor's daughter.
“Why, she's away, Rotha, Mistress Garth is,” said the little lassie.
“Away, Bessy?” said Rotha, entering the house and seating herself. “Do
you know where she's gone?”
“Nay, that I don't; but she told mother she'd be away three or four
days.”
“So you're minding house for her,” said Rotha vacantly, her eyes
meantime busily traversing the kitchen; they came back to the little
housekeeper's face in a twinkling.
“Deary me, what a pretty ribbon that is in your hair, Bessy. Do you
know it makes you quite smart. But it wants just a little bow like
this--there, there.”
The guileless child blushed and smiled, and sidled slyly up to where
she could catch a sidelong glance at herself in a scratched mirror
that hung against the wall.
“Tut, Bessy, you should go and kneel on the river bank just below, and
look at yourself in the still water. Go, lass, and come back and tell
me what you think now.”
The little maiden's vanity prompted her to go, but her pride urged her
to remain, lest Rotha should think her too vain. Pride conquered, and
Bessy hung down her pretty head and smiled. Rotha turned wearily about
and said, “I'm very thirsty, and I can't bear that well water of Mrs.
Garth's.”
“Why, she's not got a well, Rotha.”
“Hasn't she? Now, do you know, I thought she had, but it must be
'Becca Rudd's well I'm thinking of.”
Bessy stepped outside for a moment, and came back with a basin of
water in her hand.
“What sort of water is this, Bessy--river water?” said Rotha
languidly, with eyes riveted on an oak chest that stood at one side of
the kitchen.
“Oh, no; spring water,” said the little one, with many protestations
of her shaking head.
“Now, do you know, Bessy--you'll think it strange, won't you?--do you
know, I never care for spring water.”
“I'll get you a cup of milk,” said Bessy.
“No, no; it's river water _I_ like. Just slip away and get me a cup of
it, there's a fine lass, and I'll show you how to tie the ribbon for
yourself.”
The little one tripped off. Vanity reminded her that she could kill
two birds with one stone. Instantly she had gone Rotha rose to her
feet and drew out the keys. Taking the one with the tape on it, she
stepped to the oak chest and tried it on the padlock that hung in
front of it. No; that was not the lock it fitted. There was a corner
cupboard that hung above the chest. But, no; neither had the cupboard
the lock which fitted the key in Rotha's hand.
There was a bedroom leading out of the kitchen. Rotha entered it and
looked around. A linen trunk, a bed, and a chair were all that it
contained. She went upstairs. There were two bedrooms there, but no
chest, box, cabinet, cupboard, not anything having a lock which a key
like this might fit.
Bessy would be back soon. Rotha returned to the kitchen. She went
again into the adjoining bedroom. Yes, under the bed was a trunk, a
massive plated trunk. She tried to move it, but it would not stir. She
went down on her knees to examine it. It had two padlocks, but neither
suited the key. Back to the kitchen, she sat down half bewildered and
looked around.
At that instant the little one came in, with a dimple in her rosy
cheeks and a cup of water in her hand.
Rotha took the water and tried to drink.
She was defeated once more. She put the keys into her pocket. Was she
ever to be one step nearer the heart of this mystery?
She rose wearily and walked out, forgetting to show the trick of the
bow to the little housekeeper who stood with a rueful pout in the
middle of the floor.
There was one thing left to do; with this other key, the key marked
with a cross, she could open Wilson's trunk in her father's cottage,
look at the papers, and perhaps discover wherein lay their interest
for Mrs. Garth. But first she must examine the two places in the road
referred to in the evidence at the trial.
In order to do this at once, Rotha turned towards Smeathwaite when she
left the blacksmith's cottage, and walked to the bridge.
The river ran in a low bed, and was crossed by the road at a sharp
angle. Hence the bridge lay almost out of sight of persons walking
towards it.
Fifty yards to the north of it was the spot where the woman Rushton
said she saw the murder. Fifty yards to the south of it was the spot
where the body was picked up next morning.
Rotha had reached the bridge, and was turning the angle of the road,
when she drew hastily back. Stepping behind a bush for further
concealment, she waited. Some one was approaching. It was Mrs. Garth.
The woman walked on until she came to within fifty paces of where
Rotha stood. Then she stopped. The girl observed her movements,
herself unseen.
Mrs. Garth looked about her to the north and south of the road and
across the fields on either hand. Then she stepped into the dike and
prodded the ground for some yards and kicked the stones that lay
there.
Rotha's breath came and went like a tempest.
Mrs. Garth stooped to look closely at a huge stone that lay by the
highway. Then she picked up a smaller stone and seemed to rub it on
the larger one, as if she wished to remove a scratch or stain.
Rotha was sure now.
Mrs. Garth stood on the very spot where the crime was said to have
been committed. This woman, then, and her son were at the heart of the
mystery. It was even as she had thought.
Rotha could hear the beat of her own heart. She plunged from behind
the bush one step into the road. Then she drew back.
The day was cold but dry, and Mrs. Garth heard the step in front of
her. She came walking on with apparent unconcern. Rotha thought of her
father and Ralph condemned to die as innocent men.
The truth that would set them free lay with seething dregs of
falsehood at the bottom of this woman's heart. It should come up; it
should come up.
When Mrs. Garth had reached the bridge Rotha stepped out and
confronted her. The woman gave a little start and then a short forced
titter.
“Deary me, lass, ye mak a ghost of yersel', coming and going sa
sudden.”
“And you make ghosts of other people.” Then, without a moment's
warning, Rotha looked close into her eyes and said, “Who killed James
Wilson? Tell me quick, quick.”
Mrs. Garth flinched, and for the instant looked confused.
“Tell me, woman, tell me; who killed him _there_--there where you've
been beating the ground to conceal the remaining traces of a
struggle?”
“Go off and ask thy father,” said Mrs. Garth, recovering herself; and
then she added, with a sneer, “but mind thou'rt quick, or he'll never
tell thee in this world.” “Nor will you tell me in the next. Woman,
woman!” cried Rotha in another tone, “woman, have you any bowels? You
have no heart, I know; but can you stand by and be the death of two
men who have never, never done you wrong?”
Rotha clutched Mrs. Garth's dress in the agony of her appeal.
“You have a son, too. Think of him standing where they stand, an
innocent man.”
Rotha had dropped to her knees in the road, still clinging to Mrs.
Garth's dress.
“What's all this to me, girl? Let go yer hod, do you hear? Will ye let
go? What wad I know about Wilson--nowt.”
“It's a lie,” cried Rotha, starting to her feet. “What were you doing
in his room at Fornside?”
“Tush, maybe I was only seeking that fine father of thine. Let go your
hod, do you hear? Let go, or I'll--I'll--”
Rotha had dropped the woman's dress and grasped her shoulders. In
another instant the slight pale-faced girl had pulled this brawny
woman to her knees. They were close to the parapet of the bridge, and
it was but a few inches high.
“As sure as God's in heaven,” cried Rotha with panting breath and
flaming eyes, “I'll fling you into this river if you utter that lie
again. Woman, give me the truth! Cast away these falsehoods, that
would blast the souls of the damned in hell.”
“Get off. Wilta not? Nay, then, but I'll mak thee, and quick.”
The struggle was short. The girl was flung aside into the road.
Mrs. Garth rose from her knees with a bitter smile on her lips. “I mak
na doubt 'at thou wouldn't be ower keen to try the same agen,” she
said, going off. “Go thy ways to Doomsdale, my lass, and ax yer next
batch of questions there. I've just coom't frae it mysel', do you
know?”
Late the same evening, as the weary sun went down behind the smithy,
Rotha hastened from the cottage at Fornside back to the house on the
Moss at Shoulthwaite. She had a bundle of papers beneath her cloak,
and the light of hope in her face.
The clew was found.