CHAPTER XXII.

The chapter room of St. Margaret's Convent was a chill, bare chamber

containing an oak table and four or five plain oak chairs. On the

painted walls, which were of dun gray, there was an etching by a

Florentine master of the flight into Egypt, and a symbolic print of the

Sacred Heart. Besides these pictures there was but a single text to

relieve the blindness of the empty walls, and it ran: "Where the tree

falls, there it must lie."

Four days after Greta's departure from the house wherein she had been

received as a temporary boarder, the superior sat in the chapter room,

and a sister knelt at her feet. The sister's habit was gray and her

linen cape was plain. She wore no scapular, and no hood above the close

cap that hid her hair and crossed her forehead. She was, therefore, a

lay sister; she was Sister Grace.

"Mother, hear my sin," she said in a trembling whisper.

"Speak on, daughter."

"We were both at Athlone in the year of the great famine. He was an

officer in a regiment quartered there. I was a novice of the choir in

the Order of Charity. We met in scenes sanctified by religion. Oh,

mother, the famine was sore, and he was kind to the famished people!

'The hunger is on us,' they would cry, as if it had been a plague of

locusts. It was thus, with their shrill voices and wan faces, that the

ragged multitudes followed us. Yes, mother, he was very, very kind to

the people."

"Well?"

The penitent bowed her head yet lower. "My mother, I renounced the vows,

and--we were married."

The lips of the superior moved in silent prayer.

"What was his name, my daughter?"

"Robert Lowther. We came from Ireland to London. A child was born, and

we called him Paul. Then my husband's love grew chill and died. I

grieved over him. Perhaps I was but a moody companion. At last he told

me--"

The voice faltered; the whole body quivered.

"Well, my child?"

"Oh, mother, he told me I was not his wife; that I was a Catholic, but

that he was a Protestant; that a Catholic priest had married us in

Ireland without question or inquiry. That was not a valid marriage by

English law."

"Shame on the English law! But what do we know of the law at the foot of

the Cross? Well?"

"He left me. Mother, I flung God's good gift away. I tried to drown

myself, and my little child with me; but they prevented me. I was placed

in an asylum for the insane, and my baby--my Paul--was given into the

care of a woman with whom I had lodged. Have I not sinned deeply?"

"Your sins are great, my daughter, but your sufferings have also been

great. What happened then?"

"I escaped from the asylum and returned for my child. It was gone. The

woman had removed to some other part of London, none knew where, and my

Paul, my darling, was lost to me forever. My mother, it was then that I

sinned deepest of all."

Her head was bowed to her trembling knees, and her voice was all but

suspended in an agony of shame.

"Mother, I flung away God's better gift than life! Oh, how shall I tell

you? Your foot trembles, reverend mother. You are a holy woman, and know

nothing of the world's temptations."

"Hush, my daughter; I am as great a sinner as yourself."

"I cannot tell you. Mother, mother, you see I cannot."

"It is for your soul's weal, my daughter."

"I had tried to serve God, and He had seen my shame. What was left to me

but the world, the world, the world! Perhaps the world itself would have

more mercy. My kind mother, have I not told you yet?"

The superior made the sign of the cross.

"Ah, my daughter! the enemy of your soul was with you then. You should

not have ceased to lift your hands to Heaven in supplication and prayer.

You should have prostrated yourself three days and nights in the tribune

before the Holy Sacrament."

The penitent raised her pale face.

"In less time I was a lost and abandoned woman."

The superior told a few beads with trembling fingers. Then she lifted

the cross that hung from her girdle, and held it out to the sister.

"I thought of my child, and prayed that he might be dead. I thought of

him who was not my husband, and my heart grew cold and hard. Mother, my

redemption came. Yes, but with it came the meaning of the fearful

words, too late. Amid the reeling madness of the life that is mocked

with the name of gay, I met a good man. Yes, holy mother, a good man.

Mother, he now sleeps there!"

Her pale face, serene and solemn, was lifted again, and the hand that

held the crucifix was raised above her head.

"I loathed my life. He took me away from it--to the mountains--to

Scotland, and a child was born. Mother, it was only then that I awoke as

from a trance. It seemed as if a ring of sin begirt me. Tears--ah, me!

what tears were shed. But rest and content came at last, and then we

were married."

"My daughter, my daughter, little did I think when I received your vows

that the enemy of your soul had so mastered you."

"Listen a little longer, holy mother. The child grew to be the image of

my darling, my Paul--every feature, every glance the same. And partly to

remind me of my lost one, and partly to make me forget him forever, I

called the second child Paul. Mother, the years went by in peace. The

past was gone from me. Only its memory lay like a waste in my silent

heart. I had another son, and called him Hugh. After many years my

husband died." The penitent paused.

"Mother, another thing comes back to me; but I have confessed it

already. Shall I repeat it?"

"No, my daughter, not if it touches the oath that lay heavy on your

heart."

"I thought my first child was dead. For thirty years I had not seen him.

But the pathways of our lives crossed at last, and the woman who nursed

him came to this house four days ago."

"Here?"

"Mother, my son, the child of that first false union, my darling, for

whom I wept scalding tears long, long years ago; my Paul, whose loss was

all but the loss of his mother's soul, my son is a thief and an

outcast."

The lips of the superior moved again in prayer.

"He is the man known to the world as Paul Drayton--to me as Paul

Lowther."

"My dear daughter, humble yourself in the midst of so awful a judgment.

Do you say Drayton?--Drayton, who, as I hear, was to-day tried and

sentenced?"

"No--yes--how shall I tell you?--the same and not the same. Mother, the

crime was committed by my son Paul Lowther, the sentence was pronounced

on my son Paul Ritson."

"My dear daughter--"

"I was in the court and heard all; and I alone knew all--I alone, alone!

Bear with me that I transgressed the law of this holy order. Think, oh!

my kind mother, think that the nun was yet the woman, and, above all,

the mother. Yes, I heard all. I heard the charge that convicted my son

Paul Lowther. He was guilty before God and man. But the prisoner in the

dock was my son Paul Ritson. I knew him, and believed him when he denied

the name they gave him. Ah, me, my heart bled!"

"What did you do, my daughter?"

"Mother, I was weak, very weak. I could not see my duty clearly. An

awful conflict was rife within me. I could not justify the one man

without condemning the other. And both were the children of my bosom."

"Fearful, fearful! But, my daughter, the one was guilty and the other

innocent."

"Yes, yes; a thousand times yes; but then there was myself. How could I

punish the guilty without revealing the secret sin that had been thirty

years hidden in my heart? And my poor, weak spirit shrunk within me, and

I sat silent amid all."

"My daughter, we must crucify our spiritual pride."

"Yes, yes; but there was the love of my son, Paul Ritson--he thought me

a good woman even yet. How could I confess to that sinful past and not

loose the love of the only human soul that held me pure and true?

Mother, it is very sweet to be loved."

"Oh, my daughter, my daughter, a terrible situation, terrible,

terrible!"

"Mother, I have told you everything. Tell me now what hope is left. Give

me your direction."

"My daughter, let us humble ourselves before God, and pray that He may

reveal the path of duty. Come."

The superior rose, took her crozier in her hand, and walked out of the

room. The sister followed her. They passed through the sacristy into the

empty church.

It was evening. The glow of a wintery sunset came through the windows to

the west, and fell in warm gules on the altar. There was the hush of the

world's awe here as day swooned into night. Without these walls were

turmoil and strife. Within was the balm of rest--the rest that lies in

the heart of the cyclone.

And the good mother and the sister went down on their knees together,

and prayed for light and guidance. The mother rose, but the sister knelt

on; darkness fell, and she was still kneeling, and when the east was

dabbled with the dawn, the gray light fell on her bowed head and

uplifted hands.

_BOOK IV._

THE WATERS OF MARAH ARE BITTER.

CHAPTER I.

IN THE YEAR 1877.

The dale lay green in the morning sunlight; the river that ran through

its lowest bed sparkled with purple and amber; the leaves prattled low

in the light breeze that souched through the rushes and the long grass;

the hills rose sheer and white to the smooth blue lake of the sky, where

only one fleecy cloud floated languidly across from peak to peak. Out of

unseen places came the bleating of sheep and the rumble of distant

cataracts, and above the dull thud of tumbling waters far away was the

thin caroling of birds overhead.

But the air was alive with yet sweeter sounds. On the breast of the fell

that lies over against Cat Bells a procession of children walked, and

sung, and chattered, and laughed. It was St. Peter's Day, and they were

rush-bearing: little ones of all ages, from the comely girl of fourteen,

just ripening into maidenhood, who walked last, to the sweet boy of four

in the pinafore braided with epaulets, who strode along gallantly in

front. Most of the little hands carried rushes, but some were filled

with ferns, and mosses, and flowers. They had assembled at the

school-house, and now, on their way to the church, they were making the

circuit of the dale.

They passed over the road that crosses the river at the head of

Newlands, and turned down into the path that follows the bed of the

valley. At that angle there stands a little group of cottages

deliciously cool in their white-wash, nestling together under the heavy

purple crag from which the waters of a ghyll fall into a deep basin that

reaches to their walls. The last of the group is a cottage with its end

to the road, and its open porch facing a garden shaped like a wedge. As

the children passed this house an old man, gray and thin and much bent,

stood by the gate, leaning on a staff. A colly, with the sheep-dog's

wooden bar suspended from its shaggy neck, lay at his feet. The hum of

voices brought a young woman into the porch. She was bareheaded and wore

a light print gown. Her face was pale and marked with lines. She walked

cautiously, stretching one hand before her with an uncertain motion, and

grasping a trailing tendril of honeysuckle that swept downward from the

roof. Her eyes, which were partly inclined upward and partly turned

toward the procession, had a vague light in their bleached pupils. She

was blind. At her side, and tugging at her other hand, was a child of a

year and a half--a chubby, sunny little fellow with ruddy cheeks, blue

eyes, and fair curly hair.

Prattling, laughing, singing snatches, and waving their rushes and ferns

above their happy, thoughtless heads, the children rattled past. When

they were gone the air was empty, as it is when the lark stops in its

song.

The church of Newlands stands in the heart of the valley, half hidden by

a clump of trees. By the lych-gate Parson Christian stood that morning,

aged a little, the snow a thought thicker on his bushy hair, the face

mellower, the liquid eyes full of the sunlight behind which lies the

shower. Greta stood beside him; quieter of manner than in the old days,

a deeper thoughtfulness in her face, her blue eyes more grave and less

restless, her fair hair no longer falling in waves behind her, but

gathered up into a demure knot under her hat.

"Here they come, bless their innocent hearts!" said Parson Christian,

and at that moment the children turned an angle of the road.

The pink and white of their frocks and pinafores were all but hidden by

the little forest of green that they carried before and above them.

"'Till Birnam wood do come to Dunsinane," muttered Greta, smiling.

When the rush-bearers came up to the front of the church, the lych-gate

was thrown open and they filed through.

"How tired he looks, the brave little boy!" said Greta, picking up the

foremost of the company, the tiny man in the epaulets, now covered with

the dust of the roads.

"The little ones first, and you great girls afterward," said the parson.

"Those with flowers go up to the communion and lay them on the form, and

those with mosses put them on the font, and those with rushes and ferns

begin under the pulpit and come down the aisle to the porch."

The stalwart little tramp in Greta's arms wriggled his way to the

ground. He had mosses in his hands and must go first. Then the children

trooped into the church, and in an instant the rude old place was alive

with the buzz of prattling tongues.

The floor covered many a tomb. Graven on the plain slabs that formed the

pathway down the middle of the church were the names of the men and

women who had lived and died in the dale generations gone by. In their

own day they were children themselves; and now other children--their own

children's children's children--with never a thought about what lay

beneath, with only love in their eyes, and laughter on their lips, and

life in their limbs--were strewing rushes down the path above them.

In ten minutes there was not an inch of the flagged aisle visible. All

was green from the communion to the porch. Here and there an adventurous

lad, turning to account the skill at climbing acquired at

birds'-nesting, had clambered over the pews to the rude cross-trees, and

hung great bunches of rushes from the roof.

"Now, children, let us sing," said the parson, and taking up the

accordion, he started a hymn.

The leaded windows of the old church stood open, and the sweet young

voices floated away, and far away, over the uplands and the dale. And

the birds still sung in the blue sky, and the ghylls still rumbled in

the distance, and the light wind still souched through the long grass,

and the morning sunlight shone over all.

There was a cloud of dust on the road, and presently there came trooping

down from the village a company of men, surrounded by a whole circuit of

dogs. Snarls, and yaps, and yelps, and squawks, and guffaws, and

sometimes the cachinnation and crow of cocks, broke upon the clear air.

The roystering set would be as many as a dozen, and all were more or

less drunk. First came John Proudfoot, the blacksmith, in his

shirt-sleeves, with his leathern apron wrapped in a knot about his

waist, and a silver and black game-cock imprisoned under his arm. Lang

Geordie Moore, his young helper, carried another fowl. Dick o' the Syke,

the miller, in a brown coat whitened with flour, walked abreast of

Geordie and tickled the gills of the fowl with a straw. Job Sheepshanks,

the letter-cutter, carried a pot of pitch and a brush, and little Tom o'

Dint hobbled along with a handful of iron files. Behind these came the

landlord of the Flying Horse, with a basket over one arm, from which

peeped the corks of many bottles, and Natt, the stableman at the Ghyll,

carried a wicker cage, in which sat a red bantam-cock with spurs that

glittered in the light.

There was one other man who walked with the company, and he was the soul

of the noisy crew; his voice was the loudest, his laugh the longest, and

half of all that was said was addressed to him. He was a lusty man with

a florid face; he wore a suit of tweeds plaided in wide stripes of buff

and black.

It was Paul Drayton.

"Burn my body, and what's on now?" he said, as the gang reached the

church.

"Rush-bearing, I reckon," answered Tom o' Dint.

"And what's rush-bearing?"

"You know, Mister Paul," said the postman, "rush-bearing--the barns

rush-bearing--St. Peter's Day, you know."

"Oh, ay, I know--rush-bearing. Let me see, ain't it once a year?"

"What, man, but you mind the days when you were a bit boy and went

a-rushing yersel'?" said the blacksmith.

"Coorse, coorse, oh, ay, I ain't forgotten them days. Let me see, it's a

kind of a harvest-home, ain't it?"

"Nowt o' the sort," said Dick, the miller, testily. "Your memory's

failing fast, Mister Ritson."

"And that's true, old fence. I'll never be the same man again after that

brain fever I had up in London--not in the head-piece, you know."

The group of men and dogs had drawn up in front of the church just as

Brother Peter crossed the church-yard to the porch, carrying a red paper

in his hand.

"Who's that--the Methodee man?"

"It's the Methodee, for sure," said the blacksmith.

"Ey, it's the parson's Peter," added the postman, "and yon paper is a

telegraph--it's like he's takin' it to somebody."

"Hold hard, my boys," said Drayton; and, leaving his cronies he strode

through the lych-gate and down the path, the dogs yapping around him.

Brother Peter had drawn up at the door of the porch; the children were

still singing.

"If that telegram is for my wife, you may hand it over to me," said

Drayton, and reached out his hand to take it.

Brother Peter drew back.

"It'll be all right, old fellow--I'll see she gets it."

"Ey, thoo'll manish that, I's warn," said Peter, in a caustic voice.

"Come, don't you know that what belongs to the wife belongs to the

husband?"

"Don't know as I do. I'se never been larn't sec daftness," said Peter.

"Hand it over. Come, be quick!"

"Get ower me 'at can," said Peter, with a decisive twinkle.

"Gi'e him a slab ower the lug," shouted the miller from the road.

"You hear what they say? Come, out with it."

"Eh, you've rowth o' friends, you're a teeran crew, but I cares laal for

any on you."

Drayton turned away with a contemptuous snort.

"Damme, what a clatter!" he shouted, and leaped on to the raised mound

of a grave to look in at an open window. As he did so he kicked a glass

for flowers that lay upon it, and the broken frame tumbled in many

pieces. "I've done for somebody's money," he said with a loud guffaw.

"What, man, but it were thy awn brass as bought it," said the

blacksmith.

"Ey, it's thy fadder's grave," said Job Sheepshanks.

Drayton glanced down at the headstone.

"Why, so it is!" he said; "d'ye see, I hain't been here since the day I

buried him."

"Nay, that's all stuff and nonsense," said Job. "I mind the morning I

found ye lying wet and frostit on the top of that grave."

"D'ye say so? Well, I ain't for denying it; and now I think of it, I

was--yes, I was here that morning."

"Nay, you warn't nowt o' the sort," said the blacksmith. "That were the

varra morning as Giles Raisley saw you at the Pack Horse sleeping. I

mind the fratch Job had with laal Gubblum about it long ago."

"It's all stuff and nonsense," replied Job. "He were here."

"The Pack Horse? Well, now, I remember, I was there, too."

The singing had ceased, and Greta came out into the porch on tiptoe,

carrying in her arms a tiny mite, who was crying. Peter handed her the

telegram, and turned up the path.

Drayton had rejoined his companions, and was in the act of knocking the

neck off a bottle by striking it against the wall, when Peter walked

through the lych-gate.

"Tee a pint o' yal down the Methodee's back," shouted Dick, the miller,

and in another moment Brother Peter was covered with the contents of the

broken bottle.

A loud, roystering laugh filled the air, and echoed from the hills.

"What a breck!" tittered the postman.

"What a breck!" shouted the blacksmith.

"What a breck!" roared the miller.

"Get ower me 'at can!" mimicked Natt.

"He's got a lad's heart, has Mister Paul," said the landlord of the

Flying Horse.

"Ey, he's a fair fatch," echoed little Tom o' Dint.

Leaving Peter to shake himself dry of the liquor that dripped from him

in froth, the noisy gang reeled down the road, the yelping dogs

careering about them, and the cocks squawking with the hugs they

received from the twitching arms of the men convulsed with laughter.

At the head of the Vale of Newlands there is a clearing that was made by

the lead miners of two centuries ago. It lies at the feet of an

ampitheater of hills that rise peak above peak, and die off depth beyond

depth. Of the old mines nothing remains but the level cuttings in the

sides of the fells, and here and there the washing-pits cut out of the

rock at your feet. Fragments of stone lie about, glistening with veins

of lead, but no sound of pick or hammer breaks the stillness, and no

cart or truck trundles over the rough path. It is a solitude in which

one might forget that the world is full of noise.

To this spot Drayton and his cronies made their way. At one of the old

washing troughs they drew up, and sat in a circle on its rocky sides.

They had come for a cock fight. It was to be the bantam (carried by Natt

and owned by his master) against all comers. Drayton and the blacksmith

were the setters-on. The first bout was between the bantam and Lang

Geordie's ponderous black Spanish. Geordie's bird soon squawked

dolorously, and made off over the heads of the derisive spectators,

whereupon Geordie captured it by one of its outstretched wings, and

forthwith screwed its neck. Then came John Proudfoot's silver and black,

and straightway steel gaffs were affixed to the spurs. When the cocks

felt their feet they crowed, and then pecked the ground from side to

side. An exciting struggle ensued. Up and down, over and under, now

beating the breast, now trailing the comb, now pecking at the gills. And

the two men at opposite sides of the pit--the one in his shirt-sleeves

rolled up to the elbows, the other in his sporting plaid--stooped with

every lunge and craned their necks at every fall, and bobbed their heads

with every peck, their eyes flashing, their teeth set.

At one moment they drew off their birds, called for the files, and

sharpened up the spurs. Later on they seized the cocks by the necks,

shouted for the pitch-pot and patched up the bleeding combs. The birds

were equally matched, and fought long. At last their strength ebbed

away. They followed each other feebly, stretching their long, lagging

throats languidly, opening their beaks and hanging out their dry, white

tongues, turning tail, then twisting about and fighting again, until

both lay stretched out on the pit bottom.

As the energy of the cocks subsided, the ardor of the men waxed

sensibly. They yelled excitedly, protested, reviled, swore, laughed,

jeered, and crowed.

At length, when the bantam fell and gave no signs of speedy

resurrection, the anger of Drayton could not be supported. He leaped

across the pit, his face red as his cock's comb, and shouting, "Damme,

what for did ye pick up my bird?" he planted a blow full on the

blacksmith's chest.

A fight of yet fiercer kind followed. Amid shouts, and in the thick of a

general scuffle, the blacksmith closed with his powerful adversary,

gripped him about the waist, twisted him on his loins, and brought him

to the ground with a crash. Then he stood over him with fierce eyes.

"I mak' no doubt you're not hankerin' for another of that sort!" he

puffed.

"John's given him the cross-buttock," said the miller.

"The master's lost all his wrustling," said Natt, blinking out of his

sleepy eyes.

"I mind the day when he could have put John down same as a bit boy,"

said the little postman.

Natt helped Drayton to his feet. He was quiet enough, now, but as black

in the face as a thunder-cloud.

"This comes of a gentleman mixing with them as is beneath him," he

muttered, and he mopped his perspiring forehead with a bandanna

handkerchief.

The miller snorted, the mason grunted, the little postman laughed in his

thin pipe.

Drayton's eyes flashed.

"I'm a gentleman, I am, if you want to know," he said, defiantly.

The blacksmith stood by, leisurely rolling down his shirt-sleeves.

"Ey, for fault of wise folk we call you so," he said, and laughed. "But

when I leet of a man, I's rather have him nor a hundred sec gentlemen as

you!"

"Thoo's reet for once, John!" shouted Dick o' the Syke, and there was

some general laughter.

"Gentleman! Ax the women-folk what they mak' of sec a gentleman,"

continued the blacksmith with contemptuous emphasis. "Him as larn't

folks to fill the public and empty the cupboard."

There was a murmur among the men as they twisted about.

"Ax them what they mak' of him 'at spent four days in Lunnon and came

back another man--ax the women-folk; they're maistly reet, I reckon."

Another uneasy movement among the men.

"Burn my body! and what's the women to me?" said Drayton.

"Nay, nowt," answered the blacksmith. "Your awn wife seems nowdays

powerful keen for your company."

Drayton's eyes were red, but the fire died out of them in an instant. He

stepped up to the blacksmith and held out his hand.

"You've licked me," he said, in another tone, "but I ain't the man to

keep spite, I ain't; so come along, old fence, and let's wet it."

"That's weel said," put in Tommy Lowthwaite, the landlord.

"It's no'but fair," said Dick, the miller.

"He's a reet sort, after all," said Job, the mason.

"He's his awn fadder's son, is Paul Ritson," said Tom o' Dint.

In two minutes more the soiled company were trampling knee-deep through

rank beds of rushes on their way to the other side of the dale. They

stopped a few yards from a pit shaft with its headgear and wheel.

"Let's take my brother's ken for it," said Drayton, and they turned into

a one-story house that stood near.

It was a single capacious chamber, furnished more like a library than an

office; carpets, rugs, a cabinet, easychairs, and a solid table in the

middle of the floor. The cock-fighters filed in and sat down on every

available chair, on the table, and at last on the floor.

"Squat and whiff," said Drayton, "and, Tommy, you out with the corks,

quick."

"It must be a bonny money-making consarn to keep up the likes of this,"

said the miller, settling himself uneasily in an easy-chair.

Dick was telling himself what a fool he had been not to ask more than

the fifty pounds he received for the damage once done by fire to his

mill.

"Have you never heard as it ain't all gold as glitters?" said Drayton;

and he struck a lucifer match on the top of the mahogany table.

"What, man, dusta mean as the pit's not paying?" said the blacksmith.

Drayton gave his head a sidelong shake of combined astuteness and

reserve.

"I mak' no doubt now as you have to lend Master Hugh many a gay penny,"

said Tom o' Dint in an insinuating tone.

"Least said, soonest mended," said Drayton, sententiously, and smiled a

mighty knowing smile.

Then the men laughed, and the landlord handed the bottles round, and all

drank out of the necks, and puffed dense volumes of smoke from their

pipes, and spat on the carpet.

And still the birds sung in the clear air without, and still the ghylls

rumbled, and still the light wind souched through the grass, and still

the morning sunlight shone over all.

The door opened, and Hugh Ritson entered, followed by the lawyer, Mr.

Bonnithorne. There was a steely glimmer in his eyes as he stood just

inside the threshold and looked round.

"Come, get out of this!" he said.

The men shuffled to their feet and were elbowing their way out. Drayton,

who sat on the table, removed his pipe from between his teeth and called

on them to remain.

Hugh Ritson stepped up to Drayton and touched him on the shoulder.

"I want to speak with you," he said.

"What is it?" demanded Drayton.

"I want to speak with you," repeated Hugh.

"What is it? Out with it. You've got the gift of the gab, hain't ye?

Don't mind my friends."

Hugh Ritson's face whitened, and a cold smile passed over it.

"Your time is near," he muttered, and he turned on his heel.

As he stepped out of the noisesome chamber, a loud, hoarse laugh

followed him. He drew a long breath.

"Thank God it will soon be over!" he said.

Bonnithorne was at his side.

"Is it to be to-morrow?" asked the lawyer.

"To-morrow," said Hugh Ritson.

"Have you told him?"

"Tell him yourself, Bonnithorne. I can bear with the man no longer. I

shall be doing something that I may repent."

"Have you apprised Parson Christian?"

Hugh Ritson bent his head.

"And Greta?"

"She won't come," said Hugh. "The girl could never breathe the same air

as that scoundrel for five minutes together."

"And yet he's her half-brother," said the lawyer, softly; and then he

added, with the conventional smile: "Odd, isn't it?"

CHAPTER II.

When the procession of children had passed the little cottage at the

angle of the roads, the old man who leaned on his staff at the gate

turned about and stepped to the porch.

"Did the boy see them?--did he see the children?" said the young woman

who held the child by the hand.

"I mak' na doot," said the old man.

He stooped to the little one and held out one long, withered finger. The

soft baby hand closed on it instantly.

"Did he laugh? I thought he laughed," said the young woman.

A bright smile played on her lips.

"Maybe so, lass."

"Ralphie has never seen the children before, father. Didn't he look

frightened--just a little frightened--at first, you know? I thought he

crept behind my gown."

"Maybe, maybe."

The little one had dropped the hand of his young mother, and, still

holding the bony finger of his grandfather, he toddled beside him into

the house.

Very cool and sweet was the kitchen, with white-washed walls and hard

earthen floor. A table and a settle stood by the window, and a dresser

that was an armory of bright pewter dishes, trenchers, and piggins

crossed the opposite wall.

"Nay, but sista here, laal man," said the old charcoal-burner, and he

dived into a great pocket at his side.

"Have you brought it? Is it the kitten? Oh, dear, let the boy see it!"

A kitten came out of the old man's pocket, and was set down on the rug

at the hearth. The timid creature sat dazed, then raised itself on its

hind legs and mewed.

"Where's Ralphie? Is he watching it, father? What is he doing?"

The little one had dropped on hands and knees before the kitten, and was

gazing up into its face.

The mother leaned over him with a face that would have beamed with

sunshine if the sun of sight had not been missing.

"Is he looking? Doesn't he want to coddle it?"

The little chap had pushed his nose close to the nose of the kitten, and

was prattling to it in various inarticulate noises.

"Boo--loo--lal-la--mamma."

"Isn't he a darling, father?"

"It's a winsome wee thing," said the old man, still standing with

drooping head over the group on the hearth.

The mother's face saddened, and she turned away. Then from the opposite

side of the kitchen, where she was making pretense to take plates from a

plate-rack, there came the sound of suppressed sobs. The old man's eyes

followed her.

"Nay, lass; let's have a sup of broth," he said in a tone that carried

another message.

The young woman put plates and a bowl of broth on the table.

"To think that I can never see my own child, and everybody else can see

him!" she said, and then there was another bout of tears.

The charcoal-burner supped at his broth in silence. A glistening bead

rolled slowly down his wizened cheek, and the interview on the hearth

went on without interruption:

"Mew--mew--mew." "Boo--loo--lal-la--mamma."

There was a foot on the gravel in front.

"How fend ye, Mattha?" said a voice from without.

"Come thy ways, Gubblum," answered the old man.

Gubblum Oglethorpe entered, dressed differently than of old. He wore a

suit of canvas stained deeply with iron ore.

"I's thinking maybe Mercy will let me warm up my poddish," said Gubblum.

"And welcome," said Mercy, and took down from the dresser a saucepan and

porridge thivel. "I'll make it for you while father sups his broth."

"Nay, lass, you're as thrang as an auld peat wife, I's warn. I'll mak'

it myself. I's rather partic'lar about my poddish, forby. Dusta know how

many faults poddish may have? They may be sour, sooty, sodden, and

savorless, soat, welsh, brocken, and lumpy--and that's mair nor enough,

thoo knows."

Gubblum had gone down on the hearth-rug.

"Why, and here's the son and heir," he said. "Nay, laddie, mind my

claes--they'll dirty thy brand-new brat for thee."

"Is he growing, Gubblum?"

"Growing?--amain."

"And his eyes--are they changing color?--going brown?"

"Maybe--I'll not be for saying nay."

"Is he--is he very like me?"

"Nay--weel--nay--I's fancying I see summat of the stranger in the laal

chap at whiles."

The young mother turned her head. Gubblum twisted to where Matthew sat.

"That man and all his raggabrash are raking about this morning. It caps

all, it does, for sure."

The old charcoal-burner did not answer. He paused with the spoon half

raised, glanced at Mercy, and then went on with his broth.

"Hasta heard of the lang yammer in the papers about yon matter?" said

Gubblum.

"Nay," said Matthew, "I hears nowt of the papers."

"He's like to hang a lang crag when he hears about it."

"I mak' na doubt," said Matthew, showing no curiosity.

"It's my belief 'at the auld woman at Hendon is turning tail. You mind

she was down last back end, and he wadn't have nowt to say to her."

"Ey, I mind her," said Matthew.

"Every dog has his day, and I reckon yon dog's day is nigh amaist done.

And it wad have been a vast shorter on'y Mercy hadn't her eyes."

"Ey, ey," said Matthew, quietly.

"If the lass had no'but been able to say, 'Yon man is Drayton, and yon

as you've got in prison is Ritson, and I saw the bad wark done,' that

would have settled it."

"Na doot," said Matthew, his head in the bowl.

"They warn't for hearing me. When the parson took me up to Lunnon mair

nor a twelvemonth agone, they sent us baith home with our tails atween

our legs. 'Bring us the young woman,' they said; 'your evidence will

stand aside hers, but not alone. Bring the young woman to 'dentify,'

they says. 'She's gone blind,' we says. 'We can't help that,' they says.

And that's what they call justice up in Lunnon."

"Ey, ey," said Matthew.

"But then thoo has to mak' 'lowances for them gentry folk--they've never

been larn't no better, thoo sees."

Gubblum's porridge was bubbling, and the thivel worked vigorously.

Matthew had picked up the child from the hearth. The little fellow was

tugging at his white beard.

"It were bad luck that me and Mercy didn't stay a day or so langer in

Hendon yon time. She had her eyes then. But the lass was badly, and"

(dropping his voice) "that way, thoo knows, and I warn't to prophesy

what was to happen to poor Paul Ritson. So I brought her straight away

home."

"So thoo did, Gubblum," said Matthew, stroking the child's head.

"It's that Hugh as is at the bottom of it all, I reckon. I'm not afraid

to say it, if he is my master. I allus liked Paul Ritson--the reet one,

thoo knows, not this taistrel that calls hisself Paul Ritson--but I

cared so laal for Hugh that I could have taken him and wrowk't the fire

with him."

The porridge was ready, and Mercy set a wooden bowl on the table. "I's

fullen thy bicker, my lass," said Gubblum. "I's only a laal man, but I's

got a girt appetite, thoo sees." Then turning to Matthew he continued:

"But he's like to pay for it. He brought his raggabash here, and now the

rascal has the upper hand--that's plain to see."

"So it be," said Matthew.

"Deemoralizin' all the country-side, what with his drinkin' and

cock-fightin' and terriers, an' I don't know what. Theer's Dick o' the

Syke, he's a ruined man this day, and John, the blacksmith, he's never

had a heat on the anvil for a week, and as for Job, the mason, he's

shaping to be mair nor ever like his Bible namesake, for he won't have

nowt but his dunghill to sit on soon."

"Dusta think they dunnot ken he's the wrong man?" asked Matthew.

"Nay, Mattha, but a laal bit of money's a wonderful thing, mind ye."

"It is for sure."

"One day he went to clogger Kit to be measur't for new shoes. 'What,

Master Ritson,' says Kit, 'your foot's langer by three lines nor when I

put the tape on it afore.'"

"Ah!"

"Next day Kit had an order for two pairs, forby a pair of leggins and

clogs for Natt. That's the way it's manish'd."

Mercy had taken her child from her father's knee, and was sitting on the

sconce bench with it, holding a broken piece of a mirror before its

face, and listening for its laugh when it saw itself in the glass.

"But he's none Cummerland--hearken to his tongue," said Matthew.

Gubblum put down his spoon on his plate, now empty.

"That minds me," he said, laughing, "that I met him out one day all

dressed in his brave claes--them as might do for a nigger that plays the

banjo. 'Off for a spogue?' I says. 'What's a spogue?' he says, looking

thunder. 'Nay,' I says, 'you're no'but a dalesman--ax folks up Hendon

way,' I says. I was peddling then, but Master Hugh 'counters me another

day, and he says, 'Gubblum,' he says, 'I's wanting a smart laal man,

same as you, to weigh the ore on the bank-top--pund a week,' he says."

"Ey, I mak' no doot they thowt to buy thee ower," said Matthew.

"They've made a gay canny blunder if they think they've put a swine ring

on Gubblum's snout. Buy or beat--that's the word. They've bought most of

the folk and made them as lazy as libbed bitches. But they warn't able

to buy the Ritson's bitch itself."

"What dusta mean, Gubblum?"

"What, man! thoo's heard how the taistrel killed poor auld Fan? No?

Weel, thoo knows she was Paul Ritson's dog, Fan was; and when she saw

this man coming up the lonnin, she frisk't and wag't her tail. But when

she got close to him she found her mistake, and went slenken off. He

made shift to coax her, but Fan wad none be coaxed; and folks were

takin' stock. So what dusta think the taistrel does, but ups with a

stone and brains her."

"That's like him, for sure," said Matthew. "But don't the folk see that

his wife as it might be, Miss Greta as was, won't have nowt to say to

him?"

"Nay, they say that's no'but a rue-bargain, and she found out her mind

after she wedded--that's all the clot-heads think about it."

"Hark!" said Mercy, half rising from the sconce. "It's Mrs. Ritson's

foot."

The men listened. "Nay, lass, there's no foot," said Gubblum.

"Yes, she's on the road," said Mercy. Her face showed that pathetic

tension of the other senses which is peculiar to the blind. A moment

later Greta stepped into the cottage. The telegram which Brother Peter

gave her at the church was still in her hand.

"Good-morning, Matthew; good-morning, Gubblum; I have news for you,

Mercy. The doctors are coming to-day."

Mercy's face fell perceptibly. The old man's head drooped lower.

"There, don't be afraid," said Greta, touching her hand caressingly. "It

will soon be over. The doctors didn't hurt you before, did they?"

"No; but this time it will be the operation," said Mercy. There was a

tremor in her voice.

Greta had lifted the child from the sconce. The little fellow cooed

close to her ear, and babbled his inarticulate nothings.

"Only think, when it's all over you will be able to see your darling

Ralphie for the first time!"

Mercy's sightless face brightened. "Oh, yes," she said, "and watch him

play, and see him spin his tops and chase the butterflies. Oh, that will

be very good!"

"Dusta say to-day, Mistress Ritson?" asked Matthew, the big drops

standing in his eyes.

"Yes, Matthew; I will stay to see it over, and mind baby, and help a

little."

Mercy took the little one from Greta's arms and cried over it, and

laughed over it, and then cried and laughed again. "Mamma and Ralphie

shall play together in the garden, darling, and Ralphie shall see the

horses--and the flowers--and the birdies--and mamma--yes, mamma shall

see Ralphie. Oh, Mrs. Ritson, how selfish I am!--how can I ever repay

you?"

The tears were trickling down Greta's cheeks. "It is I who am selfish,

Mercy," she said, and kissed the sightless orbs. "Your dear eyes shall

give me back my poor husband."

CHAPTER III.

Two hours later the doctors arrived. They had called at the vicarage in

driving up the valley, and Parson Christian was with them. They looked

at Mercy's eyes, and were satisfied that the time was ripe for the

operation. At the sound of their voices, Mercy trembled and turned

livid. By a maternal instinct she picked up the child, who was toddling

about the floor, and clasped it to her bosom. The little one opened wide

his blue eyes at sight of the strangers, and the prattling tongue became

quiet.

"Take her to her room, and let her lie on the bed," said one of the

doctors to Greta.

A sudden terror seized the young mother. "No, no, no!" she said, in an

indescribable accent, and the child cried a little from the pressure to

her breast.

"Come, Mercy, dear, be brave for your darling's sake," said Greta.

"Listen to me," said the doctor, quietly but firmly. "You are now quite

blind, and you have been in total darkness for a year and a half. We may

be able to restore your sight by giving you a few minutes' pain. Will

you not bear it?"

Mercy sobbed, and kissed the child passionately.

"Just think, it is quite certain that without an operation you will

never regain your sight," continued the doctor. "You have nothing to

lose and everything to gain. Are you satisfied? Come, go away to your

room quietly."

"Oh, oh, oh!" sobbed Mercy.

"Just imagine, only a few minutes' pain, and even of that you will

scarcely be conscious. Before you know what is doing, it will be done."

Mercy clung closer to her child, and kissed it again and yet more

fervently.

The doctors turned to each other. "Strange vanity!" muttered the one who

had not spoken before. "Her eyes are useless, and yet she is afraid she

may lose them."

Mercy's quick ears caught the whispered words. "It is not that," she

said passionately.

"No, gentlemen," said Greta, "you have mistaken her thought. Tell her

she runs no danger of her life."

The doctors smiled and laughed a little. "Oh, that's it, eh? Well, we

can tell her that with certainty."

Then there was another interchange of half-amused glances.

"Ah, we that be men, sirs, don't know the depth and tenderness of a

mother's heart," said Parson Christian. And Mercy turned toward him a

face that was full of gratitude. Greta took the child out of her arms

and hushed it to sleep in another room. Then she brought it back and put

it in its cradle that stood in the ingle.

"Come, Mercy," she said, "for the sake of your boy." And Mercy permitted

herself to be led from the kitchen.

"So there will be no danger," she said. "I shall not leave my boy. Who

said that? The doctor? Oh, good gracious, it's nothing. Only think, I

shall live to see him grow to be a great lad!"

Her whole face was now radiant.

"It will be nothing. Oh, no, it will be nothing. How silly it was to

think that he would live on, and grow up, and be a man, and I lie cold

in the church-yard, and me his mother! That was very childish, wasn't

it? But, then, I have been so childish since Ralphie came."

"There, lie and be quiet, and it will soon be over," said Greta.

"Let me kiss him first. Do let me kiss him! Only once. You know it's a

great risk, after all. And if he grew up--and I wasn't here, if--if--"

"There, dear Mercy, you must not cry again. It inflames your eyes, and

that can't be good for the doctors."

"No, no, I won't cry. You are very good; everybody is very good. Only

let me kiss my little Ralphie--just for the last."

Greta led her back to the side of the cot, and she spread herself over

it with outstretched arms, as the mother-bird poises with outstretched

wings over her brood. Then she rose, and her face was peaceful and

resigned.

The Laird Fisher sat down before the kitchen fire, with one arm on the

cradle-head. Parson Christian stood beside him. The old charcoal-burner

wept in silence, and the good parson's voice was too thick for the words

of comfort that rose to his lips.

The doctors followed into the bedroom. Mercy was lying tranquilly on her

bed. Her countenance was without expression. She was busy with her own

thoughts. Greta stood by the bedside; anxiety was written in every line

of her beautiful, brave face.

"We must give her the gas," said one of the doctors, addressing the

other.

Mercy's features twitched.

"Who said that?" she asked, nervously.

"My child, you must be quiet," said the doctor in a tone of authority.

"Yes, I will be quiet, very quiet; only don't make me unconscious," she

said. "Never mind me; I will not cry. No; if you hurt me I will not cry

out. I will not stir. I will do everything you ask. And you shall say

how quiet I have been. Only don't let me be insensible."

The doctors consulted aside, and in whispers.

"Who spoke about the gas? It wasn't you, Mrs. Ritson, was it?"

"You must do as the doctors wish, dear," said Greta in a caressing

voice.

"Oh, I will be very good. I will do every little thing. Yes, and I will

be so brave. I am a little childish sometimes, but I can be brave, can't

I?"

The doctors returned to the bedside.

"Very well, we will not use the gas," said one. "You are a brave little

woman, after all. There, be still--very still."

One of the doctors was tearing linen into strips for bandages, while

the other fixed Mercy's head to suit the light.

There was a faint sound from the kitchen. "Wait," said Mercy. "That is

father--he's crying. Tell him not to cry. Say it's nothing."

She laughed a weak little laugh.

"There, he will hear that; go and say it was I who laughed."

Greta left the room on tiptoe. Old Matthew was still sitting over a

dying fire, gently rocking the sleeping child. Parson Christian's eyes

were raised in prayer.

When Greta returned to the bedroom, Mercy called her, and said very

softly--"Let me hold your hand, Greta--may I say Greta?--there," and her

fingers closed on Greta's with a convulsive grasp.

The operation began. Mercy held her breath. She had the stubborn

north-country blood in her. Once only a sigh escaped. There was a dead

silence.

In two or three minutes the doctor said: "Just another minute, and all

will be over."

At the next instant Greta felt her hand held with a grasp of iron.

"Doctor, doctor, I can see you!" cried Mercy, and her words came in

gusts.

"Be quiet," said the doctor in a stern voice. In half a minute more the

linen bandages were being wrapped tightly over Mercy's eyes.

"Doctor, dear doctor, let me see my boy," cried Mercy.

"Be quiet, I say," said the doctor again.

"Dear doctor, my dear doctor, only one peep--one little peep--I saw your

face--let me see my Ralphie's!"

"Not yet, it is not safe."

"But only for a moment. Don't put the bandage on for one moment. Just

think, doctor, I have never seen my boy; I've seen other people's

children, but never once my own, own darling. Oh, dear doctor--"

"You are exciting yourself. Listen to me; if you don't behave yourself

now you may never see your child."

"Yes, yes, I will behave myself; I will be very good. Only don't shut me

up in darkness again until I see my boy. Greta, bring him to me.

Listen: I hear his breathing. Go for my darling. The kind doctor won't

be angry with you. Tell him that if I see my child it will cure me. I

know it will."

Greta's eyes were swimming in tears.

"Rest quiet, Mercy. Everything may be lost if you disturb yourself now,

my dear."

The doctors were wrapping bandage over bandage, and fixing them firmly

at the back of their patient's head.

"Now listen again," said one of them. "This bandage must be kept over

your eyes for a week."

"A week--a whole week? Oh, doctor, you might as well say forever!"

"I say a week. And if you should ever remove it--"

"Not for an instant? Not raise it a little?"

"If you ever remove it for an instant, or raise it ever so little, you

will assuredly lose your sight forever. Remember that."

"Oh, doctor, it is terrible! Why did you not tell me so before? Oh, this

is worse than blindness! Think of the temptation, and I have never seen

my boy!"

The doctor had fixed the bandage, and his voice was less stern, but no

less resolute.

"You must obey me," he said; "I will come again this day week, and then

you shall see your child, and your father, and this young lady, and

everybody. But, mind, if you don't obey me you will never see anything.

You will have one glance of your little boy, and then be blind forever,

or perhaps--yes, perhaps die."

Mercy lay quiet for a moment. Then she said in a low voice:

"Dear doctor, you must forgive me. I am very willful, and I promised to

be so good. I will not touch the bandage. No, for the sake of my little

boy, I will never, never touch it. You shall come yourself and take it

off, and then I shall see him."

The doctors went away. Greta remained all night in the cottage.

"You are happy now, Mercy?" said Greta.

"Oh, yes," said Mercy. "Just think, only a week! And he must be so

beautiful by this time."

When Greta took the child to her at sunset, there was an ineffable joy

in her pale face, and next morning, when Greta awoke, Mercy was singing

softly to herself in the sunrise.

CHAPTER IV.

There was a gathering of miners near the pit-head that morning. It was

pay day. The rule was that the miners on the morning shift should pass

through the pay-office before going down the shaft at eight o'clock; and

that those on the night shift should pass through on their way home a

few minutes afterward. When the morning men passed through the office

they had found the pay-door shut, and a notice posted over it, saying,

"All wages due at eight o'clock to-day will be paid at the same hour

to-morrow."

Presently the men on the night shift came up in the cages, and after a

brief explanation both gangs, with the banksmen and all top-ground

hands, except the engine-man, trooped away to a place suitable for a

conference. There was a worked-out open cutting a hundred yards away. It

was a vast cleft dug into the side of the mountain, square on its base,

vertical in its three gray walls, and sweeping up to a dizzy height,

over which the brant sides of the green fell rose sheer into the sky. It

was to this natural theatre that the two hundred miners made their way

in groups of threes and fours, their lamps and cans in their hands,

their red-stained clothes glistening in the morning sun.

It was decided to send a deputation to the master, asking that the order

might be revoked and payment made as usual. The body of the men remained

in the clearing, conversing in knots, while two miners, buirdly fellows,

rather gruffer of tongue than the rest, went to the office to act as

spokesmen.

The deputation were approaching the pit-head when the engine-man shouted

that he had just heard the master's knock from below, and in another

moment Hugh Ritson, in flannels and fustian, stepped out of the cage.

He heard the request, and at once offered to go to the men and give his

answer. The miners made way for him respectfully, and then closed about

him when he spoke.

"Men," he said, with a touch of his old resolution, "let me tell you

frankly, as between man and man, that I can not pay you this morning,

because I haven't got the money. I tried to get it, and failed. This

afternoon I shall receive much more than is due to you, and to-morrow

you shall be promptly paid."

The miners twisted about and compared notes in subdued voices.

"That's no'but fair," said one.

"He cannut say na fairer," said another.

But there were some who were not so easily appeased; and one of these

crushed his way through the crowd, and said:

"Mr. Ritson, we're not same as the bettermer folk, as can get credit for

owt 'at they want. We ax six days' pay because we have to do six days'

payin' wi' it. And if we're back a day in our pay we're a day back in

our payin'; and that means clemmin' a laal bit--and the wife and barns

forby."

There were murmurs of approval from the crowd, and then another

malcontent added:

"Times has changed to a gay tune sin' we could put by for a rainy day.

It's hand to mouth now, on'y the mouth's allus ready and the hand's

not."

"It's na much as we ha' gotten to put away these times," said the first

speaker. "Not same as the days when a pitman's wife, 'at I ken on, flung

a five-pound note in his face and axed him what he thowt she were to

mak' o' that."

"Nay, nay," responded the others in a chorus.

"Men, I'm not charging you with past extravagance," said Hugh Ritson;

"and it's not my fault if the pit hasn't done as well for all of us as I

had hoped."

He was moving away, when the crowd closed about him again.

"Mates," shouted one of the miners, "there's another word as some on us

wad like to say to the master, and that's about the timber."

"What is it?" asked Hugh Ritson, facing about.

"There be some on us 'at think the pit's none ower safe down the bottom

working, where the seam of sand runs cross-ways. We're auld miners,

maistly, and we thowt maybe ye wadna tak' it wrang if we telt ye 'at it

wants a vast mair forks and upreets."

"Thank you, my lads, I'll see what I can do," said Hugh Ritson; and then

added in a lower tone: "But I've put a forest of timber underground

already, and where this burying of money is to end God alone knows."

He turned away this time and moved off, halting more noticeably than

usual on his infirm foot.

He returned to his office near the pit-bank, and found Mr. Bonnithorne

awaiting him.

"The day is young, but I'm no sluggard, you know," said the lawyer. "I

thought we might want a word or two before the meeting at the Ghyll."

Hugh Ritson did not notice the explanation. He looked anxious and

disturbed. While stripping off his pit flannels, and putting on his

ordinary clothes, he told Mr. Bonnithorne what had just occurred, and

then added:

"If anything had been necessary to prove that this morning's bad

business is inevitable, I should have found it in this encounter with

the men."

"It comes as a fillip to your already blunted purpose," said the lawyer

with a curious smile. "Odd, isn't it?"

"Blunted!" said Hugh Ritson, and there was a perceptible elevation of

the eyebrows.

Presently he drew a long breath, and said with an air of relief:

"Ah, well, if she suffers who has suffered enough already, he, at least,

will be out of the way forever."

Bonnithorne shifted slightly on his seat.

"You think so?" he asked.

Something cynical in the tone caught Hugh Ritson's ear.

"It was a bad change, wasn't it?" added the lawyer; "this one is likely

to be a deal more troublesome."

Hugh Ritson went on with his dressing in silence.

"You see, by the interchange your positions were reversed," continued

the lawyer.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, not to put too fine a point on it, the other was in your hands,

while you are in the hands of this one."

Hugh Ritson's foot fell heavily at that instant, but he merely said,

with suppressed quietness:

"There was this one's crime."

"Was--precisely," said Mr. Bonnithorne.

Hugh Ritson looked up with a look of inquiry.

"When you gave the crime to the other, this one became a free man," the

lawyer explained.

There was a silence.

"What does it all come to?" said Hugh Ritson, sullenly.

"That your hold of Paul Drayton is gone forever."

"How so?"

"Because you can never incriminate him without first incriminating

yourself," said the lawyer.

"Who talks of incrimination?" said Hugh Ritson, testily. "To-day, this

man is to take upon himself the name of Paul Lowther--his true name,

though he doesn't know it, blockhead as he is. Therefore, I ask again:

What does it all come to?"

Mr. Bonnithorne shifted uneasily.

"Nothing," he said, meekly, but the curious smile still played about his

downcast face.

Then there was silence again.

"Do you know that Mercy Fisher is likely to regain her sight?" said

Hugh.

"You don't say so? Dear me, dear me!" said the lawyer, sincere at last.

"In all the annals of jurisprudence there is no such extraordinary case

of identity being conclusively provable by one witness only, and of that

witness becoming blind. Odd, isn't it?"

Hugh Ritson smiled coldly.

"Odd? Say providential," he answered. "I believe that's what you church

folk call it when the Almighty averts a disaster that is made imminent

by your own short-sightedness."

"A disaster, indeed, if her sight ceases to be so providentially short,"

said the lawyer.

"Get the man out of the way, and the woman is all right," said Hugh. He

picked a letter out of a drawer, and handed it to Mr. Bonnithorne. "You

will remember that the other was to have shipped to Australia."

Mr. Bonnithorne bowed his head.

"This letter is from the man for whom he intended to go out--an old

friend of my father. Answer it, Bonnithorne."

"In what terms?" asked the lawyer.

"Say that a long illness prevented, but that Paul Ritson is now prepared

to fulfill his engagement."

"And what then?"

"What then?" Hugh Ritson echoed. "Why, what do you think?"

"Send him?" with a motion of the thumb over the shoulder.

"Of course," said Hugh.

Again the cynical tone caught Hugh Ritson's ear, and he glanced up

quickly, but made no remark. He was now dressed.

"I am ready," and on reaching the door and taking a last look round the

room, he added: "I'll have the best of this furniture removed to the

Ghyll to-morrow. The house has been unbearable of late, and I've been

forced to spend most of my time down here."

"Then you don't intend to give him much grace?" asked Bonnithorne.

"Not an hour."

The lawyer bent his forehead very low at that moment.

CHAPTER V.

The sun was high over the head of Hindscarth, but a fresh breeze was

blowing from the north, and the walk to the Ghyll was bracing. Mr.

Bonnithorne talked little on the way, but Hugh Ritson's spirits rose

sensibly, and he chatted cheerfully on indifferent subjects. It was

still some minutes short of nine o'clock when they reached the house.

The servants were bustling about in clean aprons and caps.

"Have the gentlemen arrived?" asked Hugh.

"Not yet, sir," answered one of the servants--it was old Dinah Wilson.

The two men stepped up to Hugh Ritson's room. There the table was spread

for breakfast. The lawyer glanced at the chairs, and said:

"Then you have invited other friends?"

Hugh nodded his head, and sat down at the organ.

"Three or four neighbors of substance," he said, opening the case. "In a

matter like this it is well to have witnesses."

Bonnithorne replied with phlegm:

"But what about the feelings of the man who is so soon to be turned out

of the house?"

Hugh Ritson's fingers were on the keys. He paused and faced about.

"I had no conception that you had such a delicate sense of humor,

Bonnithorne," he said, with only the shadow of a smile. "Feelings! His

feelings!"

There was a swift glide up the notes, and other sounds were lost. The

window was half open; the lawyer walked to it and looked out. At that

moment the two men were back to back. Hugh Ritson's head was bent over

the keyboard. Mr. Bonnithorne's eyes were on the tranquil landscape

lying in the sun outside. The faces of both wore curious smiles.

Hugh Ritson leaped from his seat.

"Ah, I feel like another man already," he said, and took a step or two

up and down the room, his infirm foot betraying no infirmity. There was

the noise of fresh arrivals in the hall. A minute later a servant

entered, followed by three gentlemen, who shook hands effusively with

Hugh Ritson.

"Delighted to be of service, I'm sure," said one.

"Glad the unhappy connection is to be concluded--it was a scandal," said

the other.

"You could not go on living on such terms--life wasn't worth it, you

know," said the first.

The third gentleman was more restrained, but Hugh paid him marked

deference. They had a short, muttered conference apart.

"Get the other mortgages wiped off the deeds and I have no objection to

lend you the money on the security of the house and land," said the

gentleman. At that remark Hugh Ritson bowed his head and appeared

satisfied.

He rang for breakfast.

"Ask Mr. Paul if he is ready," he said, when Dinah brought the tray.

"Master Paul is abed, sir," said Dinah; and then she added for herself:

"It caps all--sec feckless wark. It dudn't use to be so, for sure. I'll

not say but a man may be that changed in a twelvemonth--"

"Ah, I'll go to him myself," said Hugh; and begging to be excused, he

left the room.

Mr. Bonnithorne followed him to the other side of the door.

"Have you counted the cost?" he asked. "It will be a public scandal."

Hugh smiled, and answered with composure:

"Whose will be the loss?"

"God knows!" said the lawyer, with sudden energy.

Hugh glanced up quickly. There was the murmur of voices from within the

room they had just left.

"Is it that you are too jealous of your good name to allow it to be

bruited abroad in a scandal, as you say?"

Mr. Bonnithorne's face wore a curious expression at that moment.

"It's not my good name that is in question," he said, quietly, and

turned back to the door.

"Whose then? His?"

But the lawyer already held the door ajar, and was passing into the

room.

Hugh Ritson made his way to the bedroom occupied by Paul Drayton. He

opened the door without knocking. It was dark within. Thin streaks of

dusty sunlight shot from between a pair of heavy curtains. The air was

noisome with dead tobacco smoke and the fumes of stale beer. Hugh's

gorge rose, but he conquered his disgust.

"Who's there?" said a husky voice from behind the dark hangings of a

four-post bed that was all but hidden in the gloom.

"The friends are here," said Hugh Ritson, cheerily. "How long will you

be?"

There was a suppressed chuckle.

"All right."

"We will begin breakfast," said Hugh. He was turning to go.

"Is that lawyer man back from Scotland?" asked Drayton.

"Bonnithorne? He's here--he didn't say that he'd been away," said Hugh.

"All right."

Hugh Ritson returned to the bed-head. "Have you heard," he said in a

subdued voice, "that the doctors have operated on the girl Mercy, and

that she is likely to regain her sight?"

"Eh? What?" Drayton had started up in bed. Then rolling down his sleeves

and buttoning them leisurely, he added: "But that ain't nothing to me."

Hugh Ritson left the room. He was in spirits indeed, for he had borne

even this encounter with equanimity. As he passed through the house,

Brother Peter entered at the porch with a letter in his hand.

"Is Parson Christian coming?" said Hugh.

"Don't know 'at I've heard," said Peter. "He's boddered me to fetch ye a

scribe of a line. Here 'tis."

Hugh Ritson opened the envelope. The note ran:

"I cannot reconcile it to my conscience to break bread with one who

has broken the peace of my household; nor is it agreeable to my duty

as a minister of Christ to give the countenance of my presence to

proceedings which must be a sham, inasmuch as the person concerned is

an imposter--with the which name I yet hope to brand him when the

proper time and circumstances arrive."

Hugh smiled as he read the letter; then he thrust a shilling into

Peter's unyielding hand, and shot away.

"The parson will not come," said Hugh, drawing Bonnithorne aside; "but

that can not matter. If he is Greta's guardian, you are her father's

executor." Then, raising his voice, "Gentlemen," he said, "my brother

wishes us to begin breakfast; he will join us presently."

The company was soon seated; the talk was brisk and cheerful.

"Glorious prospect," said a gentleman sitting opposite the open window.

"Often wonder you don't throw out a bay, Mr. Ritson."

"I've thought of it," said Hugh, "but it's not worth while to spend such

money until one is master of one's own house."

"Ah, true, true!" said several voices in chorus.

Drayton entered, his eyes red, his face sallow. "Morning, gents," he

said in his thick guttural.

Two of the gentlemen rose, and bowed with frigid politeness. "Good

morning, Mr. Ritson," said the third.

The servant had followed Drayton into the room with a beefsteak

underdone. "Post not come?" he asked, shifting his plates.

"It can't be long now," said Bonnithorne, consulting his watch.

"Sooner the better," Drayton muttered. He took some papers from a

breast-pocket and counted them; then fixed them in his waistcoat, where

his watch would have been if he had worn one.

When breakfast was done, Hugh Ritson took certain documents from a

cabinet. "Be seated, gentlemen," he said. All sat except Drayton, who

lighted a pipe, and rang to ask if the postman had come. He had not.

"Then go and sharpen up his heels."

"My duty would be less pleasant," said Hugh Ritson, "if some of the

facts were not already known."

"Then we'll take 'em as read, so we will," put in Drayton, perambulating

behind a cloud of smoke.

"Paul, I will ask you to be seated," said Hugh, in an altered tone.

Drayton sat down with a snort.

"I have to tell you," continued Hugh Ritson, "that my brother known to

you as Paul Ritson, is now satisfied that he was not the heir of my

father, who died intestate."

There were sundry nods of the grave noddles assembled about the table.

"Fearful shock to any man," said one. "No wonder he has lost heart and

grown reckless," said another.

"On becoming aware of this fact, he was anxious to relinquish the estate

to the true heir."

There were further nods, and some muttered comments on the requirements

of honor.

"I show you here a copy of the register of my father's marriage, and a

copy of the register of my own birth, occurring less than a year

afterward. From these, in the absence of extraordinary testimony, it

must be the presumption that I am myself my father's rightful heir."

The papers were handed about and returned with evident satisfaction.

"So far, all is plain," continued Hugh Ritson. "But my brother has

learned that he is not even my father's son."

Three astonished faces were lifted from the table. Bonnithorne sat with

head bent. Drayton leaned an elbow on one knee and smoked sullenly.

"It turns out that he is the son of my mother by another man," said Hugh

Ritson.

The guests twisted about. "Ah, that explains all," they whispered.

"You will be surprised to learn that my mother's husband by a former

invalid marriage was no other than Robert Lowther, and that he who sits

with us now as Paul Ritson is really Paul Lowther."

At this, Hugh placed two further documents on the table.

Drayton cleared his throat noisily.

"Dear me, dear me! yet it's plain enough!" said one of the visitors.

"Then what about Mrs. Ritson--Miss Greta, I mean?" asked another.

"She is Paul Lowther's half-sister, and therefore his marriage with her

must be annulled."

The three gentlemen turned in their seats and looked amazed, Drayton

still smoked in silence. Bonnithorne did not raise his head.

"He will relinquish to me my father's estates, but he is not left

penniless," continued Hugh Ritson. "By his own father's will he inherits

five thousand pounds."

Drayton snorted contemptuously, then spat on the floor.

"Friends," said Hugh Ritson again, "there is only one further point, and

I am loath to touch on it. My brother--I speak of Paul Lowther--on

taking possession of the estates, exercised what he believed to be his

legal right to mortgage them. I am sorry to say he mortgaged them

deeply."

There was an interchange of astute glances.

"If I were a rich man, I should be content to be the loser, but I am a

poor man, and am compelled to ask that those mortgages stand forfeit."

"Is it the law?"

"It is--and, as you will say, only a fair one," Hugh answered.

"Who are the mortgagees?"

"That is where the pity arises--the chief of them is no other than the

daughter of Robert Lowther--Greta."

Sundry further twists and turns. "Pity for her." "Well, she should have

seen to his title. Who was her lawyer?"

"Her father's executor, our friend Mr. Bonnithorne."

"How much does she lose?"

"I'm afraid a great deal--perhaps half her fortune," said Hugh.

"No matter; it's but fair, Mr. Ritson is not to inherit an estate

impoverished by the excesses of the wrong man."

Drayton's head was still bent, but he scraped his feet restlessly.

"I have only another word to say," said Hugh. "In affairs of this solemn

nature, it is best to have witnesses, or perhaps I should have preferred

to confer with Paul and Mr. Bonnithorne in private." He dropped his

voice and added: "You see, there is my poor mother; and though, in a

sense, she is no longer of this world, her good name must ever be sacred

with me."

The astute glances again, and two pairs of upraised hands. The lawyer

had twisted toward the window.

"But our friend Bonnithorne will tell you that the law in effect

compelled me to evict my brother. You may not know that there is a

condition of English law in which a bastard becomes a permanent heir;

that is when he is called, in the language of the law, the bastard

eigne." There was a tremor in his voice as he added softly: "Believe me,

I had no choice."

Drayton stamped his heavy foot, threw down his pipe, and jumped to his

feet. "It's a lie, the lot of it!" he blurted. Then he fumbled at his

watch-pocket, and pulled out a paper. "That's my register, straight and

plain."

He stammered it aloud:

"Ritson, Paul; father, Allan Ritson; mother, Grace Ritson. Date of

birth, April 6, 1847; place, Crieff, Scotland."

Hugh Ritson, a little pale, smiled. The others turned to him in their

amazement. In an instant he had regained an appearance of indifference.

"Where does it come from?" he asked.

"The registrar's at Edinburgh. D'ye say it ain't right?"

"No; but I say, what is it worth? Gentlemen," said Hugh, turning to the

visitors, "compare it with the register of my father's marriage.

Observe, the one date is April 6, 1847; the other is June 12, 1847. Even

if genuine, does it prove legitimacy?"

Drayton laid his hand on the lawyer's arm. "Here you, speak up, will

ye?" he said.

Mr. Bonnithorne rose, and then Hugh Ritson's pale face became ghastly.

"This birth occurred in Scotland," he said. "Now, if the father happened

to hold a Scotch domicile, and the mother lived with him as his wife,

the child would be legitimate."

"Without a marriage?"

"Without a ceremony."

Natt pushed into the room, his cap in one hand, a letter in the other.

He had knocked twice, and none had heard. "The post, sir; one letter for

Master Paul."

"Good lad!" Drayton clutched it with a cry of delight.

"But my father had no Scotch domicile," said Hugh, with apparent

composure.

"Oh, but he had," said Drayton, tearing open his envelope.

"He was a Scotsman born," said Bonnithorne, taking another document from

Drayton's hand. "See, this is his register. Odd, isn't it?"

Hugh Ritson's eyes flashed. He looked steadily into the face of the

lawyer, then he took the paper.

The next moment he crushed it in his palm and flung it out of the

window. "I shall want proof both of your facts and your law," he said.

"Eh, and welcome," said Drayton, shouting in his agitation. "Listen to

this," and he proceeded to read.

"Wait! From whom?" asked Hugh Ritson. "Some pettifogger?"

"The solicitor-general," said Bonnithorne.

"Is that good enough?" asked Drayton, tauntingly.

"Go on," said Hugh, rapping the table with his finger-tips.

Drayton handed the letter to the lawyer. "Do you read it," he said; "I

ain't flowery. I'm a gentleman, and--" He stopped suddenly and tramped

the floor, while Bonnithorne read:

"If there is no reason to suppose the father lost his Scotch

domicile, the son is legitimate. If the husband recognized his wife

in registering his son's birth, the law of Scotland would presume

that there was a marriage, but whether of ceremony or consent would

be quite indifferent."

There was a pause, Drayton took the letter from the lawyer's hands,

folded it carefully, and put it in his fob-pocket. Then he peered into

Hugh Ritson's face with a leer of triumph. Bonnithorne had slunk aside.

The guests were silent.

"D'ye hear?" said Drayton, "the son is legitimate." He gloated over the

words, and tapped his pocket as he repeated them. "What d'ye say to it,

eh?"

At first Hugh Ritson struggled visibly for composure, and in an instant

his face was like marble. Drayton came close to him.

"You were going to give me the go-by, eh? Turn me out-o'-doors, eh?

Damme, it's my turn now, so it is!"

So saying, Drayton stepped to the door and flung it open.

"This house is mine," he said; "go, and be damned to you!"

At this unexpected blow, Hugh Ritson beat the ground with his foot. He

looked round at the strangers, and felt like a wretch who was gagged and

might say nothing. Then he halted to where Drayton stood with

outstretched arm.

"Let me have a word with you in private," he said in a voice that was

scarcely audible.

Drayton lifted his hand, and his fist was clinched.

"Not a syllable!" he said. His accent was brutal and frenzied.

Hugh Ritson's nostrils quivered, and his eyes flashed. Drayton quailed

an instant, and burst into a laugh.

There was a great silence. Bonnithorne was still before the window, his

face down, his hands clasped behind him, his foot pawing the ground.

Hugh Ritson walked to his side. He contemplated him a moment, and then

touched him on the shoulder. When he spoke, his face was dilated with

passion, and his voice was low and deep.

"There is a Book," he said, "that a Churchman may know, which tells of

an unjust steward. The master thought to dismiss him from his

stewardship. Then the steward said within himself, 'What shall I do?'"

There was a pause.

"What did he do?" continued Hugh Ritson, and every word fell on the

silence like the stroke of a bell. "He called his master's debtors

together, and said to the first, 'How much do you owe?' 'One hundred

measures.' Then he said, 'Write a bill for fifty.'"

There was another pause.

"What did that steward mean? He meant that when the master should

dismiss him from his stewardship, the debtor should take him into his

house."

Hugh Ritson's manner was the white heat of calm. He turned half round to

where Drayton stood, and raised his voice.

"That debtor was henceforth bound hand and foot. Let him but parley with

the steward, and the steward cried, 'Thief,' 'Forger,' 'Perjurer.'"

Bonnithorne shuffled uneasily. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but

the words would not come. At last he gulped down something that had

seemed to choke him, smiled between his teeth a weak, bankrupt smile,

and said:

"How are we to read your parable? Are you the debtor bound hand and

foot, and is your brother the astute steward?"

Hugh Ritson's foot fell heavily.

"Is it so?" he said, catching at the word. "Then be it so;" and his

voice rose to a shrill cry. "That steward shall come to the ground, and

his master with him!"

At that he stepped back to where Drayton stood with eyes as full of

bewilderment as frenzy.

"Paul Lowther--" he said.

"Call me Paul Ritson," interrupted Drayton.

"Paul Lowther--"

"Ritson!" Drayton shouted, and then, dropping his voice, he said,

rapidly: "You gave it me, and by God I'll keep it!"

Hugh Ritson leaned across the table and tapped a paper that lay on it.

"That is your name," he said, "and I'll prove it."

Drayton burst into another laugh.

"You daren't try," he chuckled.

Hugh turned upon him with eyes of fire.

"So you measure my spirit by your own. Man, man!" he said, "do you know

what you are doing?"

There was another brutal laugh from Drayton, but it died suddenly on his

lips.

Then Hugh Ritson stepped to the door. He took a last look round. It was

as if he knew that he had reached the beginning of the end--as if he

realized that he was never again to stand in the familiar room. The

future, that seemed so near an hour ago, was gone from him forever; the

cup that he had lifted to his lips lay in fragments at his feet. He saw

it all in that swift instant. On his face there were the lines of agony,

but over them there played the smile of resolve. He put one hand to his

forehead, and then said in a voice so low as to be no more than a

whisper:

"Wait and see."

When the guests, who stood huddled together like sheep in a storm, had

recovered their stunned senses, Hugh Ritson was gone from the room.

Drayton had sunk into a chair near where Bonnithorne stood, and was

whining like a whipped hound.

"Go after him! What will he do? You know I was always against it!"

But presently he stood up and laughed, and bantered and crowed, and

observed that it was a pity if a gentleman could not be master in his

own house, and that what couldn't be cured must be endured.

"Precisely," interposed one of the guests, "and you have my entire

sympathy, Mr. Ritson. A more cruel deception was never more manfully

exposed."

"I fully agree with you, neighbor," said another, "and such moral

tyranny is fearful to contemplate. Paul Lowther, indeed! Now, that is a

joke."

"Well, it is rather, ain't it?" said Drayton. And then he laughed, and

they all laughed and shook hands, and were excellent good friends.

CHAPTER VI.

Greta stayed with Mercy until noon that day, begging, entreating, and

finally commanding her to lie quiet in bed, while she herself dressed

and fed the child, and cooked and cleaned, in spite of the Laird

Fisher's protestations. When all was done, and the old charcoal-burner

had gone out on the hills, Greta picked up the little fellow in her

arms and went to Mercy's room. Mercy was alert to every sound, and in an

instant was sitting up in bed. Her face beamed, her parted lips smiled,

her delicate fingers plucked nervously at the counterpane.

"How brightsome it is to-day, Greta," she said. "I'm sure the sun must

be shining."

The window was open, and a soft breeze floated through the sun's rays

into the room. Mercy inclined her head aside, and added, "Ah, you young

rogue you; you are there, are you? Give him to me, the rascal!" The

rogue was set down in his mother's arms, and she proceeded to punish his

rascality with a shower of kisses. "How bonny his cheeks must be; they

will be just like two ripe apples," and forthwith there fell another

shower of kisses. Then she babbled over the little one, and lisped, and

stammered, and nodded her head in his face, and blew little puffs of

breath into his hair, and tickled him until he laughed and crowed and

rolled and threw up his legs; and then she kissed his limbs and

extremities in a way that mothers have, and finally imprisoned one of

his feet by putting it ankle deep into her mouth. "Would you ever think

a foot could be so tiny, Greta?" she said. And the little one plunged

about and clambered laboriously up its mother's breast, and more than

once plucked at the white bandage about her head. "No, no; Ralphie must

not touch," said Mercy with sudden gravity. "Only think, Ralphie pet,

one week--only one--ay, less--only six days now, and then--oh, then--" A

long hug, and the little fellow's boisterous protest against the

convulsive pressure abridged the mother's prophecy.

All at once Mercy's manner changed. She turned toward Greta, and said:

"I will not touch the bandage, no, never; but if Ralphie tugged at it,

and it fell--would that be breaking my promise?"

Greta saw what was in her heart.

"I'm afraid it would, dear," she said; but there was a tremor in her

voice.

Mercy sighed audibly.

"Just think, it would be only Ralphie. The kind doctors could not be

angry with my little child. I would say, 'It was the boy,' and they

would smile and say, 'Ah, that is different.'"

"Give me the little one," said Greta with emotion.

Mercy drew the child closer, and there was a pause.

"I was very wrong, Greta," she said in a low tone. "Oh! you would not

think what a fearful thing came into my mind a minute ago. Take my

Ralphie. Just imagine, my own innocent baby tempted me."

As Greta reached across the bed to lift the child out of his mother's

lap, the little fellow was struggling to communicate, by help of a

limited vocabulary, some wondrous intelligence of recent events that

somewhat overshadowed his little existence. "Puss--dat," many times

repeated, was further explained by one chubby forefinger with its

diminutive finger-nail pointed to the fat back of the other hand.

"He means that the little cat has scratched him," said Greta, "but bless

the mite, he is pointing to the wrong hand."

"Puss--dat," continued the child, and peered up into his mother's

sightless face. Mercy was all tears in an instant. She had borne

yesterday's operation without a groan, but now the scratch on her

child's hand went to her heart like a stab.

"Lie quiet, Mercy," said Greta; "it will be gone to-morrow."

"Go-on," echoed the little chap, and pointed out at the window.

"The darling, how he picks up every word!" said Greta.

"He means the horse," explained Mercy.

"Go-on--man--go-on," prattled the little one, with a child's

indifference to all conversation except his own.

"Bless the love, he must remember the doctor and his horse," said Greta.

Mercy was putting her lips to the scratch on the little hand.

"Oh, Greta, I am very childish; but a mother's heart melts like butter."

"Batter," echoed the child, and wriggled out of Greta's arms to the

ground, where he forthwith clambered on to the stool, and possessed

himself of a slice of bread which lay on the table at the bedside. Then

the fair curly head disappeared like a glint of sunlight through the

door to the kitchen.

"What shall I care if other mothers see my child? I shall see him, too,"

said Mercy, and she sighed. "Yes," she added softly, "his hands and his

eyes and his feet and his soft hair."

"Try to sleep an hour or two, dear," said Greta, "and then perhaps you

may get up this afternoon--only perhaps, you know, but we'll see."

"Yes, Greta, yes. How kind you are."

"You will be far kinder to me some day," said Greta, very tenderly.

"No--ah, yes, I remember. How very selfish I am--I had quite forgotten.

But then it is so hard not to be selfish when you are a mother. Only

fancy, I never think of myself as Mercy now. No, never. I'm just

Ralphie's mamma. When Ralphie came, Mercy must have died in some way.

That's very silly, isn't it? Only it does seem true."

"Man--go-on--batter," was heard from the kitchen, mingled with the

patter of tiny feet.

"Listen to him. How tricksome he is! And you should hear him cry, 'Oh!'

You would say, 'That child has had an eye knocked out.' And then, in a

minute, behold! he's laughing once more. There, I'm selfish again; but I

will make up for it some day, if God is good."

"Yes, Mercy, He is good," said Greta.

Her arms rested on the door-jamb, and her head dropped on to it; her

eyes swam. Did it seem at that moment as if God had been very good to

these two women?

"Greta," said Mercy, and her voice fell to a whisper, "do you think

Ralphie is like--anybody?"

"Yes, dear, he is like you."

There was a pause. Then Mercy's hand strayed from under the bedclothes

and plucked at Greta's gown.

"Do you think," she asked, in a voice all but inaudible, "that father

knows who it is?"

"I can not say--we have never told him."

"Nor I--he never asked, never once--only, you know, he gave up his work

at the mine, and went back to the charcoal-pit when Ralphie came. But he

never said a word."

Greta did not answer. There was another pause. Then Mercy said, in a

stronger voice, "Will it be soon--the trial?"

"As soon as your eyes are better," said Greta, earnestly; "everything

depends on your recovery."

At that moment the bedroom door was pushed open with a little lordly

bang, and the great wee man entered with his piece of bread stuck rather

insecurely on one prong of a fork.

"Toas," he explained complacently, "toas," and walked up to the empty

grate and stretched his arm over the fender at the cold bars.

"Why, there's no fire for toast, you darling goose," said Greta,

catching him in her arms, much to his masculine vexation.

Mercy had risen on an elbow, and her face was full of the yearning of

the blind. Then she lay back.

"Never mind," she said to herself in a faltering voice, "let me lie

quiet and think of all his pretty ways."

CHAPTER VII.

Greta returned to the vicarage toward noon, and overtook Parson

Christian and Peter in the lonnin, the one carrying a scythe over his

shoulder, the other a bundle of rushes under his one arm. The parson was

walking in silence under the noontide sun, his straw hat tipped back

from his forehead and his eyes on the ground. He was busy with his own

reflections. It was not until Greta had tripped up to his side and

slipped his scythe-stone from its strap in the pole that the parson was

awakened from his reverie.

"Great news, Greta--great news, my lass!" he said in answer to her

liberal tender in exchange for his thoughts. "How well it's said, that

he that diggeth a pit for another should look that he fall not into it

himself."

"What news, Mr. Christian?" said Greta, and her color heightened.

"Well, we've been mowing the grass in the church-yard, Peter and I, and

the scythe is old like ourselves, and it wanted tempering. So away we

went to the smithy to have it ground, and who should come up but Robbie

Atkinson, leading hassocks from Longridge. And Robbie would fain have us

go with him and be cheerful at the Flying Horse. Well, we'd each had a

pot of ale and milk, when in came Natt, the stableman at Ritson's, all

lather like one of his horses after his master has been astride her. And

Natt was full of a great quarrel at the Ghyll, wherein young Mr. Hugh

had tried to turn yonder man out of the house in the way I told you of

before, but the man denied that he was what Hugh called him, and clung

to it that he was Paul Ritson, and brought documents to show that Paul

was his father's rightful heir, after all."

"Well, well?" asked Greta, breathlessly.

Peter had shambled on to the house.

"Well, Natt is no very trustworthy chronicler, I fear, but one thing is

plain, and that is, that Mr. Hugh, who thought to turn yon man out of

the house, has been turned out of it himself."

Greta stood in the road, trembling from head to foot.

"My poor husband!" she said in a whisper. Then came a torrent of

questions. "When did this happen? What think you will come of it? Where

will Hugh go? What will he do? Ah, Mr. Christian, you always said the

cruel instrument would turn in his hand!"

There was a step behind them. In their anxiety they had not noticed it

until it was close at their heels. They turned, and were face to face

with Mr. Bonnithorne.

The lawyer bowed, but before they had exchanged the courtesies of

welcome, a horse's tramp came from the road, and in a moment Drayton

rode up the lonnin. His face was flushed, and his manner noisy as he

leaped from the saddle into their midst.

Greta lifted one hand to her breast, and with the other hand she clasped

that of the parson. The old man's face grew rigid in an instant, and

all the mellowness natural to it died away.

Drayton made up to Greta and the parson with an air of braggadocio.

"I've come to tell you once for all that my wife must live under my

roof."

No one answered. Drayton took a step near, and slapped his boot with his

riding-whip.

"The law backs me up in it, and I mean to have it out."

Still there was no answer, and Drayton's braggadocio gathered assurance

from the silence.

"Not as I want her. None of your shrinking away, madame." A hoarse

laugh. "Burn my body! if I wouldn't as soon have my mother for a wife."

"What then?" said the parson in a low tone.

"Appearances. I ain't to be a laughing-stock of the neighborhood any

longer. My wife's my wife. A husband's a husband, and wants obedience."

"And what if you do not get it?" asked the parson, his old face

whitening.

"What? Imprisonment--that's what." Drayton twisted about and touched the

lawyer with the handle of his whip. "Here, you, tell 'em what's what."

Thus appealed to, Mr. Bonnithorne explained that a husband was entitled

to the restitution of connubial rights, and, in default, to the

"attachment" of his spouse.

"The law," said Mr. Bonnithorne, "can compel a wife to live with her

husband, or punish her with imprisonment for not doing so."

"D'ye hear?" said Drayton, slapping furiously at the sole of his boot.

"Punish her with imprisonment."

There was a pause, and then the parson said, quietly but firmly:

"I gather that it means that you want to share this lady's property."

"Well, what of it? Hain't I a right to share it, eh?"

"You have thus far enjoyed the benefit of her mortgages, on the pretense

that you are her husband; but now you are going too far."

"We'll see. Here, you," prodding the lawyer, "take proceedings at once.

If she won't come, imprison her. D'ye hear--imprison her!"

He swung about and caught the reins from the horse's mane, laughing a

hollow laugh. Greta disengaged her hand from the hand of the parson, and

stepped up to Drayton until she stood before him face to face, her eyes

flashing, her lips quivering, her cheeks pale, her whole figure erect

and firm.

"And what of that?" she said. "Do you think to frighten me with the

cruelties of the law?--me?--me?" she echoed, with scorn in every

syllable. "Have I suffered so little from it already that you dare to

say, 'Imprison her,' as if that would drive me to your house?"

Drayton tried to laugh, but the feeble effort died on his hot lips. He

spat on the ground, and then tried to lift his eyes back to the eyes of

Greta, but they fell to the whip that he held in his hand.

"Imprison me, Paul Drayton! I shall not be the first you've imprisoned.

Imprison me, and I shall be rid of you and your imposture!" she said,

raising her voice.

Drayton leaped to the saddle.

"I'll do it!" he muttered; and now, pale, crushed, his braggadocio gone,

he tugged his horse's head aside and brought down the whip on its flank.

Parson Christian turned to Mr. Bonnithorne.

"Follow him," he said, resolutely, and lifted his hand.

The lawyer made a show of explanation, then assumed an air of authority,

but finally encountered the parson's white face, and turned away.

In another moment Greta was hanging on Parson Christian's neck, sobbing

and moaning, while the good old Christian, with all the mellowness back

in his wrinkled face, smoothed her hair as tenderly as a woman.

"My poor Paul, my dear husband!" cried Greta.

"Ah! thanks be to God, things are at their worst now, and they can't

move but they must mend," said the parson.

He took her indoors and bathed her hot forehead, and dried with his hard

old hand the tears that fell from eyes that a moment before had flashed

like a basilisk's.

Toward five o'clock that evening a knock came to the door of the

vicarage, and old Laird Fisher entered. His manner was more than usually

solemn and constrained.

"I's coom't to say as ma lass's wee thing is taken badly," he said, "and

rayder sudden't."

Greta rose from her seat and put on her hat and cloak. She was hastening

down the road while the charcoal-burner was still standing in the middle

of the floor.

CHAPTER VIII.

When Greta reached the old charcoal-burner's cottage, the little one was

lying in a drowsy state in Mercy's arms. Its breathing seemed difficult;

sometimes it started in terror; it was feverish and suffered thirst. The

mother's wistful face was bent down on it with an indescribable

expression. There were only the trembling lips to tell of the sharp

struggle that was going on within. But the yearning for a sight of the

little flushed countenance, the tearless appeal for but one glimpse of

the drowsy little eyes, the half-articulate cry of a mother's heart

against the fate that made the child she had suckled at her breast a

stranger, whose very features she might not know--all this was written

in that blind face.

"Is he pale?" said Mercy. "Is he sleeping? He does not talk now, but

only starts and cries, and sometimes coughs."

"When did this begin?" asked Greta.

"Toward four o'clock. He had been playing, and I noticed that he

breathed heavily, and then he came to me to be nursed. Is he awake now?

Listen."

The little one in its restless drowsiness was muttering faintly,

"Man--go-on--batter--toas."

"The darling is talking in his sleep, isn't he?" said Mercy.

Then there was a ringing, brassy cough.

"It is croup," thought Greta.

She closed the window, lighted a fire, placed the kettle so that the

steam might enter the room, then wrung flannels out of hot water, and

wrapped them about the child's neck. She stayed all that night at the

cottage, and sat up with the little one and nursed it. Mercy could not

be persuaded to go to bed, but she was very quiet. It had not yet taken

hold of her that the child was seriously ill. He was drowsy and a little

feverish, his pulse beat fast and he coughed hard sometimes, but he

would be better in the morning. Oh, yes, he would soon be well again,

and tearing up the flowers in the garden.

Toward midnight the pulse fell rapidly, the breathing become quieter,

and the whole nature seemed to sink. Mercy listened with her ear bent

down at the child's mouth, and a smile of ineffable joy spread itself

over her face.

"Bless him, he is sleeping so calmly," she said.

Greta did not answer.

"The 'puss' and the 'man' don't darken his little life so much now,"

continued Mercy, cheerily.

"No, dear," said Greta, in as strong a voice as she could summon.

"All will be well with my darling boy soon, will it not?"

"Yes, dear," said Greta, with a struggle.

Happily Mercy could not read the other answer in her face.

Mercy had put her sensitive fingers on the child's nose, and was

touching him lightly about the mouth.

"Greta," she said in a startled whisper, "does he look pinched?"

"A little," said Greta, quietly.

"And his skin--is it cold and clammy?"

"We must give him another hot flannel," said Greta.

Mercy sat at the bedside, and said nothing for an hour. Then all at

once, and in a strange, harsh voice, she said:

"I wish God had not made Ralphie so winsome."

Greta started at the words, but made no answer.

The daylight came early. As the first gleams of gray light came in at

the window, Greta turned to where Mercy sat in silence. It was a sad

face that she saw in the mingled yellow light of the dying lamp and the

gray of the dawn.

Mercy spoke again.

"Greta, do you remember what Mistress Branthet said when her baby died

last back-end gone twelvemonth?"

Greta looked up quickly at the bandaged eyes.

"What?" she asked.

"Well, Parson Christian tried to comfort her, and said, 'Your baby is

now an angel in Paradise,' and she turned on him with 'Shaf on your

angels--I want none on 'em--I want my little girl.'"

Mercy's voice broke into a sob.

Toward ten o'clock the doctor came. He had been detained. Very sorry to

disoblige Mrs. Ritson, but fact was old Mr. de Broadthwaite had an

attack of lumbago, complicated by a bout of toothache, and everybody

knew he was most exacting. Young person's baby ill? Feverish, restless,

starts in its sleep, and cough?--Ah, croupy cough--yes, croup, true

croup, not spasmodic. Let him see; how old? A year and a half? Ah, bad,

very. Most frequent in second year of infancy. Dangerous, highly so.

Forms a membrane that occludes air passages. Often ends in convulsions,

and child suffocates. Sad, very. Let him see again. How long since the

attack began? Yesterday at four. Ah, far gone, far. The great man soon

vanished, leaving behind him a harmless preparation of aconite and

ipecacuanha.

Mercy had heard all, and her pent-up grief broke out in sobs.

"Oh, to think I shall hear my Ralphie no more, and to know his white

cold face is looking up from a coffin, while other children are playing

in the sunshine and chasing the butterflies! No, no, it can not be; God

will not let it come to pass; I will pray to Him and He will save my

child. Why, He can do anything, and He has all the world. What is my

little baby boy to Him? He will not let it be taken from me!"

Greta's heart was too full for speech. But she might weep in silence,

and none there would know. Mercy stretched across the bed and, tenderly

folding the child in her arms, she lifted him up, and then went down on

her knees.

"Merciful Father," she said in a childish voice of sweet confidence,

"this is my baby, my Ralphie, and I love him so dearly. You would never

think how much I love him. But he is ill, and doctor says he may die.

Oh, dear Father, only think what it would be to say, 'His little face is

gone.' And then I have never seen him. You will not take him away until

his mother sees him. So soon, too. Only five days more. Why, it is quite

close. Not to-morrow, nor the next day, nor the next, but the day after

that!"

She put in many another child-like plea, and then rose with a smile on

her pale lips and replaced the little one on his pillow.

"How patient he is," she said. "He can't say 'Thank you,' but I'm sure

his eyes are speaking. Let me feel." She put her finger lightly on the

child's lids. "No, they are shut; he must be sleeping. Oh, dear, he

sleeps very much. Is he gaining color? How quiet he is! If he would only

say, 'Mamma!' How I wish I could see him!"

She was very quiet for awhile, and then plucked at Greta's gown

suddenly.

"Greta," she said eagerly, "something tells me that if I could only see

Ralphie I should save him."

Greta started up in terror. "No, no, no; you must not think of it," she

said.

"But some one whispered it. It must have been God Himself. You know we

ought to obey God always."

"Mercy, it was not God who said that. It was your own heart. You must

not heed it."

"I'm sure it was God," said Mercy. "And I heard it quite plain."

"Mercy, my darling, think what you are saying. Think what it is you wish

to do. If you do it you will be blind forever."

"But I shall have saved my Ralphie."

"No, no; you will not."

"Will he not be saved, Greta?"

"Only our heavenly Father knows."

"Well, He whispered it in my heart. And, as you say, He knows best."

Greta was almost distraught with fear. The noble soul in her would not

allow her to appeal to Mercy's gratitude against the plea of maternal

love. But she felt that all her happiness hung on that chance. If Mercy

regained her sight, all would be well with her and hers; but if she lost

it the future must be a blank.

The day wore slowly on, and the child sunk and sunk. At evening the old

charcoal-burner returned, and went into the bedroom. He stood a moment,

and looked down at the pinched little face, and when the child's eyes

opened drowsily for a moment he put his withered forefinger into its

palm; but there was no longer a responsive clasp of the chubby hand.

The old man's lips quivered behind his white beard.

"It were a winsome wee thing," he said, faintly, and then turned away.

He left his supper untouched and went into the porch. There he sat on a

bench and whittled a blackthorn stick. The sun was sinking over the head

of the Eel Crag; the valley lay deep in a purple haze; the bald top of

Cat Bells stood out bright in the glory of the passing day. A gentle

breeze came up from the south, and the young corn chattered with its

multitudinous tongues in the field below. The dog lay at the

charcoal-burner's feet, blinking in the sun and snapping lazily at a

buzzing fly.

The little life within was ebbing away. No longer racked by the ringing

cough, the loud breathing became less frequent and more harsh. Mercy

lifted the child from the bed and sat with it before the fire. Greta saw

its eyes open, and at the same moment she saw the lips move slightly,

but she heard nothing.

"He is calling his mamma," said Mercy, with her ear bent toward the

child's mouth.

There was a silence for a long time. Mercy pressed the child to her

breast; its close presence seemed to soothe her.

Greta stood and looked down; she saw the little lips move once more, but

again she heard no sound.

"He is calling his mamma," repeated Mercy, wistfully, "and, oh, he seems

such a long way off!"

Once again the little lips moved.

"He is calling me," said Mercy, listening intently; and she grew

restless and excited. "He is going away. I can hear him. He is far off.

Ralphie, Ralphie!" She had lifted the child up to her face. "Ralphie,

Ralphie!" she cried.

"Give me the baby, Mercy," said Greta.

But the mother clung to it with a convulsive grasp.

"Ralphie, Ralphie, Ralphie!..."

There was a sudden flash of some white thing. In an instant the bandage

had fallen from Mercy's head, and she was peering down into the child's

face with wild eyes.

"Ralphie, Ralphie!... Hugh!" she cried.

The mother had seen her babe at last, and in that instant she had

recognized the features of its father.

At the next moment the angel of God passed through that troubled house,

and the child lay dead at the mother's breast.

Mercy saw it all, and her impassioned mood left her. She rose to her

feet quietly, and laid the little one in the bed. There was never a sigh

more, never a tear. Only her face was ashy pale, and her whitening lips

quivered.

"Greta," she said, very slowly, "will you go for him?"

Greta kissed the girl's forehead tenderly. Her own calm, steadfast,

enduring spirit sunk. All the world was dead to her now.

"Yes, dear," she whispered.

The next minute she was gone from the room.

CHAPTER IX.

The evening was closing in; now and then the shrill cries of the birds

pealed and echoed in the still air; a long, fibrous streak of silver in

the sky ebbed away over the head of Hindscarth. Greta hastened toward

the pit-brow. The clank of the iron chain in the gear told that the cage

in the shaft was working.

It was a year and a half since her life had first been overshadowed by a

disaster more black and terrible than death itself, and never for an

instant had the clouds been lifted until three days ago. Then, in a

moment, the light had pierced through the empty sky, and a way had been

wrought for her out of the labyrinth of misery. But even that passage

for life and hope and love seemed now to be closed by the grim

countenance of doom.

Mercy would be blind forever! All was over and done. Greta's strong,

calm spirit sunk and sunk. She saw the impostor holding to the end the

name and place of the good man; and she saw the good man dragging his

toilsome way through life--an outcast, a by-word, loaded with ignominy,

branded with crime. And that unhappy man was her husband, and he had no

stay but in her love--no hope but in her faith.

Greta stopped at the door of Hugh Ritson's office and knocked. A moment

later he and she were face to face. He was dressed in his pit flannels,

and was standing by a table on which a lamp burned. When he recognized

her, he passed one hand across his brow, the other he rested on the

mantel-piece. There was a momentary twitching of her lips, and he

involuntarily remarked that in the time that had passed since they last

met she had grown thinner.

"Come with me," she said in a trembling whisper. "Mercy's child is dead,

and the poor girl is asking for you in her great trouble."

He did not speak at once, but shaded his eyes from the lamp. Then he

said, in a voice unlike his own:

"I will follow you."

She had held the door in her hand, and now she turned to go. He took one

step toward her.

"Greta, have you nothing more to say to me?" he asked.

"What do you wish me to say?"

He did not answer; his eyes fell before her.

There was a slight wave of her hand as she added:

"The same room ought never to contain both you and me--it never should

have done so--but this is not my errand."

"I have deserved it," he said, humbly.

"The cruel work is done--yes, done past undoing. You have not heard the

last of it. Then, since you ask me what I have to say to you, it is

this: That man, that instrument of your malice who is now your master,

has been to say that he can compel me to live with him, or imprison me

if I refuse. Can he do it?"

Hugh Ritson lifted his eyes with a blind, vacant stare.

"To live with him? Him? You to live with him?" he said, absently.

"To live under his roof--those were his words. Can he do it? I mean if

the law recognizes him as my husband?"

Hugh Ritson's eyes wandered.

"Do it? Your husband?" he echoed, incoherently.

"I know well what he wants," said Greta, breathing heavily; "it is not

myself he is anxious for--but he can not have the one without the

other."

"The one without the other?" echoed Hugh Ritson in a low tone. Then he

strode across the room in visible agitation.

"Greta, that man is--. Do you know who he is?"

"Paul Drayton, the innkeeper of Hendon," she answered, calmly.

"No, no; he is your--"

He paused, his brows knit, his fingers interlaced. Her bosom swelled.

"Would you tell me that he is my husband?" she said indignantly.

Hugh Ritson again passed his hand across his brow.

"Greta, I have deserved your distrust," he said, in an altered tone.

"What is done can never be undone," she answered.

His voice had regained its calmness, but his manner was still agitated.

"I may serve you even yet," he said; "I have done you too much wrong; I

know that."

"What is your remorse worth now?" she asked. "It comes too late."

Then he looked her steadily in the face, and replied:

"Greta, it is well said that the most miserable man in all the world is

he who feels remorse before he does the wrong. I was--I am--that man. I

did what I did knowing well that I should repent it--ay, to the last

hour of my life. But I was driven to it--I had no power to resist

it--it mastered me then--it would master me now."

The finger-tips of Greta's right hand were pressed close against her

cheek. Hugh Ritson took a step nearer.

"Greta," he said, and his voice fell to a broken whisper, "there are

some men to whom love is a passing breath, a gentle gale that beats on

the face and sports in the hair, and then is gone. To me it is a wound,

a deep, corrosive, inward wound that yearns and burns."

Greta shuddered; it was as if his words stung her. Then with an

impatient gesture she turned again toward the door, saying:

"This is the death-hour of your child, and, Heaven pardon you, it seems

to be the death-hour of your brother's hopes too!" She faced about. "Do

you think of him?" she added, lifting her voice. "When you see this man

in his place, wasting his substance and mine, do you ever think of him

where he is?"

Her voice trembled and broke. There was a moment's silence. She had

turned her head aside, and he heard the low sound of sobs.

"Yes, I think of him," he answered, slowly. "At night, in the sleepless

hours, I do think of him where he is; and I think of him as a happy man.

Yes, a happy man! What if he wears a convict's dress?--his soul is yoked

to no deadening burden. As for me--well, look at me!"

He smiled grimly.

"I have heard everything," said Greta; "you have sown the wind, and you

are reaping the whirlwind."

Something like a laugh broke from him. It came from the waters of

bitterness that lay deep in his heart.

"Not that," he said. "All that will pass away."

She was on the threshold; a force of which she knew nothing held her

there.

"Greta, I am not so bad a man as perhaps I seem; I am a riddle that you

may not read. The time is near when I shall trouble the world no more,

and it will be but a poor wounded name I shall leave behind me, will it

not? Greta, would it be a mockery to ask you to forgive me?"

"There are others who have more to forgive," said Greta. "One of them

is waiting for you at this moment; and, poor girl! her heart is broken."

Hugh Ritson bent his head slightly, and Greta pulled the door after her.