The Shadow of a Crime Part 29

She would sit and spin--yes, she could spin, too, though it was long since she had done so--she would sit in his mother's chair--the one his mother used to sit in when she spun--and perhaps he would understand from that sign that she would try to take his mother's place if he wished her so to do.

Quick, let it be done at once. He usually came up to the house at this time of the morning.

She looked at the clock. He would be here soon, she thought; he might be coming now.

And w.i.l.l.y Ray was, in truth, only a few yards from the house at the moment. He had been up on to the hills that morning. He had been there on a similar errand several mornings before, and had never told himself frankly what that errand really was. Returning homewards on this occasion, he had revolved afresh the subject that lay nearest to his heart.

If Ralph really loved the girl--but how should he know the truth as to that, unless Rotha knew it? If the girl loved his brother, he could relinquish her. He was conscious of no pang of what was called jealousy in this matter. An idol that he had worshipped seemed to be shattered--that was all.

If he saw that Rotha loved Ralph, he must give up forever his one dream of happiness--and there an end.

It was in this mood that he opened the kitchen door, just as Rotha had put her foot on the treadle and taken the flax in her hand.

There the girl sat, side by side with his mother, spinning at the wheel which within his recollection no hand but one had touched. How fresh and fair the young face looked, tinged, as it was at this moment, too, with a conscious blush!

Rotha had tried to lift her eyes as w.i.l.l.y entered. She intended to meet his glance with a smile. She wished to catch the significance of his expression. But the lids were heavier than lead that kept her gaze fixed on the "rock" and flax below her.

She felt that after a step or two he had stood still in front of her.

She knew that her face was crimson. Her eyes, too, were growing dim.

"Rotha, my darling!" She heard no more.

The spinning-wheel had been pushed hastily aside. She was on her feet, and w.i.l.l.y's arms were about her.

CHAPTER XX. "FOOL, OF THYSELF SPEAK WELL."

As the parson left Shoulthwaite that morning he encountered Joe Garth at the turning of the lonnin. The blacksmith was swinging along the road, with a hoop over his shoulder. He lifted his cap as the Reverend Nicholas came abreast of him. That worthy was usually too much absorbed to return such salutations, but he stopped on this occasion.

"Would any mortal think it?" he said; "the man Simeon Stagg is here housed at the home of my old friend and esteemed parishioner, Angus Ray!"

Mr. Garth appeared to be puzzled to catch the relevancy of the remark.

He made no reply.

"The audacity of the man is past belief," continued the parson. "Think of his effrontery! Does he imagine that G.o.d or man has forgotten the mystery of that night in Martinmas?"

The blacksmith realized that some response was expected from him. With eyes bent on the ground, he muttered, "He's getting above with himself, sir."

"Getting above himself! I should think so, forsooth. But verily a reckoning day is at hand. Woe to him who carries a load of guilt at his heart and thinks that no man knows of it. Better a millstone were about his neck, and he were swallowed up in the great deep."

The parson turned away. Garth stood for a moment without perceiving that he was alone, his eyes still bent on the ground. Then he walked moodily in the other direction.

When he reached his home, Joe threw down the hoop in the smithy and went into the house. His mother was there.

"Sim, he's at Shoulthwaite," he said. "It's like enough his daughter is there, too."

A sneer crossed Mrs. Garth's face.

"Tut, she's yan as wad wed the midden for sake of the muck."

"You mean she's setting herself at one of the Rays?"

Mrs. Garth snorted, but gave no more explicit reply.

"Ey, she's none so daft, is yon la.s.s," observed the blacksmith.

This was not quite the trace he had meant to follow. After a pause he said, "What came of his papers--in the trunk?"

"Whose?"

"_Thou_ knows."

Mrs. Garth gave her son a quick glance.

"It's like they're still at Fornside. I must see to 'em again."

The blacksmith responded eagerly,--

"Do, mother, do."

There was another pause. Joe made some pretence of sc.r.a.ping a file which he had picked up from a bench.

"Thou hasn't found out if old Angus made a will?" said Mrs. Garth.

"No."

"No, of course not," said Mrs. Garth, with a curl of the lip. "What I want doing I must do myself. Always has been so, and always will be."

"I wish it were true, mother," muttered Joe in a voice scarcely audible.

"What's that?"

"Nowt."

"I'll go over to Shoulth'et to-morrow," purred Mrs. Garth. "If the old man made no will, I'll maybe have summat to say as may startle them a gay bit."

The woman grunted to herself at the prospect. "Ey, ey," she mumbled, "it'll stop their match-makin'. Ey, ey, and what's mair, what's mair, it'll bring yon Ralph back helter-skelter."

"Mother, mother," cried the blacksmith, "can you never leave that ugly thing alone?"

CHAPTER XXI. MRS. GARTH AT SHOULTHWAITE.