The Shadow of a Crime Part 67

"Robbie, where is he?"

"Gone, just gone, not above two minutes," replied Liza, still whimpering.

"Where?"

"I scarce know--to Penrith, I think. There was no keeping him back.

When father came in and told him what had happened at Carlisle, he flung away and would not be hindered. He has gone off in Reuben's wagon."

"Which way?"

"They took the low road."

"Then I've missed them," said Rotha, sinking into a chair in a listless att.i.tude.

"And he's as weak as water, and he'll take another fever, as I told him, and ramble on same as--"

"Liza," interrupted Rotha, "did you ever tell him--in play I mean--did you ever repeat anything he had said when he was unconscious?"

"Not that about his mammy?"

"No, no; but anything else?"

"I mind I told him what he said over and over again about his fratch with that Garth."

"Nothing else?"

"Why, yes, now I think on't. I mind, too, that I told him he was always running on it that something was fifty yards north of the bridge, and he could swear it, swear it in hea--"

"What did he say to _that?_" asked Rotha eagerly.

"Say! he said nothing, but he glowered at me till I thought sure he was off again."

"Is that all?"

"All what, Rotha?"

"They said in evidence that Ralph--it was a lie, remember--they said that Wilson was killed fifty yards to the north of the bridge. Now his body was found as far to the south of it. Robbie knows something. I hoped to learn what he knows; but oh, everything is against me--everything, everything."

Rising hastily, she added, "Perhaps Robbie has gone to Carlisle. I must be off, Liza."

In another moment she was hurrying up the road.

Taking the high path, the girl came upon the Quaker preachers, surrounded by a knot of villagers. To avoid them she turned up an unfrequented angle of the road. There, in the recess of a gate, unseen by the worshippers, but commanding a view of them, and within hearing of all that was sung and said, stood Garth, the blacksmith. He wore his leathern ap.r.o.n thrown over one shoulder. This was the hour of mid-day rest. He had not caught the sound of Rotha's light footstep as she came up beside him. He was leaning over the gate and listening intently. There was more intelligence and also more tenderness in his face than Rotha had observed before.

She paused, and seemed prompted to a nearer approach, but for the moment she held back. The worshippers began to sing a simple Quaker hymn. It spoke of pardon and peace:--

Though your sins be red as scarlet, He shall wash them white as wool.

Garth seemed to be touched. His hard face softened; his lips parted, and his eyes began to swim.

When the singing ceased, he repeated the refrain beneath his breath.

"What if one could but think it?" he muttered, and dropped his head into his hands.

Rotha stepped up and tapped his shoulder.

"Mr. Garth," she said.

He started, and then struggled to hide his discomposure. There was only one way in which a man of his temperament and resource could hope to do it--he snarled.

"What do you want with me?"

"It was a beautiful hymn," said Rotha, ignoring his question.

"Do you think so?" he growled, and turned his head away.

"What if one could but think it?" she said, as if speaking as much to herself as to him.

Garth faced about, and looked at her with a scowl.

The girl's eyes were as meek as an angel's.

"It's what I was thinking mysel', that is," he mumbled after a pause; then added aloud with an access of irritation, "Think what?"

"That there is pardon for us all, no matter what our sins--pardon and peace."

"Humph!"

"It is beautiful; religion is very beautiful, Mr. Garth."

The blacksmith forced a short laugh.

"You'd best go and hire yourself to the Quakers. They would welcome a woman preacher, no doubt."

She would have bartered away years of her life at this instant for one glimpse of what was going on in that man's heart. If she had found corruption there, sin and crime, she would have thanked G.o.d for it as for manna from above. Rotha clutched the keys beneath her cloak and subdued her anger.

"You scarce seem yourself to-day, Mr. Garth," she said.

"All the better," he replied, with a mocking laugh. "I've heard that they say my own sel' is a bad sel'."

The words were hardly off his lips when he turned again sharply and faced Rotha with an inquiring look. He had reminded himself of a common piece of his mother's counsel; but in the first flash of recollection it had almost appeared to him that the words had been Rotha's, not his.

The girl's face was as tender as a Madonna's.

"Maybe I _am_ a little bit out of sorts to-day; maybe so. I've felt daizt this last week end; I have, somehow."

Rotha left him a minute afterwards. Continuing her journey, she drew the bunch of keys from under her cloak and examined them.