The Shadow of a Crime Part 72

"None come nigh to us, Joey, none come nigh. That's what the worth of neighbors is, my lad. They'd leave us to die, both on us; they'd leave us alone to die, and none wad come nigh."

"Alone, mother! Did you say alone?" asked Garth.

"We're not alone, mother. Some one _has_ come nigh to us."

Mrs. Garth looked up amazed, and half turned in her seat to glance watchfully around.

"Mother," said Garth, "did you ever pray?"

"Hod thy tongue, lad, hod thy tongue," said Mrs. Garth, with a whimper.

"Did you ever pray, mother?" repeated Garth, his red eyes aflame, and his voice cracking in his throat. "Whisht, Joey, whisht!"

"Mother, we've not lived over well, you and I; but maybe G.o.d would forgive us, after all."

"Hod thy tongue, my lad; do, now, do."

Mrs. Garth fumbled with the bedclothes, and tucked them about the sufferer.

Her son turned his face full upon hers, and their eyes met.

"Dunnet look at me like that," she said, trying to escape his gaze.

"What's comin' ower thee, my lad, that thou looks so, and talks so?"

"What's coming over me, mother? Shall I tell thee? It's Death that's coming over me; that's what it is, mother--Death!"

"Dunnet say that, Joey."

The old woman threw her ap.r.o.n over her head and sobbed.

Garth looked at her, with never a tear in his wide eyes.

"Mother," said the poor fellow again in his weak, cracked voice,--"mother, did you ever pray?"

Mrs. Garth uncovered her head. Her furrowed face was wet. She rocked herself and moaned.

"Ey, lad, I mind that I did when I was a wee bit of a girl. I had rosy cheeks then, and my own auld mother wad kiss me then. Ey, it's true.

We went to church on a Sunday mornin' and all the bells ringin'. Ey, I mind that, but it's a wa', wa' off, my lad, it's a wa', wa' off."

The day was gaunt and dreary. Toward nightfall the wind arose, and sometimes its dismal wail seemed to run around the house. The river, too, now swollen and turbulent, that flowed beneath the neighboring bridge, added its voice of lamentation as it wandered on and on to the ocean far away.

In the blacksmith's cottage another wanderer was journeying yet faster to a more distant ocean. The darkness closed in. Garth was tossing on his bed. His mother was rocking herself at his side. All else was still.

Then a step was heard on the shingle without, and a knock came to the door. The blacksmith struggled to lift his head and listen. Mrs. Garth paused in her rocking and ceased to moan.

"Who ever is it?" whispered Garth.

"Let them stay where they are, whoever it be," his mother mumbled, never shifting from her seat. The knock came again.

"Nay, mother, nay; it is too late to--"

He had said no more when the latch was lifted, and Rotha Stagg walked into the room.

"I've come to help to nurse you, if you please," she said, addressing the sick man.

Garth looked steadily at her for a moment, every feature quivering.

Shame, fear, horror--any sentiment but welcome--was written on his face. Then he straggled to twist his poor helpless body away; his head, at least, he turned from her to the wall.

"It wad look better of folk if they'd wait till they're axt," muttered Mrs. Garth, with downcast eyes.

Rotha unpinned the shawls that had wrapped her from the cold, and threw them over a chair. She stirred the fire and made it burn brightly; there was no other light in the room. The counterpane, which had been dragged away in the restlessness of the sufferer, she spread afresh. Reaching over the bed, she raised the sick man's head tenderly on her arm while she beat out his pillow. Never once did he lift his eyes to hers.

Mrs. Garth still rocked herself in her seat. "Folks should wait till they're wanted," she mumbled again; but the words broke down into a stifled sob.

Rotha lit a candle that stood at hand, went to the cupboard in the corner of the adjoining kitchen, and took out a jar of barley; then to the hearth and took up a saucepan. In two minutes she was boiling something on the fire.

Mrs. Garth was following every movement with watchful eyes.

Presently the girl came to the bedside again with a basin in her hand.

"Take a little of this, Mr. Garth," she said. "Your mouth is parched."

"How did you know that?" he muttered, lifting his eyes at last.

She made no reply, but held her cool hand to his burning forehead. He motioned to her to draw it away. She did so.

"It's not safe--it's not safe for you, girl," he said in his thin whisper, his breath coming and going between every word.

She smiled, put back her hand and brushed the dank hair from his moist brow.

Mrs. Garth got up from her seat by the bedside and hobbled to the fire. There she sat on a low stool, and threw her ap.r.o.n over her head.

Again raising the blacksmith from his pillow, Rotha put a spoonful of barley-water to his withered lips. He was more docile than a child now, and let her have her will.

For a moment he looked at her with melancholy eyes, and then, shifting his gaze, he said,--

"You had troubles enow of your own, Rotha, without coming to share ours--mother's and mine."

"Yes," she answered, and a shadow crossed the cheerful face.

"Will they banish him?" he said with quick-coming breath. "Mother says so; will they banish him from the country?"

"Yes, perhaps; but it will be to another and a better country," said Rotha, and dropped her head.

Garth glanced inquiringly into her face. His mother shifted on her stool.

"How, how?" he said, nervously clutching at the bedclothes.