Complete works of hall c.., p.33
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 33
“I wish they were as silent, and as deep too, for those who enter them.”
“Ay, what, Jonathan? Grave, silent, deep — but then you would be buried with us, my pretty lassie.”
“And what of that? Here’s your room, sirs. Peradventure it will serve until you take every room.” “Remember the breakfast,” cried the little man, after Rotha’s retreating figure. “We’re as hungry as — as—”
“Hold your tongue, and come in, David. Brush the mud from your pantaloons, and leave the girl to herself.”
“The brazen young noddle,” muttered David.
It was less than an hour later when Rotha, having got through her immediate duties, was hastening with all speed to Mattha Brander’s cottage. In her hand, tightly grasped beneath her cloak, was a bunch of keys, and on her lips were the words of the woman’s evidence and of Robbie’s delirium. “It was fifty yards to the north of the bridge.”
This was her sole clew. What could she make of it?
CHAPTER XLIV. THE CLEW DISCOVERED.
An hour before Rotha left Shoulthwaite, Robbie Anderson was lying on a settle before the fire in the old weaver’s kitchen. Mattha himself and his wife were abroad, but Liza had generously and courageously undertaken the task of attending to the needs of the convalescent.
“Where’s all my hair gone?” asked Robbie, with a puzzled expression. He was rubbing his close-cropped head.
Liza laughed roguishly.
“Maybe it’s fifty yards north of the bridge,” she said, with her head aside.
Robbie looked at her with blank amazement.
“Why, who told you that, Liza?” he said.
“Told me what?”
“Ey? That!” repeated Robbie, no more explicit.
“Foolish boy! Didn’t you tell us yourself fifty times?”
“So I did. Did I though? What am I saying? When did I tell you?”
Robbie’s eyes were staring out of his head. His face, not too ruddy at first, was now as pale as ashes.
Liza began to whimper.
“Why do you look like that?” she said.
“Look? Oh, ey, ey! I’m a ruffian, that’s what I am. Never mind, lass.”
Robbie’s eyes regained their accustomed expression, and his features, which had been drawn down, returned to their natural proportions.
Liza’s face underwent a corresponding change.
“Robbie, have you ‘downed’ him — that Garth?”
“Ey?”
The glaring eyes were coming back. Liza, frightened again, began once more to whimper prettily.
“I didn’t mean to flayte you, Liza,” Robbie said coaxingly. “You’re a fair coax when you want something,” said Liza, trying to disengage herself from the grasp of Robbie’s arm about her waist. He might be an invalid, Liza thought, but he was wonderfully strong, and he was holding her shockingly tight. What was the good of struggling?
Robbie snatched a kiss.
“Oh you — oh you — oh! oh! If I had known that you were so wicked — oh!”
“Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, or I will never let you go, never,” cried Robbie.
“Never?” Liza felt that she must forgive this tyrant.
“Well, if you’ll loosen this arm I’ll — I’ll try.”
“Liza, how much do you love me?” inquired Robbie.
“Did you speak to me?”
“Oh, no, to crusty old ‘Becca down the road. How much do you love me?”
Robbie’s passion was curiously mathematical.
“Me? How much? About as much as you might put in your eye.”
Robbie pretended to look deeply depressed. He dropped his head, but kept, nevertheless, an artful look out of the corner of the eye which was alleged to be the measure of his sweetheart’s affection.
Thinking herself no longer under the fire of Robbie’s glances, Liza’s affectation of stern disdain melted into a look of tenderness.
Robbie jerked his head up sharply. The little woman was caught. She revenged herself by assuming a haughty coldness. But it was of no use. Robbie laughed and crowed and bantered.
At this juncture Mattha Branth’et came into the cottage.
The weaver was obviously in a state of profound agitation. He had just had a “fratch” with the Quaker preachers on the subject of election.
“I rub’t ‘m t’ wrang way o’ t’ hair,” said the old man, “when I axt ‘em what for they were going aboot preaching if it were all settled aforehand who was to be damned and who was to be saved. ‘Ye’r a child of the devil,’ says one. ‘Mebbee so,’ says I, ‘and I dunnet know if the devil iver had any other relations; but if so, mebbee yersel’s his awn cousin.’”
It was hard on Matthew that, after upholding Quakerism for years against the sneers of the Reverend Nicholas Stevens, he should be thus disowned and discredited by the brotherhood itself.
“Tut! theer’s six o’ tean an’ hofe a duzzen of t’ tudder,” said the old sage, dismissing the rival theologians from his mind forever.
“Oh, Robbie, lad,” said Matthew, as if by a sudden thought, “John Jackson met Willy Ray coming frae Carlisle, and what think ye hes happent?”
“Nay, what?” said Robbie, turning pale again.
“Ralph Ray and Sim Stagg are condemned to death for t’ murder of auld Wilson.”
Robbie leapt to his feet.
“The devil!”
“Come, dunnet ye tak on like the Quakers,” said Matthew.
Robbie had caught up his coat and hat.
“Why, where are you going?” said Liza.
“Going? Aye? Going?”
“Yes, where? You’re too weak to go anywhere. You’ll have another fever.”
A light wagon was running on the road outside. Reuben Thwaite was driving.
Robbie rushed to the door, and hailed him.
“Going off with thread again, Reuben?”
“That’s reets on’t,” answered the little man.
“Let me in with you?”
And Robbie climbed into the cart.
Mattha got up and went out in the road.
* * * * *
The two men had hardly got clear away when Rotha entered the cottage all but breathless.
“Robbie, where is he?”
“Gone, just gone, not above two minutes,” replied Liza, still whimpering.
“Where?”
“I scarce know — to Penrith, I think. There was no keeping him back. When father came in and told him what had happened at Carlisle, he flung away and would not be hindered. He has gone off in Reuben’s wagon.”
“Which way?”
“They took the low road.”
“Then I’ve missed them,” said Rotha, sinking into a chair in a listless attitude.
“And he’s as weak as water, and he’ll take another fever, as I told him, and ramble on same as—”
“Liza,” interrupted Rotha, “did you ever tell him — in play I mean — did you ever repeat anything he had said when he was unconscious?”
“Not that about his mammy?”
“No, no; but anything else?”
“I mind I told him what he said over and over again about his fratch with that Garth.”
“Nothing else?”
“Why, yes, now I think on’t. I mind, too, that I told him he was always running on it that something was fifty yards north of the bridge, and he could swear it, swear it in hea—”
“What did he say to that?” asked Rotha eagerly.
“Say! he said nothing, but he glowered at me till I thought sure he was off again.”
“Is that all?”
“All what, Rotha?”
“They said in evidence that Ralph — it was a lie, remember — they said that Wilson was killed fifty yards to the north of the bridge. Now his body was found as far to the south of it. Robbie knows something. I hoped to learn what he knows; but oh, everything is against me — everything, everything.”
Rising hastily, she added, “Perhaps Robbie has gone to Carlisle. I must be off, Liza.”
In another moment she was hurrying up the road.
* * * * *
Taking the high path, the girl came upon the Quaker preachers, surrounded by a knot of villagers. To avoid them she turned up an unfrequented angle of the road. There, in the recess of a gate, unseen by the worshippers, but commanding a view of them, and within hearing of all that was sung and said, stood Garth, the blacksmith. He wore his leathern apron thrown over one shoulder. This was the hour of mid-day rest. He had not caught the sound of Rotha’s light footstep as she came up beside him. He was leaning over the gate and listening intently. There was more intelligence and also more tenderness in his face than Rotha had observed before.
She paused, and seemed prompted to a nearer approach, but for the moment she held back. The worshippers began to sing a simple Quaker hymn. It spoke of pardon and peace: —
Though your sins be red as scarlet,
He shall wash them white as wool.
Garth seemed to be touched. His hard face softened; his lips parted, and his eyes began to swim.
When the singing ceased, he repeated the refrain beneath his breath. “What if one could but think it?” he muttered, and dropped his head into his hands.
Rotha stepped up and tapped his shoulder.
“Mr. Garth,” she said.
He started, and then struggled to hide his discomposure. There was only one way in which a man of his temperament and resource could hope to do it — he snarled.
“What do you want with me?”
“It was a beautiful hymn,” said Rotha, ignoring his question.
“Do you think so?” he growled, and turned his head away.
“What if one could but think it?” she said, as if speaking as much to herself as to him.
Garth faced about, and looked at her with a scowl.
The girl’s eyes were as meek as an angel’s.
“It’s what I was thinking mysel’, that is,” he mumbled after a pause; then added aloud with an access of irritation, “Think what?”
“That there is pardon for us all, no matter what our sins — pardon and peace.”
“Humph!”
“It is beautiful; religion is very beautiful, Mr. Garth.”
The blacksmith forced a short laugh.
“You’d best go and hire yourself to the Quakers. They would welcome a woman preacher, no doubt.”
She would have bartered away years of her life at this instant for one glimpse of what was going on in that man’s heart. If she had found corruption there, sin and crime, she would have thanked God for it as for manna from above. Rotha clutched the keys beneath her cloak and subdued her anger.
“You scarce seem yourself to-day, Mr. Garth,” she said.
“All the better,” he replied, with a mocking laugh. “I’ve heard that they say my own sel’ is a bad sel’.”
The words were hardly off his lips when he turned again sharply and faced Rotha with an inquiring look. He had reminded himself of a common piece of his mother’s counsel; but in the first flash of recollection it had almost appeared to him that the words had been Rotha’s, not his.
The girl’s face was as tender as a Madonna’s.
“Maybe I am a little bit out of sorts to-day; maybe so. I’ve felt daizt this last week end; I have, somehow.”
Rotha left him a minute afterwards. Continuing her journey, she drew the bunch of keys from under her cloak and examined them.
They were the same that she had found attached to Wilson’s trunk on the night of her own and Mrs. Garth’s visit to the deserted cottage at Fornside. There were perhaps twenty keys in all, but two only bore any signs of recent or frequent use. One of these was marked with a cross scratched roughly on the flat of the ring. The other had a piece of white tape wrapped about the shaft. The rest of the keys were worn red with thick encrustation of rust. And now, by the power of love, this girl with the face of an angel in its sweetness and simplicity — this girl, usually as tremulous as a linnet — was about to do what a callous man might shrink from.
She followed the pack-horse road beyond the lonnin that turned up to Shoulthwaite, and stopped at the gate of the cottage that stood by the smithy near the bridge. Without wavering for an instant, without the quivering of a single muscle, she opened the gate and walked up to the door.
“Mrs. Garth,” she called.
A young girl came out. She was a neighbor’s daughter.
“Why, she’s away, Rotha, Mistress Garth is,” said the little lassie.
“Away, Bessy?” said Rotha, entering the house and seating herself. “Do you know where she’s gone?”
“Nay, that I don’t; but she told mother she’d be away three or four days.”
“So you’re minding house for her,” said Rotha vacantly, her eyes meantime busily traversing the kitchen; they came back to the little housekeeper’s face in a twinkling.
“Deary me, what a pretty ribbon that is in your hair, Bessy. Do you know it makes you quite smart. But it wants just a little bow like this — there, there.”
The guileless child blushed and smiled, and sidled slyly up to where she could catch a sidelong glance at herself in a scratched mirror that hung against the wall.
“Tut, Bessy, you should go and kneel on the river bank just below, and look at yourself in the still water. Go, lass, and come back and tell me what you think now.”
The little maiden’s vanity prompted her to go, but her pride urged her to remain, lest Rotha should think her too vain. Pride conquered, and Bessy hung down her pretty head and smiled. Rotha turned wearily about and said, “I’m very thirsty, and I can’t bear that well water of Mrs. Garth’s.”
“Why, she’s not got a well, Rotha.”
“Hasn’t she? Now, do you know, I thought she had, but it must be ‘Becca Rudd’s well I’m thinking of.”
Bessy stepped outside for a moment, and came back with a basin of water in her hand.
“What sort of water is this, Bessy — river water?” said Rotha languidly, with eyes riveted on an oak chest that stood at one side of the kitchen.
“Oh, no; spring water,” said the little one, with many protestations of her shaking head.
“Now, do you know, Bessy — you’ll think it strange, won’t you? — do you know, I never care for spring water.”
“I’ll get you a cup of milk,” said Bessy.
“No, no; it’s river water I like. Just slip away and get me a cup of it, there’s a fine lass, and I’ll show you how to tie the ribbon for yourself.”
The little one tripped off. Vanity reminded her that she could kill two birds with one stone. Instantly she had gone Rotha rose to her feet and drew out the keys. Taking the one with the tape on it, she stepped to the oak chest and tried it on the padlock that hung in front of it. No; that was not the lock it fitted. There was a corner cupboard that hung above the chest. But, no; neither had the cupboard the lock which fitted the key in Rotha’s hand.
There was a bedroom leading out of the kitchen. Rotha entered it and looked around. A linen trunk, a bed, and a chair were all that it contained. She went upstairs. There were two bedrooms there, but no chest, box, cabinet, cupboard, not anything having a lock which a key like this might fit.
Bessy would be back soon. Rotha returned to the kitchen. She went again into the adjoining bedroom. Yes, under the bed was a trunk, a massive plated trunk. She tried to move it, but it would not stir. She went down on her knees to examine it. It had two padlocks, but neither suited the key. Back to the kitchen, she sat down half bewildered and looked around.
At that instant the little one came in, with a dimple in her rosy cheeks and a cup of water in her hand.
Rotha took the water and tried to drink.
She was defeated once more. She put the keys into her pocket. Was she ever to be one step nearer the heart of this mystery?
She rose wearily and walked out, forgetting to show the trick of the bow to the little housekeeper who stood with a rueful pout in the middle of the floor.
There was one thing left to do; with this other key, the key marked with a cross, she could open Wilson’s trunk in her father’s cottage, look at the papers, and perhaps discover wherein lay their interest for Mrs. Garth. But first she must examine the two places in the road referred to in the evidence at the trial.
In order to do this at once, Rotha turned towards Smeathwaite when she left the blacksmith’s cottage, and walked to the bridge.
The river ran in a low bed, and was crossed by the road at a sharp angle. Hence the bridge lay almost out of sight of persons walking towards it.
Fifty yards to the north of it was the spot where the woman Rushton said she saw the murder. Fifty yards to the south of it was the spot where the body was picked up next morning.
Rotha had reached the bridge, and was turning the angle of the road, when she drew hastily back. Stepping behind a bush for further concealment, she waited. Some one was approaching. It was Mrs. Garth. The woman walked on until she came to within fifty paces of where Rotha stood. Then she stopped. The girl observed her movements, herself unseen.
Mrs. Garth looked about her to the north and south of the road and across the fields on either hand. Then she stepped into the dike and prodded the ground for some yards and kicked the stones that lay there.
Rotha’s breath came and went like a tempest.
Mrs. Garth stooped to look closely at a huge stone that lay by the highway. Then she picked up a smaller stone and seemed to rub it on the larger one, as if she wished to remove a scratch or stain.
Rotha was sure now.
Mrs. Garth stood on the very spot where the crime was said to have been committed. This woman, then, and her son were at the heart of the mystery. It was even as she had thought.
Rotha could hear the beat of her own heart. She plunged from behind the bush one step into the road. Then she drew back.
The day was cold but dry, and Mrs. Garth heard the step in front of her. She came walking on with apparent unconcern. Rotha thought of her father and Ralph condemned to die as innocent men.
The truth that would set them free lay with seething dregs of falsehood at the bottom of this woman’s heart. It should come up; it should come up.
