"Ralph! Ralph!" she cried, and the tears that had left her eyes came again in her voice.

But perhaps, after all, w.i.l.l.y was right. To be turned into the road would not mean that this poor sufferer should die of the cold of the hard winter. There were tender hearts round about, and shelter would be found for her. Yet, no! it was Ralph's concernment, and what right had they to take charity for his mother without his knowledge? Ralph ought to be told, if they could tell him. Yes, he _must_ be told.

Having come to a settled resolution on this point, Rotha rose up from the bed, and, brushing her tangled hair from her forehead, walked back into the kitchen. Standing where she had stood while the constables were there, she enacted every incident and heard every syllable afresh.

There could be no longer any doubt that Ralph should know what had already happened and what further was threatened. Yet who was to tell him, and how was he to be told? It was useless to approach w.i.l.l.y in his present determination rather to suffer eviction than to do Ralph the injury of leading, or seeming to lead, to his apprehension.

"That was a n.o.ble purpose, but it was wrong," thought Rotha, and it never occurred to her to make terms with a mistake. "It was a n.o.ble purpose," she thought again; and when the memory of her own personal grief crept up once more, she suppressed it with the reflection, "w.i.l.l.y was sore tried, poor lad."

Who was to tell Ralph, and how was he to be told? Who knew where he had gone, or, knowing this, could go in search of him? Would that she herself had been born a man; then she would have travelled the kingdom over, but she would have found him. She was only a woman, however, and her duty lay here--here in the little circle with Ralph's mother, and in his house and his brother's. Who could go in search of Ralph?

At this moment of doubt, Sim walked into the courtyard of the homestead. He had not been seen since the day of the parson's visit, but, without giving sign of any consciousness that he had been away, he now took up a spade and began to remove a drift of sleet that had fallen during the previous night. Rotha's eyes brightened, and she hastened to the door and hailed him.

"Father," she said, when Sim had followed her into the house, "you made a great journey for Ralph awhile ago; could you make another now?"

"What has happened? Do they rype the country with yon warrant still?"

asked Sim.

"Worse than that," said Rotha. "If that were all, we could leave Ralph to settle with them; they would never serve their warrant, never."

"Worse; what's worse, la.s.s?" said Sim, changing color.

"Outlawry," said Rotha.

"What's that, girl?--what's outlawry?--nothing to do with--with--with Wilson, has it?" said Sim, speaking beneath his breath, and in quick and nervous accents.

"No, no: not that. It means that unless Ralph is delivered up within fourteen days this place will be taken by the bailiffs of the Sheriff."

"And what of that?" said Sim. "Let them take it--better let them have it than Ralph fall into their hands."

"Father, poor Mistress Ray would be turned into the roads--they'd have no pity, none."

"I'll uphod thee that's true," said Sim. "It staggers me."

"We must find Ralph, and at once too," said Rotha.

"Find him? He's gone, but Heaven knows where."

"Father, if I were a man, I'd find him, G.o.d knows I would."

"It's nigh about the worst as could have happened, it is," said Sim.

"The worst will be to come if we do not find him."

"But how? where? Following him will be the rule o' thumb," said Sim.

"You said he took the road over the Raise," said Rotha. "He'll not go far, depend upon that. The horse has not been caught. Ralph is among the mountains yet, take my word for it, father."

"It's bad weather to trapes the fells, Rotha. The ground is all slush and sladderment."

"So it is, so it is; and you're grown weak, father. I'll go myself.

Liza Branthwaite will come here and fill my place."

"No, no, I'll go; yes, that I will," said Sim. Rotha's ardor of soul had conquered her father's apprehension of failure.

"It's only for a fortnight at most, that's all," added Sim.

"No more than that. If Ralph is not found in a fortnight, make your way home."

"But he shall be found, G.o.d helping me, he shall," said Sim.

"He _will_ help you, father," said Rotha, her eyes glistening with tears.

"When should I start away?"

"To-morrow, at daybreak; that's as I could wish you," said Rotha.

"To-morrow--Sunday? Let it be to-night. It will rain to-morrow, for it rained on Friday. Let it be to-night, Rotha."

"To-night, then," said the girl, yielding to her father's superst.i.tious fears. Thrusting her hand deep into a pocket, she added, "I have some money, not much, but it will find you lodgings for a fortnight."

"Never mind the money, girl," said Sim; "give me the horse-wallet on my back, with a bit of barley bread--and that will do."

"You must take the money as well. These are cold, hard nights. Promise me you'll lodge at the inns on the road; remember to keep yourself strong, for it's your only chance of finding Ralph--promise me!"

"I give you my word, Rotha."

"And now promise to say nothing of this to w.i.l.l.y," said Rotha.

Sim did not reply, but a quick glance expressed more than words of the certainty of secrecy in that regard.

"When you've crossed the Raise, follow on to Kendal," said Rotha, "and ask everywhere as you go. A fortnight to-day the men return; remember that, and tell Ralph when you meet."

"I fear he'll give himself up, I do," said Sim ruefully, and still half doubting his errand.

"That's for him to decide, and he knows best," answered Rotha.

"To-night, after supper, be you at the end of the lonnin, and I'll meet you there."

Then Sim went out of the house.

When w.i.l.l.y Ray left Rotha an hour ago it was with an overwhelming sense of disappointment. Catching at an unfinished phrase, he had jumped to a false conclusion as to her motives. He thought that he had mistaken her character, and painful as it had been to him some days ago to think that perhaps the girl had not loved him, the distress of that moment was as nothing to the agony of this one, when he began to suspect that perhaps he did not love her. Or if, indeed, he loved her, how terrible it was to realize, as he thought he did but too vividly, that she was unworthy of his love! Had she not wished to save the old home at the cost of his brother's liberty? True, Ralph was _his_ brother, not _hers_, and perhaps it was too much to expect that she should feel his present situation as deeply as he did. Yet he had thought her a rich, large soul, as unselfish as pure. It was terrible to feel that this had been an idle dream, a mere mockery of the poor reality, and that his had been a vain fool's paradise.

Then to think that he was forever to be haunted by this idle dream; to think that the shattered idol which he could no longer worship was to live with him to the end, to get up and lie down with him, and stand forever beside him!

Perhaps, after all, he had been too hard on the girl. w.i.l.l.y told himself it had been wrong to expect so much of her. She was--he must look the stern fact in the face--she was a country girl, and no more.

Then was she not also the daughter of Simeon Stagg?