Mrs. Garth laughed again.

"He is in trouble, that is true; but what has he done to you that you should be glad at his misfortunes?"

"Done? done?" said Mrs. Garth; "why--but we'll not talk of that, my la.s.s. Ask _him_ if ye'd know. Or mayhap ye'll ask yon shaffles, yer father."

What could the woman mean?

"Tak my word for it; never set heart on yon Ralph: he's a doomed man.

It's not for what he did at the wars that the redcoats trapes after him. It's worse nor that--a lang way war' nor that."

"What is it, woman, that you would tell me? Be fair and plain with me," cried the girl; and the words were scarcely spoken when she despised herself for regarding the matter so seriously.

But Mrs. Garth leaned over to her with an ominous countenance, and whispered, "There's murder in it, and that's war' nor war. May war'

never come among us, say I!" Rotha put her hands over her face, and the next moment the woman shuffled on.

It was out at length.

Rotha staggered back to the house. The farm people had taken supper, and were lounging in various att.i.tudes of repose on the skemmel in the kitchen.

The girl's duties were finished for the day, and she went up to her own room. She had no light, and, without undressing, she threw herself on the bed. But no rest came to her. Hour after hour she tossed about, devising reason on reason for disbelieving the woman's word. But apprehension compelled conviction.

Mrs. Garth had forewarned them of the earlier danger, and she might be but too well informed concerning this later one.

Rotha rejected from the first all idea of Ralph being guilty of the crime in question. She knew nothing of the facts, but her heart instantly repudiated the allegation. Perhaps the crime was something that had occurred at the wars six years ago. It could hardly be the same that still hung over their own Wythburn. That last dread mystery was as mysterious as ever. Ralph had said that her father was innocent of it, and she knew in her heart that he must be so. But what was it that he had said? "Do you _know_ it was not father?" she had asked; and he had answered, "I _know_ it was not." Did he mean that he himself--

The air of her room felt stifling on that winter's night. Her brow was hot and throbbing, and her lips were parched and feverish. Rising, she threw open the window, and waves of the cold mountain vapor rolled in upon her.

That was a lie which had tried a moment ago to steal into her mind--a cruel, shameless lie. Ralph was as innocent of murder as she was. No purer soul ever lived on earth; G.o.d knew it was the truth.

Hark! what cry was that which was borne to her through the silent night? Was it not a horse's neigh?

Rotha shuddered, and leaned out of the window. It was gone. The reign of silence was unbroken. Perhaps it had been a fancy. Yet she thought it was the whinny of a horse she knew.

Rotha pulled back the sash and returned to her bed. How long and heavy were the hours till morning! Would the daylight never dawn? or was the blackness that rested in her own heart to lie forever over all the earth?

But it came at last--the fair and gracious morning of another day came to Rotha even as it always has come to the weary watcher, even as it always will come to the heartsore and heavy-laden, however long and black the night.

The girl rose at daybreak, and then she began to review the late turn of events from a practical standpoint.

a.s.suming the woman's word to be true, in what respect was the prospect different for Mrs. Garth's disclosure? Rotha had to confess to herself that it was widely different. When she told w.i.l.l.y that she could give up Ralph, were he a thousand times her brother, to such a death of sacrifice as he had pictured, she had not conceived of a death that would be the penalty of murder. That Ralph would be innocent of the crime could not lessen the horror of such an end. Then there was the certainty that conviction on such a charge would include the seizure of the property. Rotha dwelt but little on the chances of an innocent man's acquittal. The law was to her uninformed mind not an agent of justice, but an instrument of punishment, and to be apprehended was to be condemned.

Ralph must be kept out of the grip of the law. Yes, that was beyond question. Whether the woman's words were true or false, the issues were now too serious to be played with.

She had sent her father in pursuit of Ralph, and the effect of what he would tell of the forthcoming eviction might influence Ralph to adopt a course that would be imprudent, even dangerous--nay, even fatal, in the light of the more recent disclosure.

What had she done? G.o.d alone could say what would come of it.

But perhaps her father could still be overtaken and brought back. Yet who was to do it? She herself was a woman, doomed as such to sit at her poor little wheel, to lie here like an old mastiff or its weak tottering whelp, while Ralph was walking--perhaps at her bidding--to his death.

She would tell w.i.l.l.y, and urge him to go in pursuit of Sim. Yet, no, that was not possible. She would have to confess that she had acted against his wish, and that he had been right while she had been wrong.

Even that humiliation was as nothing in the face of the disaster that she foresaw: but w.i.l.l.y and Sim!--Rotha shuddered as she reflected how little the two names even could go together.

The morning was growing apace, and still Rotha's perplexity increased.

She went downstairs and made breakfast with an absent mind.

The farm people came and went; they spoke, and she answered; but all was as a dream, except only the one grim reality that lay on her mind.

She was being driven to despair. It was far on towards midday, and she was alone; still no answer came to her question. She threw herself on the settle, and buried her face in her hands. She was in too much agony to weep. What had she done? What could she do?

When she lifted her eyes, Liza Branthwaite was beside her, looking amazed and even frightened.

"What has happened, la.s.s?" said Liza fearfully.

Then Rotha, having no other heart to trust with her haunting secret, confided it to this simple girl.

"And what can I do?" she added in a last word.

During the narration, Liza had been kneeling, with her arms in her friend's lap. Jumping up when Rotha had ceased, she cried, in reply to the last inquiry, "I know. I'll just slip away to Robbie. He shall be off and fetch your father back."

"Robbie?" said Rotha, looking astonished.

"Never fear, _I'll_ manage _him_. And now, cheer up, my la.s.s; cheer up."

In another moment Liza was running at her utmost speed down the lonnin.

CHAPTER XXV. LIZA'S DEVICE.

When she reached the road, the little woman turned towards Wythburn.

Never pausing for an instant, she ran on and on, pa.s.sing sundry groups of the country folks, and rarely waiting to exchange more than the scant civilities of a hasty greeting.

It was Sunday morning, and through the dense atmosphere that preceded rain came the sound of the bells of the chapel on the Raise, which rang for morning service.

"What's come over little Liza?" said a young dalesman, who, in the solemnity of Sunday apparel, was wending his way thither, as the little woman flew past him, "tearing," as he said, "like a crazy thing."

"Some barn to be christened afore the service, Liza?" called another young dalesman after her, with the memory of the girl's enjoyment of a similar ceremony not long before.

Liza heeded neither the questions nor the banter. Her destination was certainly not the church, but she ran with greater speed in that direction than the love of the Reverend Nicholas's ministrations had yet prompted her to compa.s.s.

The village was reached at length, and her father's house was near at hand; but the girl ran on, without stopping to exchange a word with her sententious parent, who stood in the porch, pipe in hand, and clad in those "Cheppel Sunday" garments with which, we fear, the sanctuary was rarely graced.

"Why, theer's Liza," said Matthew, turning his head into the house to speak to his wife, who sat within; "flying ower the road like a mad greyhound."

Mrs. Branthwaite had been peeling apples towards the family's one great dinner in the week. Putting down the bowl which contained them, she stepped to the door and looked after her daughter's vanishing figure.