He took the pen in his graspless hand, and essayed to write. Oh, the agony of that effort! How every futile stroke of that pen went to the girl's heart like a stab of remorse! The name was signed at length, and in some sorry fashion. The dying man was restored to his pillow.

Peace came to him there and then.

The clock struck eight.

Rotha hurried out of the house and down the road to the bridge. The moon had just broken over a ridge of black cloud. It was bitterly cold.

w.i.l.l.y Ray stood with his horse at the appointed place.

"How agitated you are, Rotha; you tremble like an aspen," he said.

"And where are your shawls?"

"Look at this paper," she said. "You can scarce see to read it here; but it is a confession. It states that it was poor Joe Garth who committed the murder for which father and Ralph are condemned to die at daybreak."

"At last! Thank G.o.d!" exclaimed w.i.l.l.y.

"Take it--put it in your breast--keep it safe as you value your eternal soul--ride to Carlisle as fast as your horse will carry you, and place it instantly before the sheriff."

"Is it signed?"

"Yes."

"And witnessed?"

"The witness will follow in person--a few hours--a very few--and she will be with you there."

"Rotha, G.o.d has put it into your heart to do this thing, and He has given you more than the strength of a strong man!"

"In how many hours might one ride to Carlisle at the fastest--in the night and in a cart?" asked the girl eagerly.

"Five, perhaps, if one knew every inch of the way."

"Then, before you set out, drive round to Armboth, and ask Mr. Jackson to bring his wagon across to this bridge at midnight. Let him not say 'No' as he hopes for his salvation! And now, good bye again, and G.o.d speed you on your journey!"

w.i.l.l.y carried a cloak over his arm. He was throwing it across Rotha's unprotected shoulders.

"No, no," she said, "you need it yourself. I shall be back in a minute."

And she was gone almost before he was aware.

w.i.l.l.y was turning away when he heard a step behind. It was the Reverend Nicholas Stevens, lantern in hand, lighting himself home from a coming-of-age celebration at Smeathwaite. As he approached, w.i.l.l.y stepped up to him.

"Stop," cried the parson, "was she who parted from you but now the daughter of the man Simeon Stagg?"

"The same," w.i.l.l.y answered.

"And she comes from the home of the infected blacksmith?"

"She is there again, even now," said w.i.l.l.y. "I thought you might wish to take the solace of religion to a dying man--Garth is dying."

"Back--away--do not touch me--let me pa.s.s," whispered the parson in an accent of dread, shrinking meantime from the murderous stab of the cloak which w.i.l.l.y carried over his arm.

Rotha was in the cottage once again almost before she had been missed.

Joe was dozing fitfully. His mother was sighing and whimpering in turns. Her wrinkled face, no longer rigid, was a distressing spectacle. When Rotha came close to her she whispered,--

"The lad was wrang, but I dare not have telt 'im so. Yon man were none of a father to Joe, though he were my husband, mair's the pity."

Then getting up, glancing nervously at her son, lifting a knife from the table, creeping to the side of the bed and ripping a hole in the ticking, she drew out a soiled and crumpled paper.

"Look you, la.s.s, I took this frae the man's trunk when he lodged wi'

yer father and yersel' at Fornside."

It was a copy of the register of Joe's birth, showing that he was the son of a father unknown.

"I knew he must have it. He always threatened that he'd get it. He wad have made mischief wi' it somehow."

Mrs. Garth spoke in whispers, but her voice broke her son's restless sleep. Garth was sinking fast, but he looked quieter when his eyes opened again. "I think G.o.d has forgiven me my great crime," he said calmly, "for the sake of the merciful Saviour, who would not condemn the woman that was a sinner."

Then he crooned over the Quaker hymn,--

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

Infinitely touching was it to hear his poor, feeble, broken voice spend its last strength so.

"Sing to me, Rotha," he said, pausing for breath.

"Yes, Joe. What shall I sing?"

"Sing 'O Lord, my G.o.d,'" he answered. And then, over the murmuring voice of the river, above the low wail of the rising wind, the girl's sweet, solemn voice, deep with tenderness and tears, sang the simple old hymn,--

O Lord, my G.o.d, A broken heart Is all my part: Spare not Thy rod, That I may prove Therein Thy love.

"Ey, ey," repeated Garth, "a broken heart is _all_ my part."

Very tremulous was the voice of the singer as she sang,--

O Lord, my G.o.d, Or ere I die, And silent lie Beneath the sod, Do Thou make whole This bruised soul.

"This bruised soul," murmured the blacksmith.

Rotha had stopped, and buried her face in her hands.

"There's another verse, Rotha; there's another verse."

But the singer could sing no more. Then the dying man himself sang in his feeble voice, and with panting breath,--

Dear Lord, my G.o.d-- Weary and worn, Bleeding and torn-- Spare now Thy rod.

Sorely distressed-- Lord, give me rest.