CHAPTER XXVI - The Package Returned
As Joan turned the corner of a lane leading to the high road, she found herself awkwardly trying to pass a man who confronted her—a young fellow far too elegant and well-dressed to be a Rigganite.
“Beg pardon!” he said abruptly, as if he were not in the best of humors. And then she recognized him.
“It's Mester Ralph Landsell,” she said to herself as she went on. “What is he doin' here?”
But before she had finished speaking, she started at the sight of a figure hurrying on before her,—Liz herself, who had evidently just parted from her lover, and was walking rapidly homeward.
It was a shock to Joan, though she did not suspect the whole truth. She had trusted the girl completely; she had never interfered with her outgoing or incoming; she had been generously lenient toward her on every point, and her pang at finding herself deceived was keen. Her sudden discovery of the subterfuge filled her with alarm.
What was the meaning of it? Surely it could not mean that this man was digging fresh pitfalls for the poor straying feet. She could not believe this,—she could only shudder as the ominous thought suggested itself. And Liz—nay, even Liz could not be weak enough to trifle with danger again.
But it was Liz who was hurrying on before her, and who was walking so fast that both were breathless when Joan reached her side and laid a detaining hand upon her shoulder.
“Liz,” she said, “are yo' afeard o' me?”
Liz turned her face around, colorless and frightened. There was a tone in the voice she had never heard before, a reproach in Joan's eyes before which she faltered.
“I—did na know it wur yo',” she said, almost peevishly. “What fur should I be afeard o' yo'?”
Joan's hand dropped.
“Yo' know best,” she answered. “I did na say yo' wur.”
Liz pulled her shawl closer about her shoulders, as if in nervous protest.
“I dunnot see why I should be, though to be sure it's enow to fear one to be followed i' this way. Canna I go out fur a minnit wi'out—wi'out—”
“Nay, lass,” Joan interrupted, “that's wild talk.”
Liz began to whimper.
“Th' choild wur asleep,” she said, “an' it wur so lonesome i' th' house. Theer wur no harm i' comin' out.”
“I hope to God theer wur na,” exclaimed Joan. “I'd rayther see thy dead face lyin' by th' little un's on th' pillow than think as theer wur. Yo' know what I mean, Liz. Yo' know I could na ha' caught up wi' yo' wi'out passin' thot mon theer,—th' mon as yo' ha' been meetin' on th' sly,—God knows why, lass, fur I canna see, unless yo' want to fa' back to shame an' ruin.”
They were at home by this time, and she opened the door to let the girl walk in before her.
“Get thee inside, Liz,” she said. “I mun hear what tha has to say, fur I conna rest i' fear for thee. I am na angered, fur I pity thee too much. Tha art naught but a choild at th' best, an' th' world is fu' o' traps an' snares.”
Liz took off her hat and shawl and sat down. She covered her face with her hands, and sobbed appealingly.
“I ha' na done no harm,” she protested. “I nivver meant none. It wur his fault. He wunnot let me a-be, an'—an' he said he wanted to hear summat about th' choild, an' gi'e me summat to help me along. He said as he wur ashamed o' hissen to ha' left me wi'out money, but he wur hard run at the toime, an' now he wanted to gi' me some.”
“Money!” said Joan. “Did he offer yo' money?”
“Aye, he said——”
“Wait!” said Joan. “Did yo' tak' it?”
“What would yo' ha' me do?” restlessly. “Theer wur no harm——”
“Ha' yo' getten it on yo'?” interrupting her again.
“Aye,” stopping to look up questioningly.
Joan held out her hand.
“Gi'e it to me,” she said, steadily.
Mr. Ralph Landsell, who was sitting in his comfortable private parlor at the principal hotel of the little town, was disturbed in the enjoyment of his nightly cigar by the abrupt announcement of a visitor,—a young woman, who surprised him by walking into the room and straight up to the table near which he sat.
She was such a very handsome young woman, with her large eyes and finely cut face, and heavy nut-brown hair, and, despite her common dress, so very imposing a young woman, that the young man was quite startled,—especially when she laid upon the table-cloth a little package, which he knew had only left his hands half an hour before.
“I ha' browt it back to yo';” she said, calmly.
He glanced down at the package and then up at her, irritated and embarrassed.
“You have brought it back to me?” he said. “May I ask what it is?”
“I dunnot think yo' need ask; but sin' yo' do so, I con answer. It's th' money, Mester Landsell,—th' money yo' give to poor Lizzie.”
“And may I ask again, what the money I gave to poor Lizzie has to do with you?”
“Yo' may ask again, an' I con answer. I am th' poor lass's friend,—happen th' only friend she has i' th' world,—an' I tell yo' as I will na see yo' play her false again.”
“The devil!” he broke forth, angrily. “You speak as—as if you thought I meant her harm.”
He colored and faltered, even as he spoke. Joan faced him with bright and scornful eyes.
“If yo' dunnot mean her harm, dunnot lead her to underhand ways o' deceivin' them as means her well. If yo' dunnot mean her harm, tak' yore belongings and leave Riggan to-morrow morning.”
He answered her by a short, uneasy laugh.
“By Jove!” he said. “You are a cool hand, young woman—but you can set your mind at rest. I shall not leave Riggan to-morrow morning, as you modestly demand—not only because I have further business to transact, but because I choose to remain. I shall not make any absurd promises about not seeing Lizzie, which, it seems to me, is more my business than yours, under the circumstances—and I shall not take the money back.”
“Yo' willna?”
“No, I will not.”
“Very well. I ha' no more to say,” and she went out of the room, leaving the package lying upon the table.
When she reached home, Liz was still sitting as she had left her, and she looked up tearful and impatient.
“Well?” she said.
“He has th' money,” was Joan's answer, “an' he ha' shown me as he is a villain.”
She came and stood near the girl, a strong emotion in her half pitying, half appealing look.
“Lizzie, lass!” she said. “Tha mun listen to me,—tha mun. Tha mun mak' me a promise before tha tak's thy choild upo' thy breast toneet.”
“I dunnot care,” protested Liz, weeping fretfully. “I dunnot care what I do. It's aw as bad as ivver now. I dunnot care for nowt. Ivvery-body's at me—noan on yo' will let me a-be. What wi' first one an' then another I'm a'most drove wild.”
“God help thee!” said Joan with a heavy sigh. “I dunnot mean to be hard, lass, but yo' mun promise me. It is na mich, Lizzie, if—if things is na worse wi' yo' than I would ivver believe. Yo're safe so far: promise me as yo' will na run i' danger—promise me as yo' will na see that man again, that yo'll keep out o' his way till he leaves Riggan.”
“I'll promise owt,” cried Liz. “I dunnot care, I tell yo'. I'll promise owt yo'll ax, if yo'll let me a-be,” and she hid her face upon her arms and wept aloud.
CHAPTER XXVII - Sammy Craddock's “Manny-ensis.”
At least twice a week Jud Bates made a pilgrimage to Haviland Park. Having been enlightened to the extent of two or three chapters of “Robinson Crusoe,” Sammy Craddock was athirst for more. He regarded the adventures of the hero as valuable information from foreign shores, as information that might be used in political debates, and brought forth on state occasions to floor a presumptuous antagonist. Accordingly, he held out inducements to Jud such as the boy was not likely to think lightly of. A penny a night, and a good supper for himself and Nib, held solid attractions for Jud, and at this salary he found himself engaged in the character of what “Owd Sammy” called “a manny-ensis.”
“What's that theer?” inquired Mrs. Craddock on first hearing this imposing title. “A manny—what?”
“A manny-ensis, owd lass,” said Sammy, chuckling. “Did tha ivver hear o' a private gentleman as had na a manny-ensis?”
“Nay. I know nowt about thy manny-ensisses, an' I'll warrant tha does na know what such loike is thysen.”
“It means a power o' things,” answered Sammy; “a power o' things. It's a word as is comprehensive, as they ca' it, an' it's one as will do as well as any fur th' lad. A manny-ensis!” and manny-ensis it remained.
Surely the adventures of the island-solitary had never given such satisfaction as they gave in the cheery house room of the lodge. Sammy listened to them over numerous pipes, with a respect for literature such as had never before been engendered in his mind by the most imposing display of bindings.
“I've allus thowt as th' newspaper wur enow fur a mon to tackle,” he would say, reflectively; “but theer's summat outside o' th' newspapers. I nivver seed a paper as had owt in it about desert islands, let alone cannybles.”
“Cannybles, indeed!” replied Mrs. Craddock, who was occasionally one of the audience. “I conna mak' no sense out o' thee an' thy cannybles. I wonder they are na' shamt o' theirsens, goin' about wi'out so mich as a hat on, an' eatin' each other, as if there wur na a bit o' good victual i' th' place. I wonder th' Queen dunnot put a stop to it hersen if th' parlyment ha' not getten the sense to do it. It's noan respectable, let alone Christian.”
“Eh!” said Sammy; “but tha'rt i' a muddle. Th'dst allus be i' a muddle if I'd let thee mak' things out thysen an' noan explain 'em to thee. Does tha think aw this here happent i' England? It wur i' furrin lands, owd wench, i' a desert island i' th' midst o' th' sea.”
“Well, I wur hopin' it wur na i' Lancashire, I mun say!”
“Lancashire! Why, it happent further off nor Lunnon, i' a place as it's loike th' Queen has nivver seed nor heerd tell on.”
The old woman looked dubious, if not disapproving. A place that was not in Lancashire, and that the Queen had nothing to do with, was, to her, a place quite “off color.”
“Well! well!” she resumed, with the manner of an unbeliever, “thee go on thy way readin' if tha con tak' comfort i' it. But I mun say again as it does na sound Christian to me. That's the least I con say on't.”
“Tha'rt slow i' understanding owd lass,” was her husband's tolerant comment. “Tha' does na know enow o' litterytoor to appreciate. Th' female intylect is na strong at th' best, an' tha nivver wur more than ordinary. Get into it, Manny-ensis. It's getten late, and I'm fain to hear more about th' mon Friday, an' how th' poor' chap managed.”
Both reader and audience were so full of interest that Jud's story was prolonged beyond the usual hour. But to the boy, this was a matter of small consequence. He had tramped the woods too often with Nib for a companion to feel fear at any time. He had slept under a hedge many a night from choice, and had enjoyed his slumber like a young vagabond, as he was.
He set out on this occasion in high good humor. There were no clouds to hide the stars; he had had an excellent supper, and he had enjoyed his evening. He trudged along cheerily, his enjoyment as yet unabated. The trees and hedges, half stripped of their leaves, were so suggestive of birds' nests, that now and then he stepped aside to examine them more closely. The nests might be there yet, though the birds had flown. Where throstles had built this year, it was just possible others might build again, and, at any rate, it was as well to know where their haunts had been. So, having objects enough to attract his attention, the boy did not find the way long. He was close upon the mine before he had time to feel fatigue possible, and, nearing the mine, he was drawn from his path again by a sudden remembrance brought up by the sight of a hedge surrounding a field near it.
“Theer wur a bird as built i' that hedge i' th' spring,” he said. “She wur a new kind. I'd forgotten her. I meant to ha' watched her. I wonder if any other felly fun her. I'll go an' see if th' nest is theer.”
He crossed the road to the place where he fancied he had seen this treasure; but not being quite certain as to the exact spot, he found his search lengthened by this uncertainty.
“It wur here,” he said to himself; “at least I thowt it wur. Some chap mun ha' fun it an' tuk it.”
At this moment he paused, as if listening.
“What's that theer?” he said. “Theer's some one on th' other side o' th' hedge.”
He had been attracted by the sound of voices—men's voices—the voices of men who were evidently crouching under the shadow of the hedge on the other side, and whose tones in a moment more reached him distinctly and were recognized.
The first was Dan Lowrie's, and before he had heard him utter a dozen words, Jud dropped upon his knees and laid his hand warningly upon Nib's neck. The dog pricked his pointed ears and looked up at him restlessly. All the self-control of his nature could scarcely help him to suppress a whine.
“Them as is feared to stand by Dan Lowrie,” said the voice, with an oath, “let 'em say so.”
“Theer's not a mon here as is feart,” was the gruff answer.
“Then theer's no need to gab no more,” returned Lowrie. “Yo' know what yo' ha' getten to do. Yo' ha' th' vitriol an' th' sticks. Wait yo' fur him at th' second corner an' I'll wait at th' first. If he does na tak' one turn into th' road he'll tak' th' other, an' so which turn he tak's we'll be ready fur him. Blast him! he'll be done wi' engineerin' fur a while if he fa's into my hands, an' he'll mak' no more rows about th' Davvies.”
Impatient for the word of command, Nib stirred uneasily among the dead leaves, and the men heard him. Not a moment's space was given to the two listeners, or they would have saved themselves. There was a smothered exclamation from three voices at once, a burst of profanity, and Dan Lowrie had leaped the low hedge and caught Jud by the collar. The man was ghastly with rage. He shook the lad until even he himself was breathless.
“Yo' young devil!” he cried, hoarsely, “yo've been listenin', ha' yo'? Nay, theer's no use o' yo' tryin' to brave it out. Yo've done for yorsen, by God!”
“Let me a-be,” said Jud, but he was as pale as his captor. “I wur na doin' thee no harm. I on'y coom to look fur a bird's nest.”
“Yo' listened,” said Lowrie; “y o' heerd what we said.”
“Let me a-be,” was Jud's sullen reply.
At this moment a man's face rose above the whitethorn hedge.
“Who is it?” asked the fellow, in a low voice.
“A dom'd young rascal as has been eaves-droppin'. Yo' may as well coom out, lads. We've getten to settle wi' him, or we'n fun ourselves in th' worst box yet.”
The man scrambled over the hedge without further comment and his companion followed him; and seeing who they were, Jud felt that his position was even more dangerous than he fancied at first. The three plotters who grouped themselves about him were three of the most desperate fellows in the district—brutal, revengeful, vicious, combining all the characteristics of a bad class. The two last looked at him with evident discomfort and bewilderment.
“Here's a pretty go,” said one.
“Aye, by th' Lord Harry!” added the other. “How long's he bin here?”
“How long'st bin here?” demanded Lowrie, with another shake.
“Long enow to look fur a bird's nest an' not find it,” said Jud, trying to speak stoutly.
The three exchanged glances and oaths.
“He's heerd ivvery word,” said Lowrie, in a savage answer.
There was a moment's silence, and then Lowrie broke out again.
“Theer's on'y one road to stop his gab,” he said. “Pitch him into th' mine, an' be dom'd to him. He shall na spoil th' job, if I ha' to swing fur it.”
Nib gave a low whine, and Jud's heart leaped within him. Every lad in Riggan knew Dan Lowrie and feared him. There was not a soul within hearing, and people were not fond of visiting the mine at night, so if they chose to dispose of him in any way, they would have time and opportunity to do it without risk of being interfered with. But it happened that upon the present occasion Lowrie's friends were not as heated as himself. It was not a strictly personal grudge they were going to settle, and consequently some remnant of humanity got the better of them.
“Nay,” said the youngest, “one's enow.”
“Nay,” Lowrie put in; “one's not enow fur me, if theer's another as is goin' to meddle. Summat's getten to be done, an' done quick.”
“Mak' him promise to keep his mouth shut,” suggested No. 3. “He'll do it sooner nor get hissen into trouble.”
“Wilt ta?” demanded the young one.
Jud looked up at him. He had the stubborn North country blood in him, and the North country courage. Having heard what he had, he was sharp enough to comprehend all. There was only one engineer whom Lowrie could have a grudge against, and that one was Derrick. They were going to work some harm against “Mester Derrick,” who was his friend and Miss Anice's.
“Wilt ta?” repeated his questioner, feeling quite sure of him. The youth of Riggan were generally ready enough for mischief, and troubled by no scruples of conscience, so the answer he received took him by surprise.
“Nay,” said Jud, “I will na.”
“Tha will na?”
“Nay.”
The fellow fell back a step or two to stare at him.
“Well, tha'rt a plucky one at ony rate,” he growled, discomfited.
Jud stood his ground.
“Mester Derrick's bin good to me,” he said, “an' he's bin good to Nib. Th' rest o' yo' ha' a kick for Nib whenivver he gits i' yo're way; but he nivver so much as spoke rough to him. He's gin me a penny more nor onct to buy him summat to eat. Chuck me down the shaft, if yo' want to.”
Though he scarcely believed they would take him at his word, since the two were somewhat in his favor, it was a courageous thing to say. If his fate had rested in Lowrie's hands alone, heaven knows what the result might have been; but having the others to contend with, he was safe so far. But there was not much time to lose, and even the less interested parties to the transgression had a stolid determination to stand by their comrade. There was a hurried consultation held in undertones, and then the youngest man bent suddenly, and, with a short laugh, caught Nib in his arms. He was vicious enough to take a pleasure in playing tormentor, if in his cooler moods he held back from committing actual crime.
“Tha'rt a plucky young devil,” he said; “but tha's getten to swear to howd thy tongue between thy teeth, an' if tha wunnot do it fur thy own sake, happen tha will fur th' dog's.”
“What art tha goin' to do wi' him?” cried Jud, trembling. “He has na done yo' no hurt.”
“We're goin' to howd him over th' shaft a minnit till tha mak's up thy mind. Bring th' young chap along, lads.”
He had not struggled before, but he began to struggle now with all his strength. He grew hot and cold by turns. It might not be safe to kill him; but it would be safe enough to kill Nib.
“Let me a-be,” he cried. “Let that theer dog loose. Nib, Nib,—seize him, lad!”
“Put thy hond over his mouth,” said the young man.
And so Jud was half dragged, half carried to the shaft. It was as useless for him to struggle as it was for Nib. Both were powerless. But Jud's efforts to free himself were so frantic that the men laughed,—Lowrie grimly, the other two with a kind of malicious enjoyment of the grotesqueness of the situation.
“Set him down, but keep him quiet,” was the command given when they reached the pit's side.
The next instant a dreadful cry was smothered in the boy's grappled throat. They were leaning against the rail and holding Nib over the black abyss.
“Wilt ta promise?” he was asked. “Tha may let him speak, Lowrie; he canna mak' foak hear.”
Nib looked down into the blackness, and broke into a terrific whine, turning his head toward his master.
“I—I—conna promise,” said Jud; but he burst into tears.
“Let th' dog go,” said Lowrie.
“Try him again. Wilt ta promise, or mun we let th' dog go, lad? We're noan goin' to do th' chap ony great harm; we're on'y goin' to play him a trick to pay him back fur his cheek.”
Jud looked at Nib.
“Lowrie said you had vitriol and knob-sticks,” he faltered. “Yo' dunnat play tricks wi' them.”
“Yo' see how much he's heerd,” said Lowrie. “He'll noan promise.”
The one who held the dog was evidently losing patience.
“Say yes or no, yo' young devil,” he said, and he made a threatening gesture. “We conna stand here aw neet. Promise ta will na tell mon, woman, nor choild, what tha heerd us say. When I say 'three,' I'll drop th' dog. One—two—”
The look of almost human terror in Nib's eyes was too much for his master. Desperation filled him. He could not sacrifice Nib—he could not sacrifice the man who had been Nib's friend; but he might make a sort of sacrifice of himself to both.
“Stop!” he cried. “I'll promise yo'”
He had saved Nib, but there was some parleying before he was set free, notwithstanding his promise to be silent. But for the fact that he was under the control of the others for the time being, Lowrie would have resorted to harsher precautions; but possibly influenced by a touch of admiration for the lad, the youngest man held out against his companions. They wrangled together for a few minutes, and then Nib was handed over.
“Here, cut an' run, tha young beggar,” said the fellow who had stood by him, “an' dunnot let's hear ony more on thee. If we do, it'll be worse fur thee an' th' dog too. So look out.”
Jud did not wait for a second command. The instant he felt Nib in his arms, he scudded over the bare space of ground before him at his best speed. They should not have time to repent their decision. If the men had seen his face, they might not have felt so safe. But the truth was, they were reckoning upon Jud Bates as they would have reckoned upon any other young Riggan rascal of his age. After all, it was not so much his promise they relied on as his wholesome fear of the consequences of its being broken. It was not a matter of honor but of dread.
CHAPTER XXVIII - Warned
It was even later than usual this evening when Fergus Derrick left the Rectory. When Mr. Barholm was in his talkative mood, it was not easy for him to break away. So Derrick was fain to listen and linger, and then supper was brought in and he was detained again, and at eleven o'clock Mr. Barholm suddenly hit upon a new topic.
“By the by,” he said, “where is that fellow, Lowrie? I thought he had left Riggan.”
“He did leave Riggan,” answered Derrick.
“So I heard,” returned the Rector, “and I suppose I was mistaken in fancying I caught sight of him to-day. I don't know the man very well and I might easily be deceived. But where is he?”
“I think,” said Derrick, quietly, “that he is in Riggan. I am not of the opinion that you were mistaken at all. I am sure he is here, but for reasons of his own he is keeping himself quiet. I know him too well to be deceived by any fancied resemblance.”
“But what are his reasons?” was the next question. “That looks bad, you know. He belongs to a bad crew.”
“Bad enough,” said Derrick.
“Is it a grudge? He is just the rascal to bear a grudge.”
“Yes,” said Derrick. “It is a grudge against me.”
He looked up then across the table at Anice and smiled reassuringly.
“You did not tell us that you had seen him,” she said.
“No. You think I ought to be afraid of him, and I am too vain to like to admit the possibility that it would be better to fear any man, even a Riggan collier.”
“But such a man!” put in Mrs. Barholm. “It seems to me he is a man to be feared.”
“I can thrash him,” said Derrick. He could not help feeling some enjoyment in this certainty. “I did thrash him upon one occasion, you know, and a single combat with a fellow of that kind is oftener than not decisive.”
“Yes,” said the Rector, “that is the principal cause of his grudge, I think. He might forgive you for getting him into trouble, but he will never forgive you for thrashing him.”
They were still sitting at the table discussing the matter, when Anice, who sat opposite a window, rose from her seat, and crossing the room to it, drew aside the curtain and looked out.
“There was somebody there,” she said, in answer to the questioning in the faces of her companions. “There was a face pressed close against the glass for a minute, and I am sure it was Jud Bates.”
Derrick sprang from his chair. To his mind, it did not appear at all unlikely that Jud Bates had mischief in hand. There were apples enough in the Rectory garden to be a sore trial to youthful virtue.
He opened the door and stepped into the night, and in a short time a sharp familiar yelp fell upon the ears of the listeners. Almost immediately after, Derrick returned, holding the trespasser by the arm.
It was Jud Bates, but he did not look exactly like a convicted culprit, though his appearance was disordered enough. He was pale and out of breath, he had no cap on, and he was holding Nib, panting and excited, in his arms.
“Jud,” exclaimed Anice, “what have you been doing? Why did you come to the window?”
Jud drew Nib closer, and turned, if possible, a trifle paler.
“I coom,” he said, tremulously, “to look in.”
Nobody smiled.
“To look in?” said Anice. “Why, whom did you want to see?”
Jud jerked his elbow at Derrick.
“It was him” he answered. “I wanted to see if he had gone home yet.”
“But why?” she asked again.
He shuffled his feet uneasily and his eyes fell. He looked down at Nib's head and faltered.
“I—” he said. “I wanted to stop him. I—I dunnot know——” And then the rest came in a burst. “He munnot go,” he cried, trembling afresh. “He mun keep away fro' th' Knoll Road.”
The party exchanged glances.
“There is mischief in hand,” said Mr. Barholm; “that is plain enough.”
“He munnot go,” persisted Jud; “he mun keep away fro' th' Knoll Road. I'm gettin' myself i' trouble,” he added, the indifference of despair in his pale face. “If I'm fun out they'll mill me.”
Derrick stepped aside into the hall and returned with his hat in his hand. He looked roused and determined.
“There are two or three stout colliers in Riggan who are my friends, I think,” he said, “and I am going to ask them to face the Knoll Road with me. I should like to settle this matter to-night. If I give these fellows the chance to attack me, they will be the more easily disposed of. A few years in jail might have a salutary effect upon Lowrie.”
In his momentary heat, he forgot all but the strife into which he was forced. He did not question Jud closely. He knew Riggan and the mining districts too well not to have a clear enough idea of what means of vengeance would be employed.
But when he got out into the night he had not gone many yards before a new thought flashed upon him, and quickened his pulse. It was not a pleasant thought because it checked him, and he was in a mood to feel impatient of a check. But he could not throw it off. There arose within his mind a picture of a silent room in a cottage,—of a girl sitting by the hearth. He seemed to see quite clearly the bent head, the handsome face, the sad eyes. He had a fancy that Liz was not with her to-night, that the silence of the room was only broken by the soft breathing of the child upon Joan's knee.
He stopped with an impatient gesture.
“What was I thinking of?” he demanded of himself, “to have forgotten her, and what my madness would bring upon her? I am a selfish fool! Let it go. I will give it up. I will stay in Riggan for the future—it will not be long, and she need torture herself no more. I will give it up. Let them think I am afraid to face him. I am afraid—afraid to wound the woman I—yes—the woman I love.”
CHAPTER XXIX - Lying in Wait
Liz crept close to the window and looked down the road. At this time of the year it was not often that the sun set in as fair a sky. In October, Riggan generally shut its doors against damps and mist, and turned toward its fire when it had one. And yet Liz had hardly seen that the sun had shone at all to-day. Still, seeing her face a passer-by would not have fancied that she was chilled. There was a flush upon her cheeks, and her eyes were more than usually bright. She was watching for Joan with a restless eagerness.
“She's late,” she said. “I mought ha' knowed she'd be late. I wisht she'd coom—I do. An' yet—an' yet I'm feart. I wisht it wur over;” and she twisted her fingers together nervously.
She had laid the child down upon the bed, and presently it roused her with a cry. She went to it, took it up into her arms, and, carrying it to the fire, sat down.
“Why couldn't tha stay asleep?” she said. “I nivver seed a choild loike thee.”
But the next minute, the little creature whimpering, she bent down in impatient repentance and kissed it, whimpering too.
“Dunnot,” she said. “I conna bear to hear thee. Hush, thee! tha goes on as if tha knew. Eh! but I mun be a bad lass. Ay, I'm bad through an' through, an' I conna be no worse nor I am.”
She did not kiss the child again, but held it in her listless way even after it fell asleep. She rested an elbow on her knee and her chin upon her hand while her tearful eyes searched the fire, and thus Joan found her when she came in at dusk.
“Tha'rt late again, Joan,” she said.
“Ay,” Joan answered, “I'm late.”
She laid her things aside and came to the firelight. The little one always won her first attention when she came from her day's labor.
“Has she been frettin'?” she asked.
“Ay,” said Liz, “she's done nowt else but fret lately. I dunnot know what ails her.”
She was in Joan's arms by this time, and Joan stood looking at the puny face.
“She is na well,” she said in a low voice. “She has pain as we know nowt on, poor little lass. We conna help her, or bear it fur her. We would if we could, little un,”—as if she forgot Liz's presence.
“Joan,” Liz faltered, “what if yo' were to lose her?”
“I hope I shanna. I hope I shanna.”
“Yo' could na bear it?”
“Theer is na mich as we conna bear.”
“That's true enow,” said Liz. “I wish foak could dee o' trouble.”
“Theer's more nor yo' has wished th' same,” Joan answered.
She thought afterward of the girl's words and remembered how she looked when she uttered them,—her piteous eyes resting on the embers, her weak little mouth quivering, her small hands at work,—but when she heard them, she only recognized in them a new touch of the old petulance to which she had become used.
Joan went about her usual tasks, holding the baby in her arms. She prepared the evening meal with Liz's assistance and they sat down to eat it together. But Liz had little appetite. Indeed neither of them ate much and both were more than usually silent. A shadow of reserve had lately fallen between them.
After the meal was ended they drew their seats to the hearth again, and Liz went back to her brooding over the fire. Joan, lulling the child, sat and watched her. All Liz's beauty had returned to her. Her soft, rough hair was twisted into a curly knot upon her small head, her pretty, babyish face was at its best of bloom and expression—that absent, subdued look was becoming to her.
“Theer's honest men as mought ha' loved her,” said Joan, inwardly. “Theer's honest men as would ha' made her life happy.”
It was just as she was thinking this that Liz turned round to her.
“If she lived to be a woman,” with a gesture toward the child; “if she lived to be a woman, do yo' think as sh'd remember me if—if owt should happen to me now?”
“I conna tell,” Joan answered, “but I'd try to mak' her.”
“Would yo'?” and then she dropped her face upon her hands. “It ud be best if she'd forget me,” she said. “It ud be best if she'd forget me.”
“Nay, Liz,” said Joan. “Tha'rt out o' soarts.”
“Ay, I am,” said the girl, “an' I need be. Eh, Joan! tha'rt a good wench. I wish I wur loike thee.”
“Tha need na, lass.”
“But I do. Tha'd nivver go wrong i' th' world. Nowt could mak' thee go wrong. Tha'rt so strong like. An' tha'rt patient, too, Joan, an' noan loike the rest o' women. I dunnot think—if owt wur to happen me now—as tha'd ha' hard thowts o' me. Wouldst tha?” wistfully.
“Nay, lass. I've been fond o' thee, an' sorry fur thee, and if tha wur to dee tha mayst mak' sure I'd noan be hard on thee. But tha art na goin' to dee, I hope.”
To her surprise the girl caught her hand, and, pulling it down upon her knee, laid her cheek against it and burst into tears.
“I dunnot know; I mought, or—or—summat. But nivver tha turn agen me, Joan,—nivver tha hate me. I am na loike thee,—I wur na made loike thee. I conna stand up agen things, but I dunnot think as I'm so bad as foaks say!”
When this impassioned mood passed away, she was silent again for a long time. The baby fell asleep upon Joan's breast, but she did not move it,—she liked to feel it resting there; its close presence always seemed to bring her peace. At length, however, Liz spoke once more.
“Wheer wur thy feyther goin' wi' Spring an' Braddy?” she asked.
Joan turned a pale face toward her.
“Wheer did yo' see him wi' Spring an' Braddy?”
“Here,” was Liz's reply. “He wur here this afternoon wi' em. They did na coom in, though,—they waited i' th' road, while he went i' th' back room theer fur summat. I think it wur a bottle. It wur that he coom fur, I know, fur I heerd Braddy say to him, 'Hast getten it?' an' thy feyther said, 'Ay,' an' th' other two laughed as if they wur on a spree o' some soart.”
Joan rose from her chair, white and shaking.
“Tak' th' choild,” she said, hoarsely. “I'm goin' out.”
“Out!” cried Liz. “Nay, dunnot go out. What ails thee, Joan?”
“I ha' summat to do,” said Joan. “Stay tha here with th' choild.” And almost before she finished speaking she was gone, and the door had closed behind her.
There would be three of them against one man. She walked faster as she thought of it, and her breath was drawn heavily.
Lowrie bent down in his hiding-place, smiling grimly. He knelt upon the grass behind a hedge at the road-side. He had reached the place a quarter of an hour before, and he had chosen his position as coolly as if he had been sitting down to take his tramp dinner in the shade. There was a gap in the hedge and he must not be too near to it or too far from it. It would be easier to rush through this gap than to leap the hedge; but he must not risk being seen. The corner where the other men lay concealed was not far above him. It was only a matter of a few yards, but if he stood to wait at one turn and the engineer took the other, the game would escape.
So he had placed his comrades at the second, and he had taken the first.
“I'd loike to ha' th' first yammer at him,” he had said, savagely. “Yo' can coom when yo' hear me.”
As he waited by the hedge, he put his hand out stealthily toward his “knob-stick” and drew it nearer, saying to himself:
“When I ha' done settlin' wi' him fur mysen, I shall ha' a bit o' an account to settle fur her. If it's his good looks as she's takken wi', she'll be noan so fond on him when she sees him next, I'll warrant.”
He had hit upon the greater villainy of stopping short of murder,—if he could contain himself when the time came.
At this instant a sound reached his ears which caused him to start. He bent forward slightly toward the gap to listen. There were footsteps upon the road above him—footsteps that sounded familiar. Clouds had drifted across the sky and darkened it, but he had heard that tread too often to mistake it now when every nerve was strung to its highest tension. A cold sweat broke out upon him in the impotence of his wrath.
“It's th' lass hersen,” he said. “She's heerd summat, an' she's as good as her word!”—with an oath.
He got up and stood a second trembling with rage. He drew his sleeve across his forehead and wiped away the sweat, and then turned round sharply.
“I'll creep up th' road an' meet her afore she reaches th' first place,” he panted. “If she sees th' lads, it's aw up wi' us. I'll teach her summat as she'll noan forget.”
He was out into the Knoll Road in a minute more.
“I'll teach her to go agen me,” he muttered.
“I'll teach her, by ———” But the sentence was never ended. There was a murmur he did not understand, a rush, a heavy rain of blows, a dash of something in his face that scorched like liquid fire, and with a shriek, he fell writhing.