When Reuben Thwaite formed this resolution he was less than a mile from Shoulthwaite. In the house on the Moss, Rotha was then sitting alone, save for the silent presence of the unconscious Mrs. Ray. The day's work was done. It had been market day, and Willy Ray had not returned from Gaskarth. The old house was quiet within, and not a breath of wind was stirring without. There was no sound except the crackling of the dry boughs on the fire and the hollow drip of the melting snow.
By the chair from which Mrs. Ray gazed vacantly and steadily Rotha sat with a book in her hand. She tried to read, but the words lost their meaning. Involuntarily her eyes wandered from the open page. At length the old volume, with its leathern covers clasped together with their great brass clasp, dropped quietly into the girl's lap.
At that moment there was a sound of footsteps in the courtyard. Getting up with an anxious face, Rotha walked to the window and drew the blind partly aside.
It was Matthew Branthwaite.
“How fend ye, lass?” he said on opening the door; “rubbin' on all reet? The roads are varra drewvy after the snow,” he added, stamping the clods from his boots. Then looking about, “Hesn't our Liza been here to-neet?”
“Not yet,” Rotha answered.
“Whearaway is t' lass? I thought she was for slipping off to Shoulth'et. But then she's olas gitten her best bib and tucker on nowadays.”
“She'll be here soon, no doubt,” said Rotha, giving Matthew his accustomed chair facing Mrs. Ray.
“She's a rare brattlecan to chatter is our Liza. I telt her she was ower keen to come away with all the ins and oots aboot the constables coming to Wy'bern yesterday. She had it pat, same as if she'd seen it in prent. That were bad news, and the laal hizzy ran bull-neck to gi'e it oot.”
“She meant no harm, Matthew.”
“But why duddent she mean some good and run bull-neck to-neet to bring ye the bettermer news?”
“Better news, Matthew? What is it?” asked Rotha eagerly, but with more apprehension than pleasure in her tone.
“Why, that the constables hev gone,” said Matthew.
“Gone!”
“Gone! Another of the same sort came to-day to leet them, and away they've gone together.”
Matthew clearly expected an outburst of delight at his intelligence. “What dusta say to that, lass?” he added between the puffs of a pipe that he was lighting from a candle. Then, raising his eyes and looking up at Rotha, he said, “Why, what's this? What ails thee? Ey! What's wrang?”
“Gone, you say?” said Rotha. “I fear that is the worst news of all, Matthew.”
But now there was the rattle of a wagon on the lonnin. A moment later the door was thrown open, and Liza Branthwaite stood in the porch with Reuben Thwaite behind her.
“Here's Robbie Anderson back home in Reuben's cart,” said Liza, catching her breath.
“Fetch him in,” said Matthew. “Is he grown shy o' t'yance?”
“That's mair nor my share, Mattha,” said Reuben. “The lad's dylt out—fair beat, I tell thee; I picked him up frae the brae side.”
“He can scarce move hand or foot,” cried Liza. “Come, quick!”
Rotha was out at the wagon in a moment.
“He's ill: he's unconscious,” she said. “Where did you find him?”
“A couple of mile or so outside Carlisle,” answered Reuben.
Rotha staggered, and must have fallen but for Matthew, who at the moment came up behind her.
“I'll tell thee what it is, lass,” said the old man, “thoo'rt like to be bad thysel', and varra bad, too. Go thy ways back to the fire.”
“Summat ails Robbie, no doubt about it,” said Reuben.
“Of course summat ails him,” said Mattha, with an insinuating emphasis on the word. “He nivver were an artistic drunkard, weren't Bobbie.”
“He's been ram'lin' and ram'lin' all the way home,” continued Reuben. “He's telt ower and ower agen of summat 'at were fifty yards north of the bridge.”
“We must take him home,” said Liza, who came hurrying from the house with a blanket over her arm. “Here, cover him with this, Rotha can spare it.”
In a minute more Robbie's insensible form was wrapped round and round.
“Give him room to breathe,” said Mattha; “I declare ye're playing at pund-o'-mair-weight with the lad!” he added as Rotha came up with a sheepskin and a shawl.
“The night is cold, and he has all but three miles to ride yet!” said the girl.
“He lodges with 'Becca Rudd; let's be off,” said Liza, clambering into the cart by the step at the shaft. “Come up, father; quick!”
“What, Bobbie, Bobbie, but this is bad wark, bad wark,” said Mattha, when seated in the wagon. “Hod thy tail in the watter, lad, and there's hope for thee yit.”
With this figurative expression Mattha settled himself for the drive. Rotha turned to Reuben Thwaite.
“At Carlisle, did you hear anything—meet anybody?” she asked.
“Baith,” said Reuben, with a twinkle which was lost in the darkness.
“I mean from Wythburn. Did you meet anybody from—did you see Ralph or my father?”
“Nowther.”
“Nor hear of them?”
“No—wait—deary me, deary me, now 'at I mind it—I nivver thought of it afore—I heeard 'at a man had been had up at the Toon Hall and taken to the gaol. It cannot be 'at the man were—no, no—I'm ram'lin' mysel sure-ly.”
“Ralph; it was Ralph!” said Rotha, trembling visibly. “Be quick. Good night!” “Ralph at Carlisle!” said Mattha. “Weel, weel; after word comes weird. That's why the constables are gone, and that's why Robbie's come. Weel, weel! Up with thee, Reuben, and let us try the legs of this auld dobbin of thine.”
How Rotha got back into the house that night she never knew. She could not remember to have heard the rattle of the springless cart as it was being driven off. All was for the moment a blank waste.
When she recovered consciousness she was sitting by the side of Mrs. Ray, with her arms about the neck of the invalid and her head on the unconscious breast. The soulless eyes looked with a meaningless stare at the girl's troubled face.
The agony of suspense was over, and the worst had happened. What now remained to her to say to Willy? He knew nothing of what she had done. Sim's absence had been too familiar an occurrence to excite suspicion, and Robbie Anderson had not been missed. What should she say?
This was the night of Thursday. During the long hours of the weary days since Sunday, Rotha had conjured up again and again a scene overflowing with delight, in which she should tell Willy everything. This was to be when her father or Robbie or both returned, and the crown of her success was upon her. But what now was the word to say?
The noise of wheels approaching startled the girl out of her troubled dream. Willy was coming home. In another minute he was in the house.
“Rotha, Rotha,” he cried excitedly, “I've great news, great news.”
“What news?” asked Rotha, not daring to look up.
“Great news,” repeated Willy.
Lifting her eyes furtively to his face, Rotha saw that, like his voice, it was brimming over with delight.
“The bloodhounds are gone,” he said, and, throwing off his cloak and leggings, he embraced the girl and kissed her and laughed the laugh of a happy man. Then he hurried out to see to his horse.
What was Rotha to do? What was she to say? This mistake of Willy's made her position not less than terrible. How was she to tell him that his joyousness was misplaced? If he had come to her with a sad face she might then have told him all—yes, all the cruel truth! If he had come to her with reproaches on his tongue, how easily she might have unburdened her heavy heart! But this laughter and these kisses worked like madness in her brain.
The minutes flew like thought, and Willy was back in the house.
“I thought they dare not do it. You'll remember I told them so. Ah! ah! they find I was in the right.”
Willy was too much excited with his own reading of this latest incident to sit in one seat for two minutes together. He walked up and down the room, laughing sometimes, and sometimes pausing to pat his mother's head.
It was fortunate for Rotha that she had to busy herself with the preparations for Willy's supper, and that this duty rendered less urgent the necessity for immediate response to his remarks. Willy, on his part, was in no mood at present to indulge in niceties of observation, and Rotha's perturbation passed for some time unnoticed.
“Ralph will be back with us soon, let us hope,” he said. “There's no doubt but we do miss him, do we not?”
“Yes,” Rotha answered, leaning as much as possible over the fire that she was mending.
The tone of the reply made an impression on Willy. In a moment more he appeared to realize that there, had throughout been something unusual in the girl's demeanor.
“Not well, Rotha?” he asked in a subdued tone. It had flashed across his mind that perhaps her father was once more in some way the cause of her trouble.
“Oh, very well!” she answered, throwing up her head with a little touch of forced gayety.
“Why, there are tears in your eyes, girl. No? Oh, but there are!” They are tears of joy, he thought. She loves Ralph as a brother. “I laugh when I'm happy, Rotha; it seems that you cry.”
“Do I?” she answered, and wondered if the merciful Father above would ever, ever, ever let this bitter hour pass by.
“No, it's worry, Rotha, that's it; you're not well, that's the truth.”
Willy would have been satisfied to let the explanation resolve itself into this, but Rotha broke silence, saying, “What if it were not good news—”
The words were choking her, and she stopped.
“Not good news—what news?” asked Willy, half muttering the girl's words in a bewildered way.
“The news that the constables have gone.”
“Gone! What is it? What do you mean, Rotha?”
“What if the constables have gone,” said the girl, struggling with her emotion, “only because—what if they have gone—because—because Ralph is taken.”
“Taken! Where? What are you thinking of?”
“And what if Ralph is to be charged, not with treason—no, but with—with murder? Oh, Willy!” the girl cried in her distress, throwing away all disguise, “it is true, true; it is true.”
Willy sat down stupefied. With a wild and rigid look, he stared at Rotha as they sat face to face, eye to eye. He said nothing. A sense of horror mastered him.
“And this is not all,” continued Rotha, the tears rolling down her cheeks. “What would you say of the person who did it—of the person who put Ralph in the way of this—this death?” cried the girl, now burying her face in her hands.
Willy's lips were livid. They moved as if in speech, but the words would not come.
“What would I say?” he said at length, bitterly and scornfully, as he rose from his seat with rigid limbs. “I would say—” He stopped; his teeth were clinched. He drew one hand impatiently across his face. The idea that Simeon Stagg must have been the informer had at that moment got possession of his mind. “Never ask me what I would say,” he cried.
“Willy, dear Willy,” sobbed Rotha, throwing her arms about him, “that person—”
The sobs were stifling her, but she would not spare herself.
“That person was MYSELF!”
“You!” cried Willy, breaking from her embrace. “And the murder?” he asked hoarsely, “whose murder?”
“James Wilson's.”
“Let me go—let me go, I say.”
“Another word.” Rotha stepped into the doorway. Willy threw her hastily aside and hurried out.
Under the rude old Town Hall at Carlisle there was a shop which was kept by a dealer in second-hand books. The floor within was paved, and the place was lighted at night by two lamps, which swung from the beams of the ceilings. At one end a line of shelves served to separate from the more public part of the shop a little closet of a room, having a fire, and containing in the way of furniture a table, two or three chairs, and a stuffed settle.
In this closet, within a week of the events just narrated, a man of sinister aspect, whom we have met more than once already in other scenes, sat before a fire.
“Not come down yet, Pengelly?” said, this man to the bookseller, a tottering creature in a long gown and velvet skull cap.
“Not yet.”
“Will he ever come? It's all a fool's errand, too, I'll swear it is.”
Then twisting his shoulders as though shivering, he added,—
“Bitter cold, this shop of yours.”
“Warmer than Doomsdale, eh?” replied the bookseller with a grin as he busied himself dusting his shelves.
The other chuckled. He took a stick that lay on the hearth and broke the fire into a sharp blaze. The exercise was an agreeable one. It was accompanied by agreeable reflections, too.
“I hear a foot on the stair.” A man entered the shop.
“No use, none,” said the new-comer. “It's wasted labor talking to Master Wilfrey.”
The tone was one of vexation.
“Did ye tell him what I heard about Justice Hide and his carryings on at Newcastle?”
“Ey, and I told 'im he'd never bring it off with Hide on the bench.”
“And what did the chiel say to it?”
“'Tut,' he said, says he, 'Millet is wi' 'im on the circuit, and he'll see the law's safe on treason.'”
“So he will not touch the other indictment?”
“'It's no use,' says he, 'the man's sure to fall for treason,' he says, 'and it's all botherment trying to force me to indict 'im for murder.'”
“Force him! Ha! ha! that's good, that is; force him, eh?”
The speaker renewed his attentions to the fire.
“He'll be beaten,” he added,—“he'll be beaten, will Master Wilfrey. With Hide oh the bench there'll be no conviction for treason. And then the capital charge will go to the wall, and Ray will get away scot free.”
“It baffles me yet aboot Ray, his giving himself up.”
“Shaf, man! Will ye never see through the trick? It was to stand for treason and claim the pardon, or be fined, or take a year in Doomsdale, and escape the gallows. He's a cunning taistrel. He'll do aught to save his life.”
“You're wrong there; I cannot but say you're wrong there. I know the man, and as I've told you there's nothing in the world he dare not do. Why, would you credit it, I saw 'im one day—”
“Tut, haud yer tongue. Ye'd see him tremble one day if this sheriff of yours were not flayt by his own shadow. Ye'd see him on Haribee; aye, and maybe ye will see him there yet, sheriff or no sheriff.”
This was said with a bitterness indicative of fierce and deadly hatred.
Shifting uneasily under the close gaze of his companion, the other said,—
“What for do you look at me like that? I've no occasion to love him, have I?”
“Nor I, nor I,” said the first speaker, his face distorted with evil passions; “and you shall spit on his grave yet, Master Scroope, that you shall; and dance on it till it does yer soul good; you shall, you shall, sheriff or none.”
Just then a flourish of trumpets fell on the ear. Conversation was interrupted while the men, with the bookseller, stepped to the door. Numbers of townspeople were crowding into the Market Place. Immediately afterwards there came at a swift pace through Scotch Street a gayly bedecked carriage, with outriders in gold lace and a trumpeter riding in front.
“The judges—going through to King's Arms Lane,” observed the bookseller.
“What o'clock do the 'sizes start, Mr. Pengelly?” asked a loiterer outside.
“Ten in the morning, that's when the grand jury sit,” the bookseller answered.
The court was densely packed at ten next morning. Every yard of available space was thronged with people. The crown court lay on the west of the Town Hall. It was a large square chamber without galleries. Rude oak, hewn with the axe straight from the tree, formed the rafters and principals of the roofs. The windows were small, and cast a feeble light. A long table like a block of granite, covered with a faded green cloth and having huge carved legs, stood at one end of the court, and stretched almost from side to side. On a dais over this table sat the two judges in high-backed chairs, deeply carved and black. There was a stout rail at one end of the table, and behind it were steps leading to a chamber below. This was the bar, and an officer of the court stood at one side of it. Exactly opposite it were three rows of seats on graduated levels. This was the jury box. Ranged in front of the table were the counsel for the King, the clerk of the court, and two or three lawyers. An ancient oak chest, ribbed with iron and secured by several massive padlocks, stood on the table.
The day was cold. A close mist that had come from the mountains hovered over the court and crept into every crevice, chilling and dank.
There was much preliminary business to go through, and the people who thronged the court watched it with ill-concealed impatience. True bills were found for this offence and that: assaults, batteries, larcenies.
Amid a general hush the crier called for Ralph Ray.
Ralph stepped up quietly, and laid one hand on the rail in front of him. The hand was chained. He looked round. There was not a touch either of pride or modesty in his steady gaze. He met without emotion the sea of faces upturned to his own face. Near the door at the end of the court stood the man who had been known in Lancaster as Ralph's shadow. Their eyes met, but there was no expression of surprise in either face. Close at hand was the burlier ruffian who had insulted the girl that sang in the streets. In the body of the court there was another familiar face. It was Willy Ray's, and on meeting his brother's eyes for an instant Ralph turned his own quickly away. Beneath the bar, with downcast eyes, sat Simeon Stagg.
The clerk of the court was reading a commission authorizing the court to hear and determine treasons, and while this formality was proceeding Ralph was taking note of his judges. One of them was a stout, rubicund person advanced in years. Ralph at once recognized him as a lawyer who had submitted to the Parliament six years before. The other judge was a man of austere countenance, and quite unknown to Ralph. It was the former of the two judges who had the principal management of the case. The latter sat with a paper before his face. The document sometimes concealed his eyes and sometimes dropped below his mouth.
“Gentlemen,” said the judge, beginning his charge, “you are the grand inquest for the body of this county, and you have now before you a prisoner charged with treason. Treason, gentlemen, has two aspects: there is treason of the wicked imagination, and there is treason apparent: the former poisons the heart, the latter breaks forth in action.”
The judge drew his robes about him, and was about to continue, when the paper suddenly dropped from the face of the other occupant of the bench.
“Your pardon, brother Millet,” he interrupted, and pointed towards Ralph's arms. “When a prisoner comes to the bar his irons ought to be taken off. Have you anything to object against these irons being struck away?”
“Nothing, brother Hide,” replied the judge rather testily. “Keeper, knock off the prisoner's irons.”
The official appealed to looked abashed, and replied that the necessary instruments were not at hand.
“They are of no account, my lord,” said Ralph.
“They must be removed.”
When the delay attending this process was over and the handcuffs fell to the ground, the paper rose once more in front of the face of Justice Hide, and Justice Millet continued his charge. He defined the nature and crime of treason with elaboration and circumlocution. He quoted the ancient statute wherein the people, speaking of themselves, say that they recognize no superior under God but only the King's grace. “I do no speak my own words,” he said, “but the words of the law, and I urge this the more lest any persons should draw dangerous inferences to shadow their traitorous acts. Gentlemen, the King is the vicegerent of God, and has no superior. If any man shall shroud himself under any pretended authority, you must know that this is not an excuse, but the height of aggravation.”
Once more the judge paused, drew his robes about him, and turned sharply to the jury to observe the effect of his words; then to his brother on the bench, for the light of his countenance. The paper was covering the eyes of Justice Hide.
“But now, gentlemen, to come from the general to the particular. It is treason to levy war against the King's person, and to levy war against the King's authority is treason too. It follows, therefore, that all acts which were done to the keeping of the King out of the exercise of his kingly office were treason. If persons assembled themselves in a warlike manner to do any of these acts, that was treason. Remember but this, and I have done.”
A murmur of assent and approbation passed over the court when the judge ceased to speak. Perhaps a close observer might have marked an expression of dissatisfaction on the face of the other judge as often as the document held in front of it permitted the eyes and mouth to be seen. He shifted restlessly from side to side while the charge was being delivered, and at the close of it he called somewhat impatiently for the indictment.
The clerk was proceeding to give the names of the witnesses, when Ralph asked to be permitted to see the indictment. With a smile, the clerk handed him a copy in Latin. Ralph glanced at it, threw it back to the table, and asked for a translation.
“Let the indictment be read aloud and in English,” said Justice Hide.
It was then read, and purported that, together with others, Ralph Ray, not having the fear of God before his eyes, and being instigated by the devil, had traitorously and feloniously, contrary to his due allegiance and bounden duty, conspired against the King's authority on sundry occasions and in divers places.
There was a strained attitude of attention while the indictment was being read, and a dead stillness when the prisoner was called upon to plead.
“How sayest thou, Ralph Ray? Art thou guilty of that treason whereof thou standest indicted and for which thou hast been arraigned, or not guilty?”
Ralph did not reply at once. He looked calmly around. Then, in a firm voice, without a trace of emotion, he said,—
“I claim exemption under the Act of Oblivion.”
There was a murmur of inquiry.
“That will avail you nothing,” replied the judge who had delivered the charge. “The Act does not apply to your case. You must plead Guilty or Not Guilty.”
“Have I no right to the benefit of the Act of Oblivion?”
The clerk rose again.
“Are you Guilty or Not Guilty?”
“Have I liberty to move exceptions to the indictment?”
“You shall have the liberty that any subject can have,” replied Justice Millet. “You have heard the indictment read, and you must plead, Guilty or Not Guilty.”
The paper had again gone up before the face of Justice Hide.
“I stand at this bar,” said Ralph quietly, “charged with conspiring against the King's authority. The time of the alleged treason is specified. I move this exception to the indictment, that the King of England was dead at the period named.”
There was some shuffling in the court. The paper had dropped below the eyes.
“You trouble the court with these damnable excursions,” cried Justice Millet, with no attempt to conceal his anger. “By the law of England the King never dies. Your plea must be direct,—'Guilty,' or 'Not Guilty.' No man standing in your position at the bar must make any other answer to the indictment.”
“Shall I be heard, my lord?”
“You shall, sir, but only on your trial.”
“I urge a point of law, and I ask for counsel,” said Ralph; “I can pay.” “You seem to be versed in proceedings of law, young man,” replied the judge, with an undisguised sneer.
The paper dropped below the mouth.
“Mr. Ray,” said Justice Hide, in a friendly tone, “the course is that you should plead.”
“I stand charged, my lord, with no crime. How, then, shall I plead?”
“Mr. Ray,” said the judge again, “I am sorry to interrupt you. I hold that a man in your position should have every leniency shown to him. But these discourses are contrary to all proceedings of this nature. Will you plead?”
“He must plead, brother; there is no will you?” rejoined the other occupant of the bench.
The paper went up over the eyes once more. There was some laughter among the men before the table.
“He thinks it cheap to defy the court,” said counsel for the King.
“Brother Millet,” said Justice Hide, “when a prisoner at the bar would plead anything in formality, counsel should be allowed.”
“Oh, certainly, certainly,” replied the judge, recovering his suavity. Then turning to Ralph, he said,—
“What is the point of law you urge?”
“What I am accused of doing,” replied Ralph, “was done under the command of the Parliament, when the Parliament was the supreme power.”
“Silence, sir,” cried Justice Millet. “The Parliament was made up of a pack of usurpers with a low mechanic fellow at their head. Gentlemen,” turning with a gracious smile to the jury, “you will remember what I said.”
“The Parliament was appointed by the people,” replied Ralph quietly, “and recognized by foreign princes.”
“It was only a third part of the constitution.”
“It did not live in a corner. The sound of it went out among many nations.”
Ralph still spoke calmly. The spectators held their breath.
“Do you know where you are, sir?” cried the judge, now grown scarlet with anger. “You are in the court of his Majesty the King. Would you have the boldness here, before the faces of the servants of that gracious Prince, to justify your crimes by claiming for them the authority of usurpers?” “I am but charged,” replied Ralph, “with putting my hand to that plough which all men were then compelled to follow. I am but accused of fidelity to that cause which some of my prosecutors, as I see, did themselves at first submit to, and afterwards betray.”
At this there were loud murmurs in the court. The paper had fallen from the face of Justice Hide. His brother justice was livid with rage.
“What fellow is this?” said the latter judge, with obvious uneasiness. “A dalesman from the mountains, did you say?”
“Dalesman or not, my lord, a cunning and dangerous man,” replied counsel.
“I see already that he is one who is ready to say anything to save his miserable life.”
“Brother Millet,” interrupted the other judge, “you have rightly observed that this is a court of his Gracious Majesty. Let us conduct it as such.”
There was a rustle of gowns before the table and some whispering in the court.
“Mr. Ray, you have heard the indictment. It charges you as a false traitor against his Most Gracious Majesty, your supreme and natural lord. The course is for you to plead Guilty or Not Guilty.”
“Have I no right to the General Pardon?” asked Ralph.
Justice Millet, recovering from some temporary discomfiture, interposed,—
“The proclamation of pardon was issued before his Majesty came into possession.”
“And my crime—was not that committed before the King came into possession? Are the King's promises less sacred than the people's laws?”
Again some murmuring in the court.
“Brother Hide, is the court to be troubled longer with these idle disputations?”
“I ask for counsel,” said Ralph.
“This,” replied Justice Hide, “is not a matter in which counsel can be assigned. If your crime be treason, it cannot be justified; if it be justifiable, it is not treason. The law provides that we shall be your counsel, and, as such, I advise that you do not ask exemption under the Act of Oblivion, for that is equal to a confession.” “I do not confess,” said Ralph.
“You must plead Guilty or Not Guilty. There is no third course. Are you Guilty or Not Guilty?”
There was a stillness like that of the chamber of death in the court as this was spoken.
Ralph paused, lifted his head, and looked calmly about him. Every eye was fixed on his face. That face was as firm as a rock. Two eyes near the door were gleaming with the light of fiendish triumph. Ralph returned his gaze to the judges. Still the silence was unbroken. It seemed to hang in the air.
“Guilty or Not Guilty?”
There was no reply.
“Does the prisoner refuse to plead?” asked Justice Hide. Still there was no reply. Not a whisper in the court; not the shuffle of a foot. The judge's voice fell slowly on the ear,—
“Ralph Ray, we would not have you deceive yourself. If you do not plead, it will be the same with you as if you had confessed.”
“Am I at liberty to stand mute?”
“Assuredly not,” Justice Millet burst out, pulling his robes about him.
“Your pardon, brother; it is the law that the prisoner may stand mute if he choose.”
Then turning to Ralph,—
“But why?”
“To save from forfeiture my lands, sheep, goods, and chattels, and those of my mother and brother, falsely stated to be mine.”
Justice Millet gave an eager glance at Justice Hide.
“It is the law,” said the latter, apparently replying to an unuttered question. “The estate of an offender cannot be seized to the King's use before conviction. My Lord Coke is very clear on that point. It is the law; we must yield to it.”
“God forefend else!” replied Justice Millet in his meekest tone.
“Ralph Ray,” continued the judge, “let us be sure that you know what you do. If you stand mute a terrible punishment awaits you.”
Justice Millet interposed,—
“I repeat that the prisoner must plead. In the ancient law of peine forte et dure an exception is expressly made of all cases of regicide.”
“The indictment does not specify regicide as the prisoner's treason.”
Justice Millet hid his discomfiture in an ostentatious perusal of a copy of the indictment.
“But do not deceive yourself,” continued the judge, turning again towards the prisoner. “Do you know the penalty of standing mute? Do you know that to save your estates to your family by refusing to plead, you must suffer a terrible death,—a death without judgment, a death too shocking perhaps for so much as bare contemplation? Do you know this?”
The dense throng in the court seemed not to breathe at that awful moment. Every one waited for the reply. It came slowly and deliberately,—
“I know it.”
The paper dropped from the judge's hand, and fluttered to the floor. In the court there was a half-uttered murmur of amazement. A man stood there to surrender his life, with all that was near and dear to it. Not dogged, trapped, made desperate by fate, but cheerfully and of his own free will.
Wonder and awe fell on that firmament of faces. Brave fellows there found the heart swell and the pulse beat quick as they saw that men— plain, rude men, Englishmen, kinsmen—might still do nobly. Cowards shrank closer together.
And, in the midst of all, the man who stood to die wore the serenest look to be seen there. Not an eye but was upturned to his placid face.
The judge's voice broke the silence,—
“And was it with this knowledge and this view that you surrendered?”
Ralph folded his arms across his breast and bowed.
The silence could be borne no longer. The murmurs of the spectators broke into a wild tumult of cheers, like the tossing of many waters; like the roar and lash of mighty winds that rise and swell, then ebb and surge again.
The usher of the court had not yet suppressed the applause, when it was observed that a disturbance of another kind had arisen near the door. A young woman with a baby in her arms was crushing her way in past the javelin man stationed there, and was craning her neck to catch sight of the prisoner above the dense throng that occupied every inch of the floor.
“Let me have but a glance at him—one glance—for the dear God's sake let me but see him—only once—only for a moment.”
The judge called for silence, and the officer was hurrying the woman away when Ralph turned his face full towards the door.
“I see him now,” said the woman. “He's not my husband. No,” she added, “but I've seen him before somewhere.”
“Where, my good woman? Where have you seen him before the day?”
This was whispered in her ear by a man who had struggled his way to her side.
“Does he come from beyond Gaskarth?” she asked.
“Why, why?”
“This commotion ill befits the gravity of a trial of such grave concernment,” said one of the judges in an austere tone.
In another moment the woman and her eager interlocutor had left the court together.
There was then a brief consultation between the occupants of the bench.
“The pardon is binding,” said one; “if it were otherwise it were the hardest case that could be for half the people of England.”
“Yet the King came back without conditions,” replied the other.
There was a general bustle in the court. The crier proclaimed silence.
“The prisoner stands remanded for one week.”
Then Ralph was removed from the bar.
They drove Robbie Anderson that night to the house of the old woman with whom he lodged, but their errand was an idle one. Reuben Thwaite jumped from the cart and rapped at the door. Old 'Becca Rudd opened it, held a candle over her head, and peered into the darkness. When she heard what sick guest they had brought her, she trembled from head to foot, and cried to them not to shorten the life of a poor old soul whose days were numbered.
“Nay, nay; take him away, take him away,” she said.
“Art daft, or what dusta mean?” said Mattha from his seat in the cart.
“Nay, but have mercy on me, have mercy on me,” cried 'Becca beseechingly.
“Weel, weel,” said Mattha, “they do say as theer's no fools like auld fools. Why, the lad's ram'lin'. Canst hear?—ram'lin'. Wadst hev us keck him intil the dike to die like ony dog?”
“Take him away, take him away,” cried 'Becca, retiring inwards, her importunity becoming every moment louder and more vehement.
“I reckon ye wad be a better stepmother to yon brocken-backt bitch of yours an it had the mange?” said Mattha.
“Nay, but the plague—the plague. Ye've heard what the new preachers are telling about the plague. Robbie's got it, Robbie's got the plague; I'm sure of it, sure.”
'Becca set down the candle to wring her hands.
“So thoo's sure of it, ista?” said Mattha. “Weel, I'll tell thee what I's sure on, and that is that thoo art yan o' them folks as waddant part with the reek off their kail. Ye'r nobbut an auld blatherskite, 'Becca, as preaches mair charity in a day ner ye'r ready to stand by in a twelvemonth. Come, Reuben, whip up yer dobbin. Let's away to my own house. I'd hev to be as poor as a kirk louse afore I'd turn my back on a motherless lad as is nigh to death's door.”
“Don't say that, father,” whimpered Liza.
“Nay, Mattha, nay, man,” cried 'Becca, “it's nought of that. It's my life that's in danger.”
“Shaf! that 'at is nowt is nivver in danger. Whear's the plague as wad think it worth while to bodder wid a skinflint like thee? Good neet, 'Becca, good neet, and 'od white te, lass, God requite thee!”
So they drove to Matthew Branthwaite's cottage, and installed the sick man in the disused workroom, where the loom had stood silent for nearly ten years.
A rough shakedown was improvised, a log fire was speedily kindled, and in half an hour Mrs. Branthwaite was sitting at Robbie's bedside bathing his hot forehead with cloths damped in vinegar. The little woman—timid and nervous in quieter times—was beginning to show some mettle now.
“Robbie has the fever, the brain fever,” she said. She was right. The old wife's diagnosis was as swift as thought. Next day they sent for the doctor from Gaskarth. He came; looked wise and solemn; asked three questions in six syllables apiece, and paused between them. Then he felt the sick man's pulse. He might almost have heard the tick of it. Louder was the noise of the beating heart. Still not a word. In the dread stillness out came the lance, and Robbie was bled. Then sundry hums and ahs, but no syllable of counsel or cheer.
“Is there any danger?” asked little Liza in a fretful tone. She was standing with head averted from the bowl which was in her mother's hands, with nervous fingers and palpitating breast.
The wise man replied in two guarded words.
Robbie had appeared to be conscious before the operation of the lance. He was wandering again. He would soon be wildly delirious.
The great man took up his hat and his fee together. His silence at least had been golden.
“Didsta iver see sic a dumb daft boggle?” said Mattha as the doctor disappeared. “It cannot even speak when it's spoken to.”
The medical ghost never again haunted that particular ghost-walk.
Robbie lay four days insensible, and Mrs. Branthwaite was thenceforward his sole physician and nurse. On the afternoon of the third day of Robbie's illness—it was Sunday—Rotha Stagg left her own peculiar invalid in the care of one of the farm women and walked over to Mattha's house.
Willy Ray had not returned from Carlisle. He had exchanged scarcely six words with her since the interview previously recorded. Rotha had not come to Shoulthwaite for Willy's satisfaction. Neither would she leave it for his displeasure.
When the girl reached the weaver's cottage and entered the sick-room, Mattha himself was sitting at the fireside, with a pipe, puffing the smoke up the chimney. Mrs. Branthwaite was bathing the sick man's head, from which the hair had been cut away. Liza was persuading herself that she was busy sewing at a new gown. The needle stuck and stopped twenty times a minute. Robbie was delirious.
“Robbie, Robbie, do you know who has come to see you?” said Liza, bending over him.
“Ey, mother, ey, here I am, home at last,” muttered Robbie.
“He's ram'lin' agen,” said Mattha from the chimney corner.
“Bless your old heart, mammy, but I'll mend my management. I will, that I will. It's true this time, mammy, ey, it is. No, no; try me again just once, mammy!”
“He's forever running on that, poor lad,” whispered Mattha. “I reckon it's been a sair point with him sin' he put auld Martha intil t' grund.”
“Don't greet, mammy; don't greet.”
Poor Liza found the gown wanted close attention at that moment. It went near enough to her eyes.
“I say it was fifty strides to the north of the bridge! Swear it? Ey, swear it!” cried Robbie at a fuller pitch of his weakened voice.
“He's olas running on that, too,” whispered Mattha to Rotha. “Dusta mind 'at laal Reuben said the same?”
In a soft and pleading tone Robbie mumbled on,—
“Don't greet, mammy, or ye'll kill me sure enough. Killing you? Ey, it's true it's true; but I'll mend my management—I will.” There were sobs in Robbie's voice, but no tears in his bloodshot eyes.
“There, there, Robbie,” whispered Mrs. Branthwaite soothingly in his ear; “rest thee still, Robbie, rest thee still.”
It was a pitiful scene. The remorse of the poor, worn, wayward, tender-hearted lad seemed to rend the soul in his unconscious body.
“If he could but sleep!” said Mrs. Branthwaite; “but he cannot.”
Liza got up and went out.
Robbie struggled to raise himself on one elbow. His face, red as a furnace, was turned aside as though in the act of listening for some noise far away. Then in a thick whisper he said,—
“Fifty strides north of the bridge. No dreaming about it—north, I say, north.”
Robbie sank back exhausted, and Rotha prepared to leave.
“It were that ducking of his heed did it, sure enough,” said Mattha, “that and the drink together. I mind Bobbie's father—just sic like, just sic like! Poor auld Martha, she hed a sad bout of it, she hed, what with father and son. And baith good at the bottom, too, baith, poor lads.”
A graver result than any that Mattha dreamt of hung at this moment on Robbie's insensibility, and when consciousness returned the catastrophe had fallen.