Читать книгу The Shadow of a Crime - Sir Hall Caine - Страница 10

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The storm had abated. The sleet and rain had ceased, but the wind still blew fierce and strong, driving black continents of cloud across a crescent moon. It was bitingly cold. Rotha walked fast and spoke little. Ralph understood their mission. “Is he far away?” he said.

“Not far.”

Her voice had a tremor of emotion, and as the wind carried it to him it seemed freighted with sadness. But the girl would have hidden her fears.

“Perhaps he's better now,” she said.

Ralph quickened his steps. The dog had gone on in front, and was lost in the darkness.

“Give me your hand, Rotha; the sleet is hard and slape.”

“Don't heed me, Ralph; go faster; I'll follow.”

Just then a sharp bark was heard close at hand, followed by another and another, but in a different key. Laddie had met a friend.

“He's coming,” Rotha said, catching her breath.

“He's here.”

With the shrill cry of a hunted creature that has got back, wounded, to its brethren, Sim seemed to leap upon them out of the darkness.

“Ralph, take me with you—take me with you; do not let me go back to the fell to-night. I cannot go—no, believe me, I cannot—I dare not. Take me, Ralph; have mercy on me; do not despise me for the coward that I am; it's enough to make me curse the great God—no, no; not that neither. But, Ralph, Ralph—”

The poor fellow would have fallen breathless and exhausted at Ralph's feet, but he held him up and spoke firmly but kindly to him—

“Bravely, Sim; bravely, man; there,” he said, as the tailor regained some composure.

“You sha'n't go back to-night. How wet you are, though! There's not a dry rag to your body, man. You must first return with me to the fire at the Red Lion, and then we'll go—”

“No, no, no!” cried Sim; “not there either—never there; better the wind and rain, aye, better anything, than that.”

And he turned his head over his shoulder as though peering into the darkness behind. Ralph understood him. There were wilder companions for this poor hunted creature than any that lived on the mountains.

“But you'll never live through the night in clothes like these.”

Sim shivered with the cold; his teeth chattered; his lank hands shook as with ague.

“Never live? Oh, but I must not die, Ralph; no not yet—not yet.”

Was there, then, something still left in life that a poor outcast like this should cling to it?

“I'll go back with you,” he said more calmly. They turned, and with Sim between them Ralph and Rotha began to retrace their steps. They had not far to go, when Sim reeled like a drunken man, and when they were within a few paces he stopped.

“No,” he said, “I can't.” His breath was coming quick and fast.

“Come, man, they shall give you the ingle bench; I'll see to that. Come now,” said Ralph soothingly.

“I've walked in front of this house for an hour to-night, I have,” said Sim, “to and fro, to and fro, waiting for you; waiting, waiting; starting at my own shadow cast from the dim lowe of the windows, and then flying to hide when the door did at last—at long last—open or shut.”

Ralph shuddered. It had been as he thought. Then he said—

“Yes, yes; but you'll come now, like a brave fellow—'a braw chiel,' you know.”

Sim started at the pleasantry with which Ralph had tried to soothe his spirits. It struck a painful memory. Ralph felt it too.

“Come,” he said, in an altered tone.

“No,” cried Sim, clasping his hands over his head. “They're worse than wild beasts, they are. To-night I went up to the cave as usual. The wind was blowing strong and keen in the valley; it had risen to a tempest on the screes. I went in and turned up the bracken for my bed. Then the rain began to fall; and the rain became hail, and the hail became sleet, and pelted in upon me, it did. The wind soughed about my lone home—my home!”

Again Sim reeled in the agony of his soul.

“This is peace to that wind,” he continued; “yes, peace. Then the stones began to rumble down the rocks, and the rain to pour in through the great chinks in the roof of the cave. Yet I stayed there—I stayed. Well, the ghyll roared louder and louder. It seemed to overflow the gullock, it did. I heard the big bowders shifted from their beds by the tumbling waters. They rolled with heavy thuds down the brant sides of the fell—down, down, down. But I kept closer, closer. Presently I heard the howl of the wolves—”

“No, Sim; not that, old friend.” “Yes, the pack from Lauvellen. They'd been driven out of their caves—not even they could live in their caves tonight.” The delirium of Sim's spirit seemed to overcome him.

“No more now, man,” said Ralph, putting his arm about him. “You're safe, at least, and all will be well with you.”

“Wait. Nearer and nearer they came, nearer and nearer, till I knew they were above me, around me. Yet I kept close, I did, I almost felt their breath. Well, well, at last I saw two red eyes gleaming at me through the darkness—”

“You're feverish to-night, Sim,” interrupted Ralph.

“Then a great flash of lightning came. It licked the ground afore me—ay, licked. Then a burst of thunder—it must have been a thunderbolt—I couldn't hear the wind and sleet and water. I fainted, that must have been it. When I came round I groped about me where I lay—”

“A dream, Sim.”

“No, it was no dream! What was it I touched? I was delivered! Thank heaven, that death was not mine. I rose, staggered out, and fled.”

By the glimmering light from the windows of the inn—there came the sound of laughter from within—Ralph could see that hysterical tears coursed down the poor tailor's cheeks. Rotha stood aside, her hands covering her face.

“And, at last, when you could not meet me here, you went to Fornside for Rotha to seek me?” asked Ralph.

“Yes, I did. Don't despise me—don't do that.” Then in a supplicating tone he added—

“I couldn't bear it from you, Ralph.”

The tears came again. The direful agony of Sim's soul seemed at length to conquer him, and he fell to the ground insensible. In an instant Rotha was on her knees in the hardening road at her father's side; but she did not weep.

“We have no choice now,” she said in a broken voice.

“None,” answered Ralph. “Let me carry him in.”

When the door of the inn had closed behind Ralph as he went out with Rotha, old Matthew Branthwaite, who had recovered his composure after Monsey's song, and who had sat for a moment with his elbow on his knee, his pipe in his hand and his mouth still open, from which the shaft had just been drawn, gave a knowing twitch to his wrinkled face as he said—

“So, so, that's the fell the wind blows frae!”

“Blow low, my black feutt,” answered Monsey, “and don't blab.”

“When the whins is oot of blossom, kissing's oot o' fashion—nowt will come of it,” replied the sage on reflection.

“Wrong again, great Solomon!” said Monsey. “Ralph is not the man to put away the girl because her father is in disgrace.”

“Do ye know he trystes with the lass?”

“Not I.”

“Maybe ye'r like the rest on us: ye can make nowt on him, back ner edge.”

“Right now, great sage; the sun doesn't shine through him.”

“He's a great lounderan fellow,” said one of the dalesmen, speaking into the pewter at his mouth. He was the blacksmith of Wythburn.

“What do you say?” asked Monsey.

“Nowt!” the man growled sulkily.

“So ye said nowt?” inquired Matthew.

“Nowt to you, or any of you.”

“Then didst a nivver hear it said, 'He that talks to himsel' clatters to a fool'?”

The company laughed.

“No,” resumed Matthew, turning to the schoolmaster, “Ralph will nivver tryste with the lass of yon hang-gallows of a tailor. The gallows rope's all but roond his neck already. It's awesome to see him in his barramouth in the fell side. He's dwinnelt away to a atomy.

“It baffles me where he got the brass frae to pay his rent,” said one of the shepherds. “Where did he get it, schoolmaster?”

Monsey answered nothing. The topic was evidently a fearsome thing to him. His quips and cracks were already gone.

“Where did he get it, I say?” repeated the man; with the air of one who was propounding a trying problem.

Old Matthew removed his pipe.

“A fool may ask mair questions ner a doctor can answer.”

The shepherd shifted in his seat.

“That Wilson was na shaks nowther,” continued Matthew quietly. “He was accustomed to 'tummel' his neighbors, and never paused to inquire into their bruises. He'd olas the black dog on his back—leastways latterly. Ey, the braizzant taistrel med have done something for Ralph an he lived langer. He was swearing what he'd do, the ungratefu' fool; auld Wilson was a beadless body.”

“They say he threatened Ralph's father, Angus,” said Monsey, with a perceptible shiver.

“Ay, but Angus is bad to bang. I mind his dingin' ower a bull on its back. A girt man, Angus, and varra dreadfu' when he's angert.”

“Dus'ta mind the fratch thoo telt me aboot atween Angus and auld Wilson?” said Reuben Thwaite to Matthew Branthwaite.

“What quarrel was that?” asked Monsey.

“Why, the last fratch of all, when Wilson gat the sneck posset frae Shoulthwaite,” said Matthew.

“I never heard of it,” said the schoolmaster.

“There's nowt much to hear. Ralph and mysel' we were walking up to the Moss together ya day, when we heard Angus and Wilson at a bout of words. Wilson he said to Angus with a gay, bitter sneer, 'Ye'll fain swappit wi' me yet,' said he. 'He'll yoke wi' an unco weird. Thy braw chiel 'ul tryste wi' th' hangman soon, I wat.' And Angus he was fair mad, I can tell ye, and he said to Wilson, 'Thoo stammerin' and yammerin' taistrel, thoo; I'll pluck a lock of thy threep. Bring the warrant, wilt thoo? Thoo savvorless and sodden clod-heed! I'll whip thee with the taws. Slipe, I say, while thoo's weel—slipe!'”

“And Angus would have done it, too, and not the first time nowther,” said little Reuben, with a knowing shake of the head.

“Well, Matthew, what then?” said Monsey.

“Weel, with that Angus he lifted up his staff, and Wilson shrieked oot afore he gat the blow. But Angus lowered his hand and said to him, says he, 'Time eneuf to shriek when ye're strucken.'”

“And when the auld one did get strucken, he could not shriek,” added Reuben.

“We know nowt of that reetly,” said Matthew, “and maybe nivver will.”

“What was that about a warrant?” said Monsey.

“Nay, nay, laal man, that's mair ner ony on us knows for certain.” “But ye have a notion on it, have ye not?” said Reuben, with a twinkle which was intended to flatter Matthew into a communicative spirit.

“I reckon I hev,” said the weaver, with a look of self-satisfaction.

“Did Ralph understand it?” asked Monsey.

“Not he, schoolmaister. If he did, I could mak' nowt on him, for I asked him theer and then.”

“But ye knows yersel' what the warrant meant, don't ye?” said Reuben significantly.

“Weel, man, it's all as I telt ye; the country's going to the dogs, and young Charles he's cutting the heed off nigh a'most iv'ry man as fought for Oliver agen him. And it's as I telt ye aboot the spies of the government, there's a spy ivrywhear—maybe theer's yan here now—and auld Wilson he was nowt ner mair ner less ner a spy, and he meant to get a warrant for Ralph Ray, and that's the lang and short on it.”

“I reckon Sim made the short on it,” said Reuben with a smirk. “He scarce knew what a good turn he was doing for young Ralph yon neet in Martinmas.”

“But don't they say Ralph saved Wilson's life away at the wars?” said Monsey. “Why could he want to inform against him and have him hanged?”

“A dog winnet yowl an ye hit him with a bone, but a spy is worse ner ony dog,” answered Matthew sententiously.

“But why could he wish to do it?”

“His fratch with Angus, that was all.”

“There must have been more than that, Matthew, there must.”

“I never heeard on it, then.”

“Old Wilson must have had money on him that night,” said Monsey, who had been looking gravely into the fire, his hands clasped about his knees. Encouraged by this support of the sapient idea he had hinted at, the shepherd who had spoken before broke in with, “Where else did he get it I say?”

“Ye breed of the cuckoo,” said Matthew, “ye've gat no rhyme but yan.”

Amid the derisive laughter that followed, the door of the inn was again opened, and in a moment more Ralph Ray stood in the middle of the floor with Simeon Stagg in his arms. Rotha was behind, pale but composed. Every man in the room rose to his feet. The landlord stepped forward, with no pleasant expression on his face; and from an inner room his wife came bustling up. Little Monsey stood clutching and twitching his fingers. Old Matthew had let the pipe drop out of his mouth, and it lay broken on the hearth.

“He has fainted,” said Ralph, still holding his burden; “turn that bench to the fire.”

No one stirred. Every one stood for the moment as if stupefied. Sim's head hung over Ralph's arm: his face was as pale as death.

“Out of the way,” said Ralph, brushing past a great lumbering fellow, with his mouth agape.

The company found their tongues at last. Were they to sit with “this hang-gallows of a tailor”? The landlord, thinking himself appealed to, replied that he “couldn't hev na brulliment” in his house.

“There need be no broil,” said Ralph, laying the insensible form on a seat and proceeding to strip off the wet outer garments. Then turning to the hostess, he said—

“Martha, bring me water, quick.”

Martha turned about and obeyed him without a word.

“He'll be better soon,” said Ralph to Robbie Anderson. He was sprinkling water on the white face that lay before him. Robbie had recovered his wakefulness, and was kneeling at Sim's feet, chafing his hands.

Rotha stood at her father's side, motionless.

“There, he's coming to. Martha,” said Ralph, “hadn't you better take Rotha to the kitchen fire?”

The two women left the room.

Sim's eyes opened; there was a watery humor in them which was not tears. The color came back to his cheeks, but with the return of consciousness his face grew thinner and more haggard. He heaved a heavy sigh, and seemed to realize his surroundings. With the only hand disengaged (Robbie held one of them) he clutched at Ralph's belt.

“I'm better—let me go,” he said in a hoarse voice, trying to rise.

“No!” said Ralph—“no!” and he gently pushed him back into his recumbent position.

“You had best let the snuffling waistrel go,” said one of the men in a surly tone. “Maybe he never fainted at all.”

It was the blacksmith who had growled at the mention of Ralph's name in Ralph's absence. They called him Joe Garth.

“Be silent, you loon,” answered Robbie Anderson, turning upon the last speaker.

Ralph seemed not to have heard him.

“Here,” he said, tossing Sim's coat to Matthew, who had returned with a new pipe to his seat in the chimney corner, “dry that at the fire.” The coat had been growing hard with the frost.

“This wants the batling stone ower it,” said the old weaver, spreading it out before him.

“See to this, schoolmaster,” said Ralph, throwing Sim's cap into his lap.

Monsey jumped, with a scream, out of his seat as though stung by an adder.

Ralph looked at him for a moment with an expression of pity.

“I might have known you were timid at heart, schoolmaster. Perhaps you're gallant over a glass.”

There could be no doubt of little Monsey's timidity. All his jests had forsaken him.

Sim had seen the gesture that expressed horror at contact even with his clothes. He was awake to every passing incident with a feverish alertness.

“Let me go,” he said again, with a look of supplicatory appeal.

Old Matthew got up and opened the door.

“Sista, there's some betterment in the weather, now; it teem't awhile ago.”

“What of that?” asked Ralph; but he understood the observation.

“For God's sake let me go,” cried Sim in agony, looking first at one face and then at another.

“No,” said Ralph, and sat down beside him. Robbie had gone back to his bench.

“Ye'll want the bull-grips to keep him quiet,” said old Matthew to Ralph, with a sneer.

“And the ass's barnicles to keep your tongue in your mouth,” added Ralph sternly.

“For fault of wise men fools sit on the bench, or we should hev none of this,” continued Matthew. “I reckon some one that's here is nigh ax't oot by Auld Nick in the kirk of the nether world.”

“Then take care you're not there yourself to give something at the bridewain.”

Old Mathew grumbled something under his breath.

There was a long silence. Ralph had rarely been heard to speak so bitterly. It was clear that opposition had gone far enough. Sim's watery eyes were never for an instant still. Full of a sickening apprehension, they cast furtive glances into every face. The poor creature seemed determined to gather up into his wretched breast the scorn that was blasting it. The turf on the hearth gave out a great heat, but the tailor shivered as with cold. Then Ralph reached the coat and cap, and, after satisfying himself that they were dry, he handed them back to Sim, who put them on. Perhaps he had mistaken the act, for, rising to his feet, Sim looked into Ralph's face inquiringly, as though to ask if he might go.

“Not yet, Sim,” said Ralph. “You shall go when I go. You lodge with me to-night.”

Monsey in the corner looked aghast, and crept closer under the flitch of bacon that hung above him.

“Men,” said Ralph, “hearken here. You call it a foul thing to kill a man, and so it is.”

Monsey turned livid; every one held his breath. Ralph went on—

“Did you ever reflect that there are other ways of taking a man's life besides killing him?”

There was no response. Ralph did not seem to expect one, for he continued—

“You loathe the man who takes the blood of his fellow-man, and you're right so to do. It matters nothing to you that the murdered man may have been a worse man than the murderer. You're right there too. You look to the motive that inspired the crime. Is it greed or revenge? Then you say, 'This man must die.' God grant that such horror of murder may survive among us.” There was a murmur of assent.

“But it is possible to kill without drawing blood. We may be murderers and never suspect the awfulness of our crime. To wither with suspicion, to blast with scorn, to dog with cruel hints, to torture with hard looks'—this is to kill without blood. Did you ever think of it? There are worse hangmen than ever stood on the gallows.”

“Ay, but he's shappin' to hang hissel',” muttered Matthew Branthwaite. And there was some inaudible muttering among the others.

“I know what you mean,” Ralph continued. “That the guilty man whom the law cannot touch is rightly brought under the ban of his fellows. Yes, it is Heaven's justice.”

Sim crept closer to Ralph, and trembled perceptibly.

“Men, hearken again,” said Ralph. “You know I've spoken up for Sim,” and he put his great arm about the tailor's shoulders; “but you don't know that I have never asked him, and he has never said whether he is innocent or not. The guilty man may be in this room, and he may not be Simeon Stagg. But if he were my own brother—my own father—”

Old Matthew's pipe had gone out; he was puffing at the dead shaft. Sim rose up; his look of abject misery had given place to a look of defiance; he stamped on the floor.

“Let me go; let me go,” he cried.

Robbie Anderson came up and took him by the hand; but Sim's brain seemed rent in twain, and in a burst of hysterical passion he fell back into his seat, and buried his head in his breast.

“He'll be hanged with the foulest collier yet,” growled one of the men. It was Joe Garth again. He was silenced once more. The others had begun to relent.

“I've not yet asked him if he is innocent,” continued Ralph; “but this persecution drives me to it, and I ask him now.”

“Yes, yes,” cried Sim, raising his head, and revealing an awful countenance. A direful memory seemed to haunt every feature.

“Do you know the murderer?”

“I do—that is—what am I saying?—let me go.”

Sim had got up, and was tramping across the floor. Ralph got up too, and faced him.

“It is your duty, in the sight of Heaven, to give that man's name.”

“No, no; heaven forbid,” cried Sim.

“It is your duty to yourself and to—”

“I care nothing for myself.”

“And to your daughter—think of that. Would you tarnish the child's name with the sin laid on the father's—”

“God in heaven help me!” cried Sim, tremulous with emotion. “Ralph, Ralph, ask me no more—you don't know what you ask.”

“It is your duty to Heaven, I say.”

He put his hand on Sim's shoulder, and looked steadily in his eyes. With a fearful cry Sim broke from his grasp, sprung to the door, and in an instant was lost in the darkness without. Ralph stood where Sim had left him, transfixed by some horrible consciousness. A slow paralysis seemed to possess all his senses. What had he read in those eyes that seemed to live before him still?

“Good neet,” said old Matthew as he got up and trudged out. Most of the company rose to go. “Good night,” said more than one, but Ralph answered nothing. Robbie Anderson was last.

“Good night, Ralph,” he said. His gruff voice was thick in his throat.

“Aye, good night, lad,” Ralph answered vacantly.

Robbie had got to the door, and was leaning with one hand on the door-frame. Coming back, he said—

“Ralph, where may your father be to-night?”

“At Gaskarth—it's market day—he took the last shearing.”

He spoke like one in a sleep. Then Robbie left him.

“Is Rotha ready to go?” he asked.