A Son of Hagar Part 109

"You have been recognized by two witnesses--one claiming to be your brother, the other to be your wife--as Paul Ritson. Are you that person?"

The convict's face showed the agony he suffered. In a vague, uncertain, puzzled way he was thinking of the consequences of his answer. If he said he was Paul Ritson, it seemed to him that it must leak out that he was not the eldest legitimate son of his father. Then all the fabric of his mother's honor would there and then tumble to the ground. He recalled his oath; could he p.r.o.nounce six words and not violate it? No, not six syllables. How those mouthing gossips would glory to see a good name trailed in the dust!

"Are you Paul Ritson, the eldest son and heir of Allan Ritson?"

The convict looked again at Greta. She rose to her feet beside him. All her soul was in her face, and cried:

"Answer, answer!"

"I can not answer," said the convict, in a loud, piercing voice.

At that terrible moment his strength seemed to leave him. He sunk backward into the chair from which Greta had risen.

She stood over him and put her hand tenderly on his head.

"Tell them it is true," she pleaded, "tell them you are my husband; tell them so; oh, tell them, tell them!" she cried in a tone of piteous supplication.

He raised to hers his weary eyes with a dumb cry for mercy from the appeal of love.

Only Hugh Ritson, of all who were there present, understood what was in the convict's heart.

"Paul Ritson is the rightful heir of his father and his mother's legitimate son," he muttered audibly.

The convict turned to where his brother sat, and looked at him with a face that seemed to grapple for the missing links of a chain of facts.

Counsel for the defense arose.

"It will be seen that the unhappy convict witness will not be used as an instrument of deception," he said. "He is Paul Drayton, and can not be made to pretend that he is Paul Ritson."

The hush of awe in the court was broken by the opening of a door behind the bench. Two women stood on the threshold. One of them was small, wrinkled, and old. She was Mrs. Drayton. The other was a nun in hood and cape. She was Sister Grace.

Hugh Ritson leaned toward counsel for the plaintiff, who promptly rose and said:

"The witness I spoke of as dead to the world is now present in the court."

Amid a buzz of conversation the nun was handed to the table. She raised her long veil and showed a calm, pale face. After the usual formalities, counsel addressed her.

"Mrs. Ritson," he said, "tell us which of the two men who sit opposite is your son."

Sister Grace answered in a clear, soft voice:

"Both are my sons. The convict is Paul Ritson, my son by Allan Ritson; the other is Paul Lowther, my son by an unhappy alliance with Robert Lowther."

Drayton jumped to his feet.

"There, that's enough of this!" he shouted, excitedly. "Damme, if I can stand any more of it!"

Bonnithorne reached over and whispered:

"Mad man, what are you doing? Hold your tongue!"

"It's all up. There's the old woman, too, come to give me away. Here, I say, I'm Paul Drayton; that's what I am, if you want to know."

"Let the sheriff take that man before a justice of the peace," said the judge.

"It was you that led me into this mess!" shouted Drayton at Bonnithorne.

"Only for you I would have been in Australia by this time."

"Let the sheriff apprehend Mr. Bonnithorne also," said the judge. "As for you, sir," he continued, turning to Hugh Ritson, "I will report your evidence to the Public Prosecutor--who must be in possession of your statutory declaration--and leave the law officers to take their own course with regard to you."

The action for ejectment was adjourned.

Drayton and Bonnithorne did not trouble the world much longer. Within a month they were tried and condemned together--the one for personation; both for conspiracy.

Paul Ritson was removed in charge of his warder, to be confined in the town jail pending the arrival of instructions from the Secretary of State. Hugh Ritson walked out of the court-room a free man.

CHAPTER XVII.

Hugh Ritson returned to his room on the pit-brow. On his way there he pa.s.sed a group of people congregated on the bridge at the town end. They fell apart as he walked through, but not an eye was raised to his, and not one glance of recognition came from his stony face. Toward the middle of the afternoon a solicitor came from Carlisle and executed a bill of sale on the machinery and general plant. The same evening, as the men on the day s.h.i.+ft came up the shaft, and those on the night s.h.i.+ft were about to go below, the wages were paid down to the last weights taken at the pit-mouth. Then Hugh Ritson closed his doors and began afresh his melancholy perambulation of the room.

That night--it was Wednesday night--as darkness fell on the mountain and moorland, there was a great outcry in the Vale. It started at the pit-mouth, and was taken up on every side. In less than a quarter of an hour a hundred people--men, women, and children--were gathered about the head of the shaft. There had been a run of sand in the pit, and some of the hands were imprisoned in the blocked-up workings. Cries, moans, and many sounds of weeping arose on the air in one dismal chorus. "I knew it would come;" "I telt the master lang ago;" "Where's my man?" "And mine?"

"And my poor barn--no'but fifteen." "Anybody seen my Willie?" "Is that thee, Robbie, ma lad?--No." As every cageful of men and boys came to the surface, there was a rush of mothers, wives, and fathers to recognize their own.

Hugh Ritson went out and pushed his way through the people.

"Where is the sand running?" he asked of a pitman just landed.

"In the sandy vein, 2, 3, 1," answered the man.

"Then the shaft is clear?"

"Ay, but the water's blocked in the main working, and it's not safe to go down."

Hugh Ritson had taken the man's candle out of his hand, and was fixing it with the putty in the front of his own hat.

"Are you ready?" he shouted to the engine-man, above the babel of voices.

In another moment he had stepped into the cage and looped down the iron rail in front of it. There was a moment's silence among the panic-stricken people as the cage began to move downward.

At the bottom of the shaft a group of men waited to ascend. Their faces were lurid in the dim light. Before the cage grounded Hugh Ritson could hear their breathing. "How many of you are left?" he asked.

"No'but two now--Giles Raisley and auld Reuben," answered one of the men. The others, without heeding the master's question, had scrambled into the cage, and were already knocking the signal for the ascent.

Hugh Ritson turned toward the working known among the men as the sandy vein. The cage was now rising, and the pitman who had spoken found himself left on the pit bottom; the single moment that he had given to the master had lost him his chance of a place. He cast one stern glance upward, and a muttered oath was on his lips. At the next instant he had taken the direction followed by Hugh Ritson, and was walking one pace behind him.