The Shadow of a Crime Part 79

"It is not for me to think. My part is to act."

"Where is your chief? Can you go on without him?"

"We can and must."

The clock in the Market Place registered ten minutes to eight.

A pale-faced man in the crowd started a hymn.

"Stop his mouth," cried a voice from the roof of the shambles, "the Quaker rascal!" And the men in blouses started a catch. But the singing continued; others joined in it, and soon it swelled to a long wave of song and flowed over that human sea.

But the clock was striking, and before its last bell had ceased to ring, between the lines of the hymn, a window of the guard-house was thrown open and a number of men stepped out.

In a moment the vast concourse was hushed to the stillness of death.

"Where is Wilfrey Lawson?" whispered one.

The sheriff was not there. The under sheriff and a burly fellow in black were standing side by side.

Among those who were near to the scaffold on the ground in front of it was one we know. Robbie Anderson had tramped the Market Place the long night through. He had not been able to tear himself from the spot. His eye was the first to catch sight of two men who came behind the chaplain. One of these walked with a firm step, a broad-breasted man, with an upturned face. Supported on his arm the other staggered along, his head on his breast, his hair whiter, and his step feebler than of old. Necks were craned forward to catch a glimpse of them.

"This is terrible," Sim whispered.

"Only a minute more, and it will be over," answered Ralph.

Sim burst into tears that shook his whole frame.

"Bravely, old friend," Ralph said, melted himself, despite his words of cheer. "One minute, and we shall meet again. Bravely, then, and fear not."

Sim was struggling to regain composure. He succeeded. His tears were gone, but a wild look came into his face. Ralph dreaded this more than tears.

"Be quiet, Sim," he whispered; "be still, and say no word."

The under sheriff approached Ralph.

"Have you any statement to make?" he said.

"None."

"Nor you?" said the officer, turning to Ralph's companion.

Sim was trying to overcome his emotion.

"He has nothing to say," said Ralph quietly. Then he whispered again in Sim's ear, "Bravely."

Removing his arm from Sim's convulsive grasp, he threw off his long coat. At that moment the bleared sun lit up his lifted face. There was a hush of awe.

Then, with a frantic gesture, Sim sprang forward, and seizing the arm of the under sheriff, he cried hysterically,--

"Ay, but I _have_ something to say. He is innocent--take me back and let me prove it--he is innocent--it's true--it's true--I say it's true--let me prove it."

With a face charged with sorrow, Ralph walked to Sim and said, "One moment more and we had clasped hands in heaven."

But now there was a movement at the back. The sheriff himself was seen stepping from the window to the scaffold. He was followed by w.i.l.l.y Ray and John Jackson. Two women stood together behind, Rotha and Mrs.

Garth.

w.i.l.l.y came forward and fell on his brother's neck.

"G.o.d has had mercy upon us," he cried, amid a flood of tears.

Ralph looked amazed. The sheriff said something to him which he did not hear. The words were inaudible to the crowd, but the quick sympathy of the great heart of the people caught the unheard message.

"A reprieve! a reprieve!" shouted fifty voices.

A woman fainted at the window behind. It was Rotha.

The two men were led off with staring eyes. They walked like men in a dream.

Saved! saved! saved!

Then there went up a mighty shout. It was one vast voice, more loud than the blast on the mountains, more deep than the roar of the sea!

CHAPTER LI. SIX MONTHS AFTER.

It was the height of a c.u.mbrian summer. Bracken Mere was as smooth as a sheet of gla.s.s. The hills were green, gray, and purple to the summits, and their clear outlines stood out against the sky. The sky itself would have been cloudless but for one long scarf of plaited white which wore away across a lake of blue. The ghyll fell like a furled flag. The thin river under the cl.u.s.tering leaves sang beneath its breath. The sun was hot and the air was drowsed by the hum of insects.

And full of happy people was the meadow between the old house on the Moss and the pack-horse road in front of it. It was the day of the Wythburn sports, and this year it was being celebrated at Shoulthwaite. Tents had been pitched here and there in out-of-the-way corners of the field, and Mrs. Branthwaite, with her meek face, was appointed chief mistress and dispenser of the hospitality of the Shoulthwaite household.

"This is not taty-and-point," said her husband, with a twinkle in his eyes and a sensation of liquidity about the lips as he came up to survey the outspread tables.

Mattha Branthwaite was once more resplendent in those Chapel-Sunday garments with which, in the perversity of the old weaver's unorthodox heart, that auspicious day was not often honored. Mrs. Ray had been carried out in her chair by her stalwart sons. Her dear old face looked more mellow and peaceful than before. Folks said the paralysis was pa.s.sing away. Mattha himself, who never at any time took a melancholy view of his old neighbor's seizure, stands by her chair to-day and fires off his sapient saws at her with the certainty that she appreciates every saw of them.

"The dame's to the fore yit," he says, "and lang will be."

At Mrs. Ray's feet her son w.i.l.l.y lies on the gra.s.s in a blue jerkin and broad-brimmed black hat with a plume. w.i.l.l.y's face is of the type on which trouble tells. Behind him, and leaning on the gate that leads from the court to the meadow, is Ralph, in a loose jacket with deep collar and a straw hat. He looks years younger than when we saw him last. He is just now laughing heartily at a batch of the schoolmaster's scholars who are casting lots close at hand. One bullet-headed little fellow has picked up a couple of pebbles, and after putting them through some unseen and mysterious manoeuvres behind him, is holding them out in his two little fists, saying,--

Neevy, neevy nack, Whether hand will ta tack-- T' topmer or t' lowmer?

"What hantle of gibberish is that?" says Monsey Laman himself.