The smoke was rising lazily in blue coils from many a chimney as Sim turned his back on the Raise and retraced his steps to Wythburn.
In the cottage by the smithy—they stood together near the bridge—the fire had been newly kindled. Beneath a huge kettle, swung from an unseen iron hook, the boughs crackled and puffed and gave out the odor of green wood.
Bared up to the armpits and down to the breast, the blacksmith was washing himself in a bowl of water placed on a chair. His mother sat on a low stool, with a pair of iron tongs in her hands, feeding the fire from a bundle of gorse that lay at one side of the hearth. She was a big, brawny, elderly woman with large bony hands, and a face that had hard and heavy features, which were dotted here and there with discolored warts. Her dress was slatternly and somewhat dirty. A soiled linen cap covered a mop of streaky hair, mouse-colored and unkempt.
“He's backset and foreset,” she said in a low tone. “Ey, eye; he's made a sad mull on't.”
Mrs. Garth purred to herself as she lifted another pile of gorse on to the crackling fire.
Joe answered with a grating laugh, and then with a burr he applied a towel to his face.
“Nay, nay, mother. He has a gay bit of gumption in him, has Ray. It'll be no kitten play to catch hold on him, and they know that they do.”
The emphasis was accompanied by a lowered tone, and a sidelong motion of the head towards a doorway that led out of the kitchen.
“Kitten play or cat play, it's dicky with him; nought so sure, Joey,” said Mrs.
Garth; and her cold eyes sparkled as she purred again with satisfaction.
“That's what you're always saying,” said Joe testily; “but it never comes to anything and never will.”
“Weel, weel, there's nought so queer as folk,” mumbled Mrs. Garth.
Joe seemed to understand his mother's implication.
“I'm moider'd to death,” he said, “what with yourself and them. I'm right glad they're going off this morning, that's the truth.”
This declaration of Mr. Garth's veracity was not conducive to amiability.
He looked as black as his sanguine complexion would allow.
Mrs. Garth glanced up at him. “Why, laddie, what ails thee? Thou'rt as crook't as a tiphorn this morning,” she said, in a tone that was meant to coax her son out of a cantankerous temper.
“I'm like to be,” grumbled Mr. Garth.
“Why, laddie?” asked his mother, purring, now in other fashion.
“Why?” said Joe,—“why?—because I can never sleep at night now, no, nor work in the day neither—that's why.”
“Hush!” said Mrs. Garth, turning a quick eye towards the aforementioned door. Then quietly resuming her attentions to the gorse, she added, in another tone, “That's nowther nowt nor summat, lad.”
“It'll take a thicker skin nor mine, mother, to hold out much longer,” said Joe huskily, but struggling to speak beneath his breath.
“Yer skin's as thin as a cat-lug,” said Mrs. Garth in a bitter whisper.
“I've told you I cannot hold out much longer,” said Joe, “and I cannot.”
“Hod thy tongue, then,” growled Mrs. Garth over the kettle.
There was a minute's silence between them.
The blacksmith donned his upper garments. His mother listened for the simmer and bubble of the water on the fire.
“How far did ye bargain to tak them?”
“To Gaskarth—the little lame fellow will make for the Carlisle coach once they're there?”
“When was t'horse and car to be ready?”
“Nine o'clock forenoon.”
“Then it's full time they were gitten roused.”
Mrs. Garth rose from the stool, hobbled to the door which had been previously indicated by sundry nods and jerks, and gave it two or three sharp raps.
A voice from within answered sleepily, “Right—right as a trivet, old lady,”
and yawned.
Mrs. Garth put her head close to the door-jamb.
“Ye'd best be putten the better leg afore, gentlemen,” she said with becoming amiability; “yer breakfast is nigh about ready, gentlemen.”
“The better leg, David, eh? Ha! ha! ha!” came from another muffled voice
within.
Mrs. Garth turned about, oblivious of her own conceit. In a voice and manner that had undergone a complete and sudden change, she whispered to Joe,—
“Thou'rt a great bledderen fool.”
The blacksmith had been wrapped in his thoughts. His reply was startlingly irrelevant.
“Fool or none, I'll not do it,” said Joe emphatically.
“Do what?” asked his mother in a tone of genuine inquiry.
“What I told you.”
“Tut, what's it to thee?”
“Ay, but it is something to me, say I.”
“Tush, thou'rt yan of the wise asses.”
“If these constables,” lurching his head, “if they come back, as they say, to take Ralph, I'll have no hand in't.”
“And why did ye help them this turn?” said Mrs. Garth, with an elevation of her heavy eyebrows.
“Because I knew nowt of what they were after. If I'd but known that it were for—for—him—”
“Hod thy tongue. Thou wad mak a priest sweer,” said Mrs. Garth. The words rolled within her teeth.
“I heard what they said of the warrant, mother,” said Joe; “it were the same warrant, I reckon, as old Mattha's always preaching aboot, and it's missing, and it seems to me that they want to make out as Ray—as Ralph—”
“Wilt ye never hod yer bletheren tongue?” said Mrs. Garth in a husky whisper.
Then in a mollified temper she added,—
“An what an they do, laddie; what an they do? Did ye not hear yersel that it were yan o' the Rays—yan o' them; and what's the odds which—what's the odds, I say—father and son, they were both of a swatch.”
At this moment there came from the inner room some slight noise of motion, and the old woman lifted her finger to her lip.
“And who knows it were not yan on 'em—who?” added Mrs. Garth, after a moment's silence.
“Nay, mother,” said Joe, and his gruff voice was husky in his throat,—“nay, mother, but there is them that knows.”
The woman gave a short forced titter.
“Ye wad mak a swine laugh, ye wad,” she said.
Then, coming closer to where her son now stood with a “lash” comb in his hand before a scratched and faded mirror, she said under her breath,—
“There'll be no rest for him till summat's done, none; tak my word for that. But yance they hang some riff-raff for him it will soon be forgotten. Then all will be as dead as hissel', back and end. What's it to thee, man, who they tak for't? Nowt, Theer's nea sel' like awn sel', Joey.”
Mrs. Garth emphasized her sentiment with a gentle prod of her son's breast.
“That's what you told me long ago,” said the blacksmith, “when you set me to work to help hang the tailor. I cannot bear the sight of him, I cannot.”
Mrs. Garth took her son roughly by the shoulder.
“Ye'd best git off and see to t' horse and car. Stand blubbering here and ye'll gang na farther in two days nor yan.”
There was a step on the road in front.
“Who's that gone by?” asked Mrs. Garth.
Joe stepped to the window.
“Little Sim,” he said, and dropped his head.