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Updated: June 27, 2025
"You would scarce think they would have the heart, these people. You would scarce think it, would you?" he said, lifting his poor glassy eyes to Rotha's face. "Perhaps they don't know," she answered soothingly, and tried to replace him on his pillow. "That's true," he muttered; "perhaps they don't know how ill I am."
Ralph is among the mountains yet, take my word for it, father." "It's bad weather to trapes the fells, Rotha. The ground is all slush and sladderment." "So it is, so it is; and you're grown weak, father. I'll go myself. Liza Branthwaite will come here and fill my place." "No, no, I'll go; yes, that I will," said Sim. Rotha's ardor of soul had conquered her father's apprehension of failure.
But, no; neither had the cupboard the lock which fitted the key in Rotha's hand. There was a bedroom leading out of the kitchen. Rotha entered it and looked around. A linen trunk, a bed, and a chair were all that it contained. She went upstairs. There were two bedrooms there, but no chest, box, cabinet, cupboard, not anything having a lock which a key like this might fit.
This outburst was at least serviceable in discharging all the ill-nature from the girl's breast; and when she had watched the blacksmith until he had disappeared, she replied to Rotha's remonstrances as so much scarcely girl-like abuse by a burst of the heartiest girlish laughter. There was much commotion at the Red Lion that night.
There was a great sob for Liza in the heart of the humor of that situation; and trying no longer to conceal her sorrow at her lover's relapse into drinking habits, she laid her head on Rotha's breast and wept outright. "We must go to Mrs. Ray; she'll be lonely, poor old thing," said Rotha, drying Liza's eyes; "besides, she hasn't had her supper, you know."
Wilson's life in Wythburn his death Sim's troubles Rotha's sorrow even his father's fearful end, and the more fearful accident at the funeral then his mother's illness, nigh to death how nigh to death by this time God alone could tell him here all, all, with this last misery of his own banishment, seemed somehow to centre in himself.
"All the better," he replied, with a mocking laugh. "I've heard that they say my own sel' is a bad sel'." The words were hardly off his lips when he turned again sharply and faced Rotha with an inquiring look. He had reminded himself of a common piece of his mother's counsel; but in the first flash of recollection it had almost appeared to him that the words had been Rotha's, not his.
She did not foresee evil consequences. Willy had exhibited more perturbation. Going into his brother's room on the morning after their conversation, he saw clearly enough that the bed had not been slept upon. The two friends of Joe Garth's, of whom Ralph had spoken with so much apparent unconcern, had obviously driven him away from home in the depth of the night. Then came Rotha's explanation.
Around him the dalesmen of Grasmere lie beneath the shade of sycamore and yew; and Rotha's murmur mourns the pausing of that "music sweeter than her own."
"Not another word about him! If you have anything to say about me, say it, sir." "What! the father dead! the mother stricken into unconsciousness two sons and you a young woman was there no matron in the parish, that a young woman must come here?" Rotha's color, that had tinged her cheeks, mounted to her eyes and descended to her neck.
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