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Updated: May 2, 2025
It was now fully three hours later, and the horse Ralph rode, fatigued and wellnigh spent, was slipping its feet in the gathering darkness. He turned its head towards Wythburn, and rode down to the city by Harrop Tarn. At the first house it was Luke Cockrigg's, and it stood on the bank above the burn he left the horse, and borrowed a lantern.
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.
"At Carlisle, did you hear anything meet anybody?" she asked. "Baith," said Reuben, with a twinkle which was lost in the darkness. "I mean from Wythburn. Did you meet anybody from did you see Ralph or my father?" "Nowther." "Nor hear of them?" "No wait deary me, deary me, now 'at I mind it I nivver thought of it afore I heeard 'at a man had been had up at the Toon Hall and taken to the gaol.
This was Matthew Branthwaite, the wit and sage of Wythburn, once a weaver, but living now on the husbandings of earlier life. He was tall and slight, and somewhat bent with age. He was dressed in a long brown sack coat, belted at the waist, below which were pockets cut perpendicular at the side.
Ralph offered no explanation to the gossips of Wythburn of Wilson's identity and belongings; indeed, as time wore on, it could be observed that he showed some uneasiness when questioned about the man. At first Wilson contrived to ingratiate himself into a good deal of favor among the dalespeople.
"Deary me! deary me!" responded the other shopkeeper, whose blood was obviously curdling at the bare recital of these harrowing details. Robbie walked on. Eight o'clock! Then he had been but two hours late two poor little hours! Robbie reflected with vexation and bitterness on the many hours which must have been wasted or ill spent since he left Wythburn on Sunday.
"It's strange very strange!" Ralph satisfied himself at length that the men in the adjoining, room were but going off to Wythburn nine days in advance in order to be ready to carry into effect the intended confiscation immediately their instructions should reach them. The real evils by which Ralph was surrounded were too numerous to allow of his wasting much apprehension on possible ones.
Garth shut the door, and refused to open it to any comers. To enforce seclusion was not long a necessity. Desertion was soon the portion of the Garths, mother and son. More swift than a bad name passed the terrible conviction among the people at Wythburn that at last, at long last, the plague, the plague itself, was in their midst.
Yet that he had somehow obtained some hint of a dark side to Wilson's character, every one felt satisfied. No other person seemed to know with certainty what were Wilson's means of livelihood. The Scotchman was not employed by the farmers and shepherds around Wythburn, and he had neither land nor sheep of his own.
"Because there was no evidence to convict the poor soul, suspicion, that is worse than conviction, must so fix upon him that he's afraid to sleep his nights in his bed at home, but must go where never a braggart loon of Wythburn dare follow him." "Aye, lad," said the old man, with a wink of profound import, "foxes hev holes." The sally was followed by a general laugh. Not noticing it, Ralph said,
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