And she was gone almost before he was aware.
Willy was turning away when he heard a step behind. It was the Reverend Nicholas Stevens, lantern in hand, lighting himself home from a coming-of-age celebration at Smeathwaite. As he approached, Willy stepped up to him.
“Stop,” cried the parson, “was she who parted from you but now the daughter of the man Simeon Stagg?”
“The same,” Willy answered.
“And she comes from the home of the infected blacksmith?”
“She is there again, even now,” said Willy. “I thought you might wish to take the solace of religion to a dying man—Garth is dying.”
“Back—away—do not touch me—let me pass,” whispered the parson in an accent of dread, shrinking meantime from the murderous stab of the cloak which Willy carried over his arm.
Rotha was in the cottage once again almost before she had been missed.
Joe was dozing fitfully. His mother was sighing and whimpering in turns. Her wrinkled face, no longer rigid, was a distressing spectacle. When Rotha came close to her she whispered,—
“The lad was wrang, but I dare not have telt 'im so. Yon man were none of a father to Joe, though he were my husband, mair's the pity.”