CHAPTER XV.
A CONFESSION OF GUILT
Cyril stared at the terrified man in amazement. The latter's cry rang through the empty house and filled his ears. What had so frightened him?
"My father," began Cyril again, wishing to explain his sudden appearance by saying that his father was lying out in the snow, waiting to be carried into shelter.
"Oh! Stop, stop!" cried the man, interrupting him in apparent anguish. "Mercy, father! Father, have mercy!" He turned wildly as if to flee, but thought better of it, and coming to the window threw himself down on his knees before it, looking up into Cyril's face with wild, unseeing eyes. "I didn't mean to kill yer, my father," he said. "I only wanted the gold. And I can't find it. I can't find it. And the snow-blindness is coming over me. I can scarcely see! Oh, my punishment is great enough! Have pity on me! Have pity on me!"
"What have you done?" The voice that asked the question was not Cyril's. It was that of the girl, who had followed him to the house, and her tone was loud and very angry. "Tell me again," she demanded. "I must hear it in your own words again."
"I will tell yer. Oh, I will! Have mercy, father!" wailed the unhappy man. "I wanted money so much, father, so very much. I'd lost a wager—a hundred pounds—to some men at Iron Mountain, who said they would duck me in a pond if I did not pay them it. And I begged yer on my knees, but yer wouldn't give me any. So I thought I'd help myself. I knew yer hid your money in a hole under the flooring 'ere, and was looking for it when yer came to me. I shouldn't 'ave killed yer if yer 'adn't angered me with bad words. Then I was that put to, it seemed as if I killed yer before I knew what I was doing."
"And Mr. Gerald? What did he do?"
"Oh, 'e knew nothing about it. I guess I blamed 'im to get the blame off myself. Now I've told yer all," the wretched man whimpered. "I've told yer all. Mercy! Mercy, I beg!" Lifting up his hands, he cried still louder for mercy.
"Begone, then!" exclaimed the girl. "Begone this moment! No, not that way. Out of the door at the back of the house, and then fly southwards. If you ever return it will be at your own risk—your own risk!"
"I never will, father! I never will!" The wretched man fled through the house, out of the back door into the snow, running against trees and stumbling over drifts in his hurry to be gone.
The girl leaned against the window-frame, looking extremely pale.
"What does it mean?" asked Cyril. "What does it all mean?"
"Mean?" she said, and now once more she spoke in her natural voice—the one she had been using to the man was shrill and hard. "Mean? Why, just this. There is an old saying, 'Conscience makes cowards of us all.' 'Tis true in this case. His guilty conscience made a coward of yon man. His father, a rich old miser, who lived in this house, was killed six months ago—it was supposed for his money. Yon wretch accused a hunter, who had been lodging with them, of the crime. His name was Gerald; he was a nice man, a real gentleman, though very poor. Appearances seemed against him and he fled. 'Twas the worst thing he could do. Everyone, nearly, thought he must be guilty then. The house has been considered haunted by the old man's ghost ever since. It is lonely enough. And yon wretch, returning to find the money which he had not got after all, saw you, and being half blind—if it's true he has snow-blindness[1] coming on—and frightened almost out of his wits, he thought you were his father. But," she changed her voice, "we must now return to your father. We shall have to get him here the best way we can."
[1] Snow-blindness is rather common in those parts.—E.C.K.
To their surprise and delight, however, they met Mr. Morton coming towards them a minute later. He had recovered consciousness, and finding himself alone on a strange sleigh, wrapped in rugs, whilst its two horses stood quite still, stupefied now with fatigue and cold, he arose and made the best of his way along the only semblance of a path visible.
"Where am I? What has happened?" were his first questions.
The girl looked up into his face and smiled. "'Pears like I have seen you before," she said. "But come in. Don't talk now. Come straight in and sit down. We'll have a fire in no time, and some hot water for your poor foot." She led the way into the house as she spoke.
A few articles of furniture, too poor or too heavy to be worth carrying away, had been left in the room with the hole in the floor. The girl dragged forward an ancient arm-chair of the most elementary workmanship and begged Mr. Morton to sit down in it, near a strong table supported on what looked like tree-trunks instead of legs.
"Now, my boy," she said to Cyril, "let's make a fire. There'll be wood in that chimney-corner, I'll be bound. Here's a match. Oh, and here's some paper!" She pulled the latter articles out of a huge pocket under her furs. "Can you make a fire, boy?"
"Yes, I can," he replied quickly. "I've often done it at the saw-mill."
"His name is Cyril Morton," interposed his father. "I should like to know yours," he added to the girl.
"Mine's Cynthy—Cynthy Wood," she said, taking an old kettle she had found to a running spring in the kitchen. "I'll rinse this old thing out, then the water will be sweeter," she said cheerily.
"I ought to thank you," began Mr. Morton.
"Don't now. Don't thank me," she said. "I've been repaid a thousandfold for coming here."
Cyril looked round at her wonderingly. A vivid blush had overspread one of the prettiest faces he had ever seen. Her blue eyes shone with gladness. Her voice betrayed its happiness every time she spoke. She seemed altogether a different person from the girl who had driven his father there.
"Now, you're wondering what has repaid me," she said to Cyril. "Shouldn't be surprised if I tell you after tea. You make that kettle boil sharp."
The boy laughed and poked the wood, which was nice and dry, with his boot. But Cynthy reproved him for that, "Waste not, want not!" she exclaimed. "It's wrong to burn holes in good leather. Now, sir," she added to Mr. Morton, "let me try to take your boot off."
With gentle hands, in spite of his protest, she deftly removed Mr. Morton's boot from his injured foot, then, fetching a basin from the inner room, she bathed it in warm water, filling the kettle up again after she had emptied it.
"It's swollen, sir," she said to her patient, "but I think it's more bruised than sprained; I'll bind it up for you."
"You are very kind, Miss Wood," said Mr. Morton.
"Now don't," she said. "Call me Cynthy, everyone does. Cyril, you fetch me that stool," pointing to one with three legs. "Now, sir, you must keep your foot up on the stool. Cyril, you and I must go back to the sleigh for some things I left there."
It was no easy task, but they struggled through the snow back to the sleigh, which was already nearly buried in it.
"The poor horses," said Cynthy; "I'd forgotten them. I shall cut them loose; they must look after themselves. I have no food for them. I think they will go home. Then my father will send to seek us."
Blackie was delighted to see Cyril again; he had stood still, waiting for him to return, and now he put his cold nose in the boy's hands, and seemed to ask him not to go away again.
"What shall I do with my dear old pony?" asked Cyril. "He has nowhere to go—he loves me so, he will never leave me!"
"Can you get him along the path to the house?"
"Oh! yes. He followed me before, but I sent him back. He's very intelligent."
"Seems so," said Cynthy. "Well, you bring him along. I guess he'll be able to get into the kitchen."
"Oh! do you think so?—but the people of the house——"
"There are none. The old man who owned it is dead. And his son and heir daren't come back, because he thinks his father's ghost has returned!" Cynthy laughed. "Remember this, Cyril," she added, "there's nothing like a guilty conscience to make an out-and-out coward.”