"To-morrow I cannot. 'Tis churning-day, Ned, and the butter is always streaked when I leave those want-wit maids alone with it."
"It is better that thou should'st not go," said Wayne, after a pause. "I was a fool to speak of it, Nell, for the washing-pools lie over close to Wildwater, and 'twould be unsafe for women-folk."
"Unsafe?" she echoed, with a quick glance at him. "Then 'tis unsafe for thee, Ned, and I'll not have thee go to the washing at all."
"That is folly, lass. I have a sword, and I carry less risks than a maid would.--A rare holiday the men would have, my faith, if I left them to wash the sheep at their own good pleasure."
"Take the lads with thee, then, if thou must go."
"I promised them they should go hawking until dinner-time, and after that they must come up; but why spoil a morning's pastime for them?"
"The old tales fret at times," she answered gravely, "and to-night I'm sad a little, Ned, like thee. The washing-pools lie near to Wildwater, as thou say'st, and thou know'st how Waynes and Ratcliffes first fell out."
"Tut! If I give heed to women's fancies, when shall I find an hour to move abroad in? The Ratcliffes have got their fill for a good while to come, and they'll keep well on the far side of the pools, I warrant. What, Mistress? Thy wanderings have brought thee supperless indoors," he broke off, as his step-mother opened the door softly and set down a basket of marsh-marigolds among the dishes and platters that cumbered the great dining-table.
Nell rose with no word of greeting and left them; and Mistress Wayne, glancing in troubled fashion after her, crossed to the window and leaned against it.
"I had better have stayed as I was, Ned," she said, smiling gravely. "Nell was growing kind--but that has passed now I have found my wits again."
He winced; for he knew that he, too, had felt less kindliness toward her since her helplessness had gone. Looking at her now, frail against the mullioned casement, he could not but remember that it was she, in her right mind as she was now, who had fouled the good fame of his house.
"Ay, and _thou_ hast a touch of her aloofness, too," she went on. "I can read it in thy face, Ned.--Listen. I've had in mind to tell thee something these days past, but have never found the words for it. I wronged thy father--but not as deeply as thou think'st. Ned! Canst not think what it meant to me--the dreariness, the cold, the hardness of this moorland life? And when Dick Ratcliffe came, and promised to take me out of it----"
