That Lass O' Lowrie's Part 24

"Nay. What I ha' to say mowt waken th' young un."

She stepped out without another word, and closed the door quietly behind her.

There was the faintest possible light in the sky, the first tint of dawn, and it showed even to his brutal eyes all the beauty of her face and figure as she stood motionless, the dripping rain falling upon her; there was so little suggestion of fear about her that he was roused to fresh anger.

"Dom yo'!" he broke forth. "Do yo' know as I've fun yo' out?"

She did not profess not to understand him, but she did not stir an inch.

"I did na know before," was her reply.

"Yo' thowt as I wur to be stopped, did yo'? Yo' thowt as yo' could keep quiet an' stond i' my way, an' houd me back till I'd forgetten? Yo're a brave wench! Nivver moind how I fun yo' out, an' seed how it wur--I've done it, that's enow fur yo'; an' now I've coom to ha' a few words wi'

yo' and settle matters. I coom here to-neet a purpose, an' this is what I've getten to say. Yo're stubborn enow, but yo' canna stop me. That's one thing I ha' to tell yo', an here's another. Yo're hard enow, an'

yo're wise enow, but yo're noan so wise as yo' think fur, if yo' fancy as a hundred years ud mak' me forget what I ha' made up my moind to, an'

yo're noan so wise as yo' think fur, if yo' put yoursen in my road. An'

here's another yet," clinching his fist. "If it wur murder, as I wur goin' to do--not as I say it is--but if it wur murder itsen an' yo' wur i' my way, theer mowt be two blows struck i'stead o' one--theer mowt be two murders done--an' I wunnot say which ud coom first--fur I'll do what I've set my moind to, if I'm dom'd to h.e.l.l fur it!"

She did not move nor speak. Perhaps because of her immobility he broke out again.

"What!" he cried. "_Yo'_ hangin' on to gentlemen, an' d.o.g.g.i.n' 'em, an'

draggin' yoursen thro' th' dark an' mire to save 'em fro' havin' theer prutty faces hurt, an' getten theer dues! _Yo'_ creepin' behind a mon as cares no more fur yo' than he does for th' dirt at his feet, an' as laughs, ten to one, to know as yo're ready to be picked up or throwed down at his pleasure! _Yo'_ watchin' i' th' shade o' trees an' stoppin'

a mon by neet as would na stop to speak to yo' by day. Dom yo'! theer were na a mon i' Riggan as dare touch yo' wi' a yard-stick until this chap coom."

"I've listened to yo'," she said. "Will yo' listen to me?"

He replied with another oath, and she continued as if it had been an a.s.sent.

"Theer's a few o' them words as yo've spoken as is na true, but theer's others as is. It's true as I ha' set mysen to watch, an' it's true as I mean to do it again. If it's nowt but simple harm yo' mean, yo' shanna do it; if it's murder yo' mean--an' I dunnot trust yo' as it is na--if it's murder yo' mean, theer's yo' an' me for it before it's done; an' if theer's deathly blows struck, the first shall fa' on _me_. Theer!" and she struck herself upon her breast. "If I wur ivver afraid o' yo' i' my loife--if I ivver feared yo' as choild or woman, dunnot believe me now."

"Yo' mean that?" he said.

"Yo' know whether I mean it or not," she answered.

"Aye!" he said. "I'm dom'd if yo' dunnot, yo' she-devil, an' bein' as that's what's ailin' thee, I'm dom'd if I dunnot mean summat too," and he raised his hand and gave her a blow that felled her to the ground; then he turned away, cursing as he went.

She uttered no cry of appeal or dread, and Liz and the child slept on inside, as quietly as before. It was the light-falling rain and the cool morning air that roused her. She came to herself at last, feeling sick and dizzy, and conscious of a fierce pain in her bruised temple.

She managed to rise to her feet and stand, leaning against the rough gate-post. She had borne such blows before, but she never felt her humiliation so bitterly as she did at this moment. She laid her brow upon her hand, which rested on the gate, and broke into heavy sobs.

"I shall bear th' mark for mony a day," she said. "I mun hide mysen away. I could na bear fur _him_ to see it, even tho' I getten it fur his sake."

CHAPTER XXV - The Old Danger

It had been some time since Derrick on his nightly walks homeward had been conscious of the presence of the silent figure; but the very night after the occurrence narrated in the last chapter, he was startled at his first turning into the Knoll Road by recognizing Joan.

There was a pang to him in the discovery. Her silent presence seemed only to widen the distance Fate had placed between them. She was ready to shield him from danger, but she held herself apart from him even in doing so. She followed her own path as if she were a creature of a different world,--a world so separated from his own that nothing could ever bridge the gulf between them.

To-night, Derrick was seized with an intense longing to speak to the girl. He had forborne for her sake before, but to-night he was in one of those frames of mind in which a man is selfish, and is apt to let his course be regulated by his impulse. Why should he not speak, after all?

If there was danger for him there was danger for her, and it was absurd that he should not show her that he was not afraid. Why should she interpose her single strength between himself and the vengeance of a man of whom he had had the best in their only encounter? As soon as they had reached the more unfrequented part of the road, he wheeled round suddenly, and spoke.

"Joan," he said.

He saw that she paused and hesitated, and he made up his mind more strongly. He took a few impetuous steps toward her, and seeing this, she addressed him hurriedly.

"Dunnot stop," she said. "If--if yo' want to speak to me, I'll go along wi' yo'."

"You think I'm in danger?"

He could not see her face, but her voice told him that her usual steady composure was shaken--it was almost like the voice of another woman.

"Yo' nivver wur i' more danger i' yo're loife."

"The old danger?"

"Th' old danger, as is worse to be feared now than ivver."

"And you!" he broke out. "_You_ interpose yourself between that danger and me!"

His fire seemed to communicate itself to her.

"Th' harm as is meant to be done, is coward's harm," she said, "an' will be done i' coward's fashion--it is na a harm as will be done yo' wi'

fair warnin', i' dayleet, an' face to face. If it wur, I should na fear--but th' way it is, I say it shanna be done--it shanna, if I dee fur it!" Then her manner altered again, and her voice returned to its first tremor. "It is na wi' me as it is wi' other women. Yo' munnot judge o' me as yo' judge o' other la.s.ses. What mowtn't be reet fur other la.s.ses to do, is reet enow fur me. It has na been left to me to be la.s.s-loike, an' feart, an'--an' modest," and she drew her breath hard, as if she was forced to check herself.

"It has been left to you," he burst forth, "it has been left to you to stand higher in my eyes than any other woman G.o.d ever made."

He could not have controlled himself. And yet, when he had said this, his heart leaped for fear he might have wounded her or given her a false impression. But strange to say, it proved this time that he had no need for fear.

There was a moment's silence, and then she answered low.

"Thank yo'!"

They had gone some yards together, before he recovered himself sufficiently to remember what he had meant to say to her.

"I wanted to tell you," he said, "that I do not think any--enemy I have, can take me at any very great disadvantage. I am--I have prepared myself."

She shuddered.

"Yo' carry--summat?"

"Don't misunderstand me," he said quickly. "I shall not use any weapon rashly. It is to be employed more as a means of warning and alarm than anything else. Rigganites do not like firearms, and they are not used to them. I only tell you this, because I cannot bear that you should expose yourself unnecessarily."

There was that in his manner which moved her as his light touch had done that first night of their meeting, when he had bound up her wounded temple with his handkerchief. It was that her womanhood--her hardly used womanhood, of which she had herself thought with such pathetic scorn--was always before him, and was even a stronger power with him than her marvellous beauty.

She remembered the fresh bruise upon her brow, and felt its throb with less of shame, because she bore it for his sake.

"Promise me one thing," he went on. "And do not think me ungracious in asking it of you--promise me that you will not come out again through any fear of danger for me, unless it is a greater one than threatens me now and one I am unprepared to meet."