that were littered over the floors, and bringing forward a carved oak chair with a cushion to place it before the fire for her acceptance.
"Scrow? What's that?" said Laura, lifting her eyebrows. "Oh, please don't tidy any more. I really think you make it worse. Besides, it's all right. What a dear old kitchen!"
She had seated herself in the cushioned chair, and was warming a slender foot at the fire. Mason wished she would take off her hat—it hid her hair. But he could not flatter himself that she was in the least occupied with what he wished. Her attention was all given to her surroundings—to the old raftered room, with its glowing fire and deep-set windows.
Bright as the April sun was outside, it hardly penetrated here. Through the mellow dusk, as through the varnish of an old picture, one saw the different objects in a golden light and shade—the brass warming-pan hanging beside the tall eight-day clock—the table in front of the long window-seat, covered with its checked red cloth—the carved door of a cupboard in the wall bearing the date 1679—the miscellaneous store of things packed away under the black rafters, dried herbs and tools, bundles of list and twine, the spindles of old spinning wheels, cattle-medicines, and the like—the heavy oaken chairs—the settle beside the fire, with its hard cushions and scrolled back. It was a room for winter, fashioned by the needs of winter. By the help of that great peat fire, built up year by year from the spoils of the moss a thousand feet below, generations of human beings had fought with snow and storm, had maintained their little polity there on the heights, self-centred, self-supplied. Across the yard, commanded by the window of the farm-kitchen, lay the rude byres where the cattle were prisoned from October to April. The cattle made the wealth of the farm, and there must be many weeks when the animals and their masters were shut in together from the world outside by wastes of snow.
Laura shut her eyes an instant, imagining the goings to and fro—the rising on winter dawns to feed the stock; the shepherd on the fell-side, wrestling with sleet and tempest; the returns at night to food and fire. Her young fancy, already played on by the breath of the mountains, warmed to the farmhouse and its primitive life. Here surely was something more human—more poetic even—than the tattered splendour of Bannisdale.
She opened her eyes wide again, as though in defiance, and saw Hubert Mason looking at her.
Instinctively she sat up straight, and drew her foot primly under the shelter of her dress.
"I was thinking of what it must be in winter," she said hurriedly. "I know I should like it."
"What, this place?" He gave a rough laugh. "I don't see what for, then. It's bad enough in summer. In winter it's fit to make you cut your throat. I say, where are you staying?"
"Why, at Bannisdale!" said Laura in surprise. "You knew my stepmother was still living, didn't you?"
"Well, I didn't think aught about it," he said, falling into candour, because the beauty of her grey eyes, now that they were fixed fair and full upon him, startled him out of his presence of mind.
"I wrote to you—to Cousin Elizabeth—when my father died," she said simply, rather proudly, and the eyes were removed from him.
"Aye—of course you did," he said in haste. "But mother's never yan to talk aboot letters. And you haven't dropped us a line since, have you?" he added, almost with timidity.
"No. I thought I'd surprise you. We've been a fortnight at Bannisdale."
His face flushed and darkened.
"Then you've been a fortnight in a queer place!" he said with a sudden, almost a violent change of tone. "I wonder you can bide so long under that man's roof!"
She stared.
"Do you mean because he disliked my father?"
"Oh, I don't know nowt about that!" He paused. His young face was crimson, his eyes angry and sinister. "He's a snake—is Helbeck!" he said slowly, striking his hands together as they hung over his knees.
Laura recoiled—instinctively straightening herself.
"Mr. Helbeck is quite kind to me," she said sharply. "I don't know why you speak of him like that. I'm staying there till my stepmother gets strong."
He stared at her, still red and obstinate.
"Helbeck an his house together stick in folk's gizzards aboot here," he said. "Yo'll soon find that oot. And good reason too. Did you ever hear of Teddy Williams?"
"Williams?" she said, frowning. "Was that the man that painted the chapel?"
Mason laughed and slapped his knee.
"Man, indeed? He was just a lad—down at Marsland School. I was there myself, you understand, the year after him. He was an awful clever lad—beat every one at books—an he could draw anything. You couldn't mak' much oot of his drawins, I daur say—they were queer sorts o' things. I never could make head or tail on 'em myself. But old Jackson, our master, thowt a lot of 'em, and so did the passon down at Marsland. An his father an mother—well, they thowt he was going to make all their fortunes for 'em. There was a scholarship—or soomthin o' that sort—an he was to get it an go to college, an make 'em all rich. They were just common wheelwrights, you understand, down on t' Whinthorpe Road. But my word, Mr. Helbeck spoilt their game for 'em!"
He lifted another sod of turf from the basket and flung it on the fire. The animus of his tone and manner struck Laura oddly. But she was at least as curious to hear as he was anxious to tell. She drew her chair a little nearer to him.
"What did Mr. Helbeck do?"
Mason laughed.
"Well, he just made a Papist of Teddy—took him an done him—brown. He got hold on him in the park one evening—Teddy was drawing a picture of the bridge, you understand—'ticed him up to his place soomhow—an Teddy was set to a job of paintin up at the chapel before you could say Jack Robinson. An in six months they'd settled it between 'em. Teddy wouldn't go to school no more. And one night he and his father had words; the owd man gie'd him a thrashing, and Teddy just cut and run. Next thing they heard he was at a Papist school, somewhere over Lancashire way, an he sent word to his mother—she was dyin then, you understan'—and she's dead since—that he'd gone to be a priest, an if they didn't like it, they might just do the other thing!"
"And the mother died?" said Laura.
"Aye—double quick! My mother went down to nurse her. An they sent Teddy back, just too late to see her. He come in two-three hours after they'd screwed her down. An his father chivvyed him oot—they wouldn't have him at the funeral. But folks were a deal madder with Mr. Helbeck, you understan', nor with Teddy. Teddy's father and brothers are chapel folk—Primitive Methodists they call 'em. They've got a big chapel in Whinthorpe—an they raised the whole place on Mr. Helbeck, and one night, coming out of Whinthorpe, he was set on by a lot of fellows, chapel fellows, a bit fresh, you understan'. Father was there—he never denied it—not he! Helbeck just got into the old mill by the bridge in time, but they'd marked his face for him all the same."
"Ah!" said Laura, staring into the fire. She had just remembered a dark scar on Mr. Helbeck's forehead, under the strong ripples of black hair. "Go on—do!"
"Oh! afterwards there was a lot of men bound over—father among 'em. There was a priest with Mr. Helbeck who got it hot too—that old chap Bowles—I dare say you've seen him. Aye, he's a snake, is Helbeck!" the young man repeated. Then he reddened still more deeply, and added
