But neither Griff nor the old lady of the Manor thought of coming evil. They walked far and wide by day, and at night they chatted of old times, of new endeavours, by the parlour fire. The itch for work, too, was taking a surer hold of Griff, and he was well satisfied with the progress of his picture. Autumn had long ago failed to winter, and the moors were looking their best; the heather had lost its gaudy raiment of purple, and stretched away in patches of rusty brown, of sober red, that fitted better with its savage dignity. Overhead, on the fine days, were wonderful shifting tints of sapphire and clear-cut green, with sunsets that stretched, purple and crimson, along half the horizon edge; then, again, the wind would shift to rain, and the sullen banks of yellow would come crowding across the sky from over Ling Crag, and the tremor and stress of storm would sweep into the man's heart. And all the while the woman across the moor grew dearer to him; she was part and parcel of the heath he loved, the sunsets that fired him to endeavour, the wind that made him drunker than wine could ever do. If he failed to look at the situation squarely, it was because Kate was always there, to be seen whenever the wish moved him; had a rival stepped in, or had she left Marshcotes for a space, Griff would better have understood it all.
Kate Strangeways, too, began to find heart again, began to feel the old use of her limbs and the old relish for a gale; she wondered, now and then, what had wrought this change in her, but it was long ere she was brought to confess that she counted the days between visit and visit of a man who had troubled himself to bring fresh interest into her dull round of care. Her manner towards her husband changed; she found courage to fight him, and she conquered; she furbished up a little bedroom facing south, and maintained her rights of property therein, and did not stop to inquire what instinct prompted her to privacy.
As for Joe, he got drunk oftener nowadays; his will held altogether too much parley with the shadowy places, and, as a consequence, he blustered more and was less capable than ever of backing up his bluster. Just once he tried to trespass on Kate's private domain; it was a night of late November, and he had sat up chatting with Hannah, the maid-of-all-work, after his wife had gone to bed. Hannah was even a little sourer than her wont, and she gave Strangeways a lengthy account of young Lomax's comings and goings.
"I'd be shamed, if I war a man, to put up wi' my wife's hoity-toity ways, same as tha does," she snarled, with a freedom born of the sense that she was talking to one of her own class. "She mun sleep i' her own bedroom, mun she? Happen there's more i' that nor there seems, if tha'd getten a couple of een i' thy heäd."
"What dost 'a meän? Come, out wi' it; I cannot abide thy ins an' thy outs, an' thy shammocky ways o' talk. There's no mouse-holes about me, an' I look to find other fowk talking fair an' square. What dost 'a meän, woman?"
"Nay, if tha cannot guess, it's noan for a honest woman to tell thee. Didn't I say 'at young Lummax comes an' goes for all th' world as if he war th' maister? If that isn't enow, I'd like to know what is?"
Joe brought the bowl of his pipe down hard on the grate and smashed it.
"She shall shift her quarters to-neet, or I'll shift mine," he muttered.
"Fine talking," sneered Hannah.
"Hod thy whisht, wench! I tell thee I'll teach the wife to come it ower me; ay, that I will," said Joe, doggedly. He kicked off his boots and went shambling up the stairs; tried the handle of Kate's door, and found it locked; swore at her and commanded her to open. She did open at last, and stood on the threshold. She had taken off the bodice of her dress, and her bust and beautiful bare arms showed faintly by light of the candle behind her. Joe, despite his sodden state, felt something of the old desire as his eyes took in the contour of her figure.