"Because there's a touchstone, cousin, that turns mockery to something kindlier."
"To love, thou mean'st?" she laughed disdainfully. "Come to me in a likelier hour, Red Ratcliffe. Shall I love thee more because thou didst run away last night? Shall I be sorry for thee, taking the poor excuse thou gavest for thy cowardice. Thou said'st amiss this morning—the boggart sits, not on Wayne's shoulder, but on thine; and his name is panic."
"Art strangely free with Wayne's name," he sneered. "A man, to look at thee, would think the past night's work had pleased thee well."
"It pleases me at all times to hear of one man fighting three, and daunting them. Wilt ever give me that sort of pleasure, think'st thou?"
Red Ratcliffe was silent for awhile; then, "What dost find to say, Janet, when thou meet'st Shameless Wayne by stealth?" he asked, with a sudden glance at her.
She coloured hotly, and paled again. If he knew what she had thought to be a secret from all at Wildwater, her chance of helping Wayne of Marsh was slight.
"It wears an ugly look," he went on. "Come, I am kin to thee, and have a right to guard thy honour. Wilt tell me what has passed between this rake-the-moon and thee, or must I whisper in the Lean Man's ear how his darling wantons up and down the country-side?"
She would not stoop to plead with him, in whatever jeopardy she might be. "Thou canst tell as much as pleases thee," she flashed, "and I will amend thy story afterward; and if ever thou darest to block my way again——"
Red Ratcliffe had unhooded his hawk too soon, and he made a clumsy effort to atone for the false cast. "Stay, girl! I did not mean to say aught to anger thee. Promise to wed me before the corn is ripe, and I'll keep a still tongue."
"Promise to wed thee?" said Janet, turning her back on him. "I've promised it already, when thou canst prove thyself a better man than Shameless Wayne. But before the corn is ripe? Nay, I think 'twill be later in the year."