"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——"
"See, Mistress, there's naught to be gained by going over the old ground," he interrupted harshly.
"But, Ned, there is much to be gained. Am I so rich in friends that I can let one as staunch as thou go lightly? Thou'rt midway between hate and love of me, I know, and if—Ned, if I were to tell thee I was less to blame—" She stopped and eyed him wistfully.
It was not in Shameless Wayne to resist this sort of pleading from one who had shared with him the bitter months of disfavour and remorse. They had been comrades in adversity, he and she; and was he to turn on her now because she could no longer claim pity for her witlessness?
"Thou need'st tell me naught, little bairn," he said.
"Ah, but I need! I was dying, Ned—dying for lack of warmth. And Dick Ratcliffe promised to take me into shelter; and I clutched at the chance greedily, as a prisoner would if one came and offered him liberty. But the wrong that Wayne fancied of me, when he found us in the orchard, I had never thought to do—never, dear. I was a child, and loved Ratcliffe because he showed me a way out of trouble; and I meant to go away with him because—how shall I tell thee, so as to make thee credit it? I had not a thought of—Ned, I was not wicked, only tired—tired, till I had no eyes to see the straight road, nor heart to follow it. I was hungering for warmth; the ghosts were so busy all about Marsh House, and I wanted the happy valleys, out of reach of the curlew-cries and the shuddering midnight winds."
Wayne put an arm about her. "It was worth telling, bairn," he said quietly, "and father would lie quieter if he knew that his honour had not gone so far astray."
"Thou'lt still keep a friend to me?" she whispered.