"I have a word for Mistress Janet's ear," he said.
On a sudden the meaning of her unlooked-for escape grew clear to her. Janet had gone of her own free-will to Marsh, and it needed but a glance at Ned's face to tell her what had followed the girl's coming. The joy of freedom, her gladness in returning to the home she had scarce looked to see again, died out; she was supplanted, and by one whom it was dishonour for a Wayne to touch.
Janet was not in hall, but Wayne found her, after a hurried search, standing at the garden-door, plucking the roses that grew above her head and tearing them to pieces one by one.
"Thou—must go, Janet," he said, touching her on the arm.
"Yes," she answered dully.
"The Lean man is at the gate; he has brought Nell with him."
"Yes, Ned."
"God, lass, how dare I let thee out of sight!" he cried, his studied coldness breaking down.
Something of the devil that is in every woman prompted the girl to tempt him. He had mastered her, and even yet she grudged it him; there would be a sort of reprisal in trying his strength to the utmost.
"Keep me, Ned," she whispered. "Keep me, dear, and think no shame to break faith with a Ratcliffe.—Hark, Ned, how soft the garden-breezes are—and the roses; are they not heavy on the air? Let's wander down among them, and talk of the days to come."