"So thou hast persuaded him to ride to Cranshaw? My thanks for the news, pretty one. The sport speeds better than I hoped for when I found thee returning over-soon from thy errand. Didst meet him by the way, then?"
She rued her hastiness; for she saw by Red Ratcliffe's face that no turn of speech or eye could cozen him; and she had confessed, all for naught, that Shameless Wayne would come to the lyke-wake when they bade him.
"Cousin, let me have speech of grandfather," she said, making a last effort. "I—I can explain all to him——"
"Doubtless," answered the other grimly. "Old liking is hard to kill, Janet, and I would not trust thee with him—nay, not though he hates thee now. Thou would'st be soft with him, letting thy lashes melt upon thy cheeks. God, yes, I can see thee at thy antics!—A murrain on thee!" he broke off. "Is there so little to be done that I must needs stand chattering here? Follow me, girl."
"I will not follow thee," she answered stubbornly.
For answer he set his arms about her and half carried, half dragged her to the little room at the bottom of the passage where once he had prisoned Nell Wayne; then pulled the door to and turned the key sharply in the lock.
Janet, left to herself, gave way utterly. She had no heart to lift herself from the floor, but sat there, her head bowed upon her knees, and pictured what was so soon to follow in the great hall that lay just behind her prison-chamber. And by and by her mind began to wander idly down strange paths of thought, as she recalled each speech and glance of her grandfather's at their last meeting. All that had puzzled her in his air grew clear—the touch of remorse, the look of pity that came into his face at parting. For the one moment he had wavered, remembering his love for her; why had she not known, not guessed what he was planning? For then she might have over-ridden his purpose.
Too late! There was nothing to be done now. The thought maddened her. Springing to her feet, she crossed to the one small window of the room and stood looking out upon the mist-swept greyness of the heath. But there was no chance of escape, for a child could not creep through it—she must wait, then, watching the hours slip ghostly past this strip of moor—watching the dark come stealthily from the sky-edge—listening to the noise of men about the house and knowing the reason of their gaiety.
And she had led Wayne here. In a flash she recalled that other day when she had sought to save him from going to Bents Farm in face of peril; now as then her very care for him had been his undoing. If he were here now—if she could have one poor five minutes with him before the end he would never doubt her love again.
Then she could bear her thoughts no longer, and she threw herself time after time against the door, striving to beat it down. That brought weariness, and welcome pain of body, to her aid, and she sank into a sort of numb heedlessness that yet was nothing kin to sleep.