Lady Royd was indoors. The housekeeper was not about to keep the maids attentive to routine. All was silent and lack-lustre; and Martha went down the road till she reached the gate at its foot—the gate that stood open after letting the Loyal Meet ride through.
“It’s queer and lonesome, when all’s said,” she thought, swinging gently on the gate. “Men are bothersome cattle—full o’ tempers and contrariness—but, dear heart, I miss their foolishness.”
She thought the matter out for lack of better occupation, but came to no conclusion. In front of her, as she sat on the top bar of the gate, she could see the muddied hoof-tracks that marked the riding-out. Her own father, her two brothers, were among Sir Jasper’s company; they were thrifty, common-sense folk, like herself, and she wondered if there was something practical, after all, in this business that had left Windyhough so empty and so silent.
A man’s figure came hobbling up the road—a broad, well-timbered figure enough, but bent about the legs and shoulders. It was Simon Foster, coming in tired out from roaming up and down the pastures. Though scarce turned fifty, he had been out with the ’15 Rising, thirty years ago; but rheumatism had rusted his joints before their time, and to-day, because he was not fit to ride with haler men, he had kept away from the Meet at Windyhough, for he dared not trust himself to stand an onlooker at this new Rising.
Martha got down from the gate, and opened it with a mock curtsey. “I’m pleased to see a man, Simon,” she said, moved by some wintry coquetry. “I began to fancy, like, we were all women here at Windyhough.”
“So we are,” he growled—“but I’d set ye in your places, that I would, if nobbut I could oil my joints.”
“You’ve come home in a nice temper, Simon.”
“Ay, lass, and I’ll keep it, till I know whether Sir Jasper has set a crown on the right head. It isn’t easy, biding here wi’ Lancashire weather——”
“And Lancashire witches,” put in Martha, with sly provocation.
Simon was tired, and had nothing especial to do; so he stayed awhile, telling himself that a maid’s blandishments, though daft and idle, were one way of passing the time. “Oh, ay, you’re snod enough, Martha,” he said, rubbing his lean chin. “I’ve seen few in my time to better ye.”