He paused.  “I’ve got what I wanted.”

He stepped backward, facing her, raising his cap, then he turned and hurried down the hill.

Gwenda walked slowly up the flagged path to the house door.  She stood there, thinking.

“He’s got what he wanted.  He only wanted to see what I was like.”

XXIII

Rowcliffe had ten minutes on his hands while they were bringing his trap round from the Red Lion.

He was warming his hands at the surgery fire when he heard voices in the parlor on the other side of the narrow passage.  One voice pleaded, the other reserved judgment.

“Do you think he’d do it if I were to go up and ask him?” It was Alice Cartaret’s voice.

“I caann’t say, Miss Cartaret, I’m sure.”

“Could you persuade him yourself, Mrs. Blenkiron?”

“It wouldn’t be a bit of good me persuadin’ him.  Jim Greatorex wouldn’ boodge that mooch for me.”

A pause.  Alice was wavering, aware, no doubt, of the folly of her errand.  Rowcliffe had only to lie low and she would go.

“Could Mr. Blenkiron?”

No.  Rowcliffe in the surgery smiled all to himself as he warmed his hands.  Alice was holding her ground.  She was spinning out the time.

“Not he.  Mr. Blenkiron’s got soomat alse to do without trapseing after Jim Greatorex.”

“Oh.”

Alice’s voice was distant and defensive.  He was sorry for Alice.  She was not yet broken in to the north country manner, and her softness winced under these blows.  There was nobody to tell her that Mrs. Blenkiron’s manner was a criticism of her young kinsman, Jim Greatorex.

Mrs. Blenkiron presently made this apparent.

“Jim’s sat oop enoof as it is.  You’d think there was nawbody in this village good enoof to kape coompany wi’ Jimmy, the road he goas.  Ef I was you, Miss Olice, I should let him be.”

“I would, but it’s his voice we want.  I’m thinking of the concert, Mrs. Blenkiron.  It’s the only voice we’ve got that’ll fill the room.”

Mrs. Blenkiron laughed.

“Eh—­he’ll fill it fer you, right enoof.  You’ll have all the yoong laads and laasses in the Daale toomblin’ in to hear Jimmy.”

“We want them.  We want everybody.  You Wesleyans and all.”

Another pause.  Rowcliffe was interested.  Alice was really displaying considerable intelligence.  Almost she persuaded him that her errand was genuine.

“Do you think Essy Gale could get him to come?”

In the surgery Rowcliffe whistled inaudibly. That was indeed a desperate shift.

Rowcliffe had turned and was now standing with his back to the fire.  He was intensely interested.

“Assy Gaale?  He would n’ coom for Assy’s asskin’, a man like Greatorex.”

Mrs. Blenkiron’s blood, the blood of the Greatorexes, was up.