“No, I’m no’ coming in,” he whispered hoarsely.  “Do you no’ ken me?  Shut the door and not let any of them hear.  I’m wanting you!” and he stepped into the light and reached forward his hand, as if to draw her to him.

Mrs. Sinclair gasped and recoiled in horror, as she recognized who it was that stood before her.

“No,” she cried decisively, stepping further back into the shelter of the house, her voice low and intense with indignation.  “No, I have not come to that yet, thank God.  Gang home, you dirty brute, that you are!  I’ll be very ill off when I ask anything, or take anything, from you, Jock Walker!” For it was well known in Lowwood that Jock Walker’s errands to people in distress had always in them an ulterior motive.

He was the under manager at the pits, and his reputation was of the blackest.  There were men in the village of Lowwood who were well aware of this man’s relations with their wives, and they openly agreed to the sale of the honor of their women folk in return for what he gave them in the shape of contracts, at which they could make more money than their neighbors, or good “places,” where the coal was easier won.  In fact, to be a contractor was a synonym for this sort of dealing, for no one ever got a contract from Walker unless his wife, or his daughter, was a woman of easy virtue, and at the service of this man.

“Very well,” replied Walker with chagrined anger.  “Please yourself.  But let me tell you that you’ll maybe no’ ay be so high and mighty; you’ll maybe be dam’d glad yet of the chance that I have given you.”

“No, no,” protested Mrs. Sinclair.  “Go away—­”

“Look here, Nellie,” he said, his voice changing to a low pleading tone, “you’re in a hole.  You must be.  Be a sensible woman, and you’ll never need to be so ill-grippet again.  I can put Geordie in a position that he’ll make any amount of money as soon as he is able to start.  You are not a bit better than anyone else, and for the sake of your bairns you should be sensible.  And forby,” he went on, as if now more sure of his ground, “what the hell’s wrang in it?  It’s no’ what folk do that is wrong.  It’s in being found out.  Now come away and be sensible.  You ken what is wanted, and you ken that I can make you well off for it.”

“No, by heavens,” she cried, now tingling with anger at the insult.  “Never!  Get out of this, you brute!  If Geordie Sinclair had been able this nicht, I’d have got him to deal with you.  Get out of here, or I’ll cleave your rotten body, and let out your rotten heart.”  And she turned in, and closed and bolted the door, leaving Walker fuming with anger at the repulse of his advances.  Nellie Sinclair had never felt so outraged in all her life before.  She was trembling with anger at the insult of his proposals.  She paced the floor in her stockinged feet, as if a wild spirit were raging within her demanding release; then finally she flung herself into the “big chair,” disgust and anger in her heart, and for the second time that night burst into a passionate fit of weeping, which seemed to shake her body almost asunder.  For a long time she sat thus, sobbing, her whole being burning with indignation, and her mind in a fury of disgust and rebellion.