Up bare stairs came the footsteps, then the room door opened with a protest of rusty hinges, and Ruan saw the Parson standing on the threshold.  A woman’s face, pale and strained, swam out of the darkness behind, and to Ruan, materialist though he was, came the thought that the pale blur looked like the face of someone drowning in a black flood.  He put the idea aside and nodded slightly at the woman.  She gave a gasp of relief, and, pushing by the priest, walked over to the bed.

“So you’ve not cheated me, James!” she said.  “I made sure to find ’ee dead when I brought Passon—­I thought you’d ha’ done it to spite me.”

“Dear woman,” answered the Squire gently, “it’s for my own pleasure I’m wedding you, and not to make an honest woman of you.  I’ve a fancy to have the old place carried on by a child who’s got a right to my name, that’s all.”

“An’ our first-born, Arch’laus, can go begging all’s days, s’pose?  An’ t’other lads and Vassie can go starve wi’ en?”

Ruan’s face changed, grew darker, and he spoke harshly.

“They were the children of our passion—­true love-children.  They remind me of the days when I was a fool, and I’ll leave them only my folly.  But the child that’s coming—­he’ll be blessed by the law and the Church—­quite a gentleman of quality, Annie; far above the likes of you.  He’ll live to breed hatred and malice in the pack of ye, and every hand of his own flesh and blood’ll be against him....  Parson, do your duty, and tie the holy knot—­small harm in it now nothing can hold me long.”

The Parson came forward without a word.  He was a clever man, whose knowledge of souls was deep, if not wide, and he refrained from asking whether repentance urged this tardy compliance with the law of his religion; such a question could only have provoked a sneer from the old cynic in the bed.

Annie groped along the mantelshelf until her fingers met a tallow rush, which she lit by holding it to the fire, and in the wan flare of yellow her weary figure showed that she was very near to her confinement.  She turned to the bed and set the candle on the table, meeting the Squire’s quizzical glance with eyes lit only by the tiny reflections of the candle flame—­expressionless eyes, the blue of them faded and the life dulled.  Then she went out of the room, and the stairs creaked beneath her descending feet; the clamour of her voice came to the two men above as she called through open doors: 

“Katie!  Kat-ie! Passon’s here, and you’m to fetch Philip and come up to wance.”

More feet sounded on the stairs, clattering hobnails among them, and Annie returned, accompanied by Katie Cotton, the dairymaid, and her sweetheart, Philip Jacka.  Philip was a lithe, restless youth, with curly hair that caught the light and bright, glinting eyes.  He was far better-looking than his girl, and far more at his ease; sturdy, high-bosomed Katie was guilty of an occasional sniff of feminine sympathy; Philip looked on with the aloof superiority of the male.