"Why, at Bannisdale!" said Laura in surprise. "You knew my stepmother was still living, didn't you?"

"Well, I didn't think aught about it," he said, falling into candour, because the beauty of her grey eyes, now that they were fixed fair and full upon him, startled him out of his presence of mind.

"I wrote to you--to Cousin Elizabeth--when my father died," she said simply, rather proudly, and the eyes were removed from him.

"Aye--of course you did," he said in haste. "But mother's never yan to talk aboot letters. And you haven't dropped us a line since, have you?"

he added, almost with timidity.

"No. I thought I'd surprise you. We've been a fortnight at Bannisdale."

His face flushed and darkened.

"Then you've been a fortnight in a queer place!" he said with a sudden, almost a violent change of tone. "I wonder you can bide so long under that man's roof!"

She stared.

"Do you mean because he disliked my father?"

"Oh, I don't know nowt about that!" He paused. His young face was crimson, his eyes angry and sinister. "He's a _snake_--is Helbeck!" he said slowly, striking his hands together as they hung over his knees.

Laura recoiled--instinctively straightening herself.

"Mr. Helbeck is quite kind to me," she said sharply. "I don't know why you speak of him like that. I'm staying there till my stepmother gets strong."

He stared at her, still red and obstinate.

"Helbeck an his house together stick in folk's gizzards aboot here," he said. "Yo'll soon find that oot. And good reason too. Did you ever hear of Teddy Williams?"

"Williams?" she said, frowning. "Was that the man that painted the chapel?"

Mason laughed and slapped his knee.

"Man, indeed? He was just a lad--down at Marsland School. I was there myself, you understand, the year after him. He was an awful clever lad--beat every one at books--an he could draw anything. You couldn't mak' much oot of his drawins, I daur say--they were queer sorts o'

things. I never could make head or tail on 'em myself. But old Jackson, our master, thowt a lot of 'em, and so did the pa.s.son down at Marsland.

An his father an mother--well, they thowt he was going to make all their fortunes for 'em. There was a scholarship--or soomthin o' that sort--an he was to get it an go to college, an make 'em all rich. They were just common wheelwrights, you understand, down on t' Whinthorpe Road. But my word, Mr. Helbeck spoilt their game for 'em!"

He lifted another sod of turf from the basket and flung it on the fire.

The animus of his tone and manner struck Laura oddly. But she was at least as curious to hear as he was anxious to tell. She drew her chair a little nearer to him.

"What did Mr. Helbeck do?"

Mason laughed.

"Well, he just made a Papist of Teddy--took him an done him--brown. He got hold on him in the park one evening--Teddy was drawing a picture of the bridge, you understand--'ticed him up to his place soomhow--an Teddy was set to a job of paintin up at the chapel before you could say Jack Robinson. An in six months they'd settled it between 'em. Teddy wouldn't go to school no more. And one night he and his father had words; the owd man gie'd him a thrashing, and Teddy just cut and run. Next thing they heard he was at a Papist school, somewhere over Lancashire way, an he sent word to his mother--she was dyin then, you understan'--and she's dead since--that he'd gone to be a priest, an if they didn't like it, they might just do the other thing!"

"And the mother died?" said Laura.

"Aye--double quick! My mother went down to nurse her. An they sent Teddy back, just too late to see her. He come in two-three hours after they'd screwed her down. An his father chivvyed him oot--they wouldn't have him at the funeral. But folks were a deal madder with Mr. Helbeck, you understan', nor with Teddy. Teddy's father and brothers are chapel folk--Primitive Methodists they call 'em. They've got a big chapel in Whinthorpe--an they raised the whole place on Mr. Helbeck, and one night, coming out of Whinthorpe, he was set on by a lot of fellows, chapel fellows, a bit fresh, you understan'. Father was there--he never denied it--not he! Helbeck just got into the old mill by the bridge in time, but they'd marked his face for him all the same."

"Ah!" said Laura, staring into the fire. She had just remembered a dark scar on Mr. Helbeck's forehead, under the strong ripples of black hair.

"Go on--do!"

"Oh! afterwards there was a lot of men bound over--father among 'em.

There was a priest with Mr. Helbeck who got it hot too--that old chap Bowles--I dare say you've seen him. Aye, he's a _snake_, is Helbeck!" the young man repeated. Then he reddened still more deeply, and added with vindictive emphasis--"and an interfering,--hypocritical,--canting sort of party into t' bargain. He'd like to lord it over everybody aboot here, if he was let. But he's as poor as a church rat--who minds him?"

The language was extraordinary--so was the tone. Laura had been gazing at the speaker in a growing amazement.

"Thank you!" she said impetuously, when Mason stopped. "Thank you!--but, in spite of your story, I don't think you ought to speak like that of the gentleman I am staying with!"

Mason threw himself back in his chair. He was evidently trying to control himself.

"I didn't mean no offence," he said at last, with a return of the sulky voice. "Of course I understand that you're staying with the quality, and not with the likes of us."

Laura's face lit up with laughter. "What an extraordinary silly thing to say! But I don't mind--I'll forgive you--like I did years ago, when you pushed me into the puddle!"

"I pushed you into a puddle? But--I never did owt o' t' sort!" cried Mason, in a slow crescendo of astonishment.

"Oh, yes, you did," she nodded her little head. "I broke an egg, and you bullied me. Of course I thought you were a horrid boy--and I loved Polly, who cleaned my shoes and put me straight. Where's Polly, is she at church?"

"Aye--I dare say," said Mason stupidly, watching his visitor meanwhile with all his eyes. She had just put up a small hand and taken off her cap. Now, mechanically, she began to pat and arrange the little curls upon her forehead, then to take out and replace a hairpin or two, so as to fasten the golden ma.s.s behind a little more securely. The white fingers moved with an exquisite sureness and daintiness, the lifted arms showed all the young curves of the girl's form.

Suddenly Laura turned to him again. Her eyes had been staring dreamily into the fire, while her hands had been busy with her hair.

"So you don't remember our visit at all? You don't remember papa?"

He shook his head.

"Ah! well"--she sighed. Mason felt unaccountably guilty.

"I was always terr'ble bad at remembering," he said hastily.

"But you ought to have remembered papa." Then, in quite a different voice, "Is this your sitting-room"--she looked round it--"or--or your kitchen?"

The last words fell rather timidly, lest she might have hurt his feelings.

Mason jumped up.

"Why, yon's the parlour," he said. "I should ha' taken you there fust thing. Will you coom? I'll soon make a fire."

And walking across the kitchen, he threw open a further door ceremoniously. Laura followed, pausing just inside the threshold to look round the little musty sitting-room, with its framed photographs, its woollen mats, its rocking-chairs, and its square of mustard-coloured carpet. Mason watched her furtively all the time, to see how the place struck her.

"Oh, this isn't as nice as the kitchen," she said decidedly. "What's that?" She pointed to a pewter cup standing stately and alone upon the largest possible wool mat in the centre of a table.

Mason threw back his head and chuckled. His great chest seemed to fill out; all his sulky constraint dropped away.

"Of course you don't know anythin aboot these parts," he said to her with condescension. "You don't know as I came near bein champion for the County la.s.st year--no, I'll reckon you don't. Oh! that cup's nowt--that's n.o.bbut Whinthorpe sports, la.s.st December. Maybe there'll be a better there, by-and-by."

The young giant grinned, as he took up the cup and pointed with a.s.sumed indifference to its inscription.