"I don't think I'm an exacting landlord," he remarked. "In fact, since I ask for nothing but a little give-and-take, it's annoying when people spoil my sport. Dowthwaite made himself unpleasant about his broken wall, the Askews turned the grouse back, and then I found the Allerby cottage children, ransacking Redmire Wood when the pheasants were going to roost."
Grace, who stood close by with Thorn, indicated the smooth gravel and the low, wide-topped wall on which red geraniums grew.
"This," she said, "is a great improvement on the old grass bank. The wide steps and broad slate coping have an artistic effect. However, you can't often get the things you like without paying."
"Very true, but rather trite," Osborn agreed. "I don't see how it applies."
"Well, I'm really sympathetic about your spoiled day, but it looks as if all your disappointments sprang from the same cause."
"Ah!" said Osborn, sharply; "I suppose you mean the coal yards' lease?"
"I think I mean Bell's greediness. If he didn't charge so much for his coal, Askew would not have cut the peat, and the children would not have been sent to gather wood. Then Dowthwaite might not have grumbled about his wall; he feels the farmers have not been treated justly, and I imagine he blames you."
Osborn knitted his brows. "Then it's an example of the fellow's wrong-headed attitude! He and one or two others are treated better than they deserve, and would not be satisfied with anything I did. If you had to manage the estate, pay extortionate taxes, and make the unnecessary repairs the farmers demand, it would be interesting to see the line you would take."
"Perhaps the right line isn't easy," Grace admitted. "Still, if I wanted a guide, there's the motto of our county town: 'Be just and fear not.'"
Osborn looked at her with indignant surprise, and then shrugged scornfully. Thorn smiled.
"It's an excellent motto; but they chose it some time since. One imagines it's out of date now."
Grace colored and moved away, feeling embarrassed. She had made herself ridiculous, and perhaps sentiment such as she had indulged was cheap; but it hurt to feel that she, so to speak, stood alone. Although she had, no doubt, been imprudent, she had said what she felt, and Thorn had smiled. She turned to him angrily when he followed her along the terrace.
"I daresay I am a raw sentimentalist, but I'm glad I'm not up to date," she said. "I hate your modern smartness!"
Thorn, noting the hardness of her voice, stopped with an apologetic gesture and let her go.
Winter had begun, and although the briars shone red along the hedgerows and the stunted oaks had not lost all their leaves, bitter sleet blew across the dale when Grace went up the muddy lonning to Mireside farm. Railton's daughter had for a time helped the housekeeper at Tarnside, and Grace, hearing that the farmer had been ill, was going to ask about him. It was nearly dark when she entered the big kitchen. The lamp had not been lighted, but a peat fire burned in the wide grate, where irons for cooking pots hung above the blaze. A bright glow leaped up and spread about the kitchen, touching the people in the room, and then faded as she shut the massive door.
Grace thought her arrival had embarrassed the others, because nobody said anything for a moment or two. Railton sat in an old oak chair by the fire, with a stick near his hand; Tom, the shepherd, occupied the middle of the floor; and Kit Askew leaned against the table, at which Mrs. Railton and Lucy sat. Grace wished she could see them better, but the blaze had sunk and the fire burned low, giving out an aromatic smell, and throwing dull reflections on the old oak furniture, copper kettles, and tall brass candlesticks. As a rule, the lonely homesteads in the dales are furnished well, with objects made long since and handed down from father to son.
Then Mrs. Railton began to talk, rather nervously, and Grace turned to the farmer as the light spread about the room again. He had a thin, lined face; his shoulders were bent, and his pose was slack. Sickness no doubt accounted for something, but Grace imagined his attitude hinted at dejection.
"How are you to-day?" she asked.
"No varra weel. I'm none so young, and the wet and cold dinna agree with my oad bones. Mayhappen I'll be better soon, but noo when I'm needed I canna get aboot."
"He'll not can rest," Mrs. Railton interposed. "He was oot in sleet, boddering among t' sheep aw day."
"And weel you ken I had to gan," the farmer rejoined.
Mrs. Railton's silence implied agreement and Grace's curiosity was excited because of something she had heard at home. Railton's lease of the sheepwalk ran out in a few days, but he was by local custom entitled to its renewal after a review of the terms. Moreover, it was usual for the tenant to take the sheep with the farm, and leave them equal in number and condition when he went. The landlord could then demand a valuation and payment of the difference, if the flocks had fallen below the proper standard.
"Why are you forced to go out in this bitter weather?" she asked.
Railton hesitated, and then saw his daughter's meaning glance. Lucy was clever, and he thought she wanted him to be frank.
"I had to see how sheep were," he answered dully. "Not that it was o' mich use. T' lambs niver get over wet spring and t' ewes is poor. Then flock is weel under tally; I've lost two score Swinset Herdwicks, and the mak-up's next Thursday."
"But how did you lose forty sheep?" Grace asked.
"There was a hole in fell dyke and Swinset sheep are thief sheep, varra bad to hoad. I bowt ewes there and t' lambs followed when they wandert back to their heaf."
Grace pondered. She had noted some reserve in Railton's manner when he mentioned the broken dyke and knew the flockmasters were careful about their dry walls. The rest was plain; theheafis the hill pasture where a lamb is born, and Swinset was fifteen miles away. It was a very large sheepwalk and much time would be needed to find the sheep on the wide belt of moor.
"If you know the sheep are at Swinset, they would be allowed for in the count," she said.
"I have my doubts. Mr. Hayes sent me notice tally would be taken onThursday and he's a hard man."
Grace colored. Although she did not like Hayes, he was Osborn's agent.There was much she wanted to know, but she could not ask.
"Mr. Hayes cannot do exactly as he likes; he must get my father's consent," she said. "However, as I am going home by the field path, I had better start before it's dark."
"There's a broken gate that's awkward to open. I will come with you until you reach it," Kit remarked.
They went out together. The sleet had stopped, but leaden clouds rolled across the hills that glimmered white in the dusk. As they struck across a wet field Grace said:
"I suppose Railton's flock is below the proper standard and the count is short?"
"Yes; the two or three wet years have hit flock-masters hard and Railton had to sell more stock than was prudent, in order to pay his debts."
"Then if he can't pay the difference in number and value, the lease can be broken?"
Kit made a sign of agreement and Grace asked: "But do you think Hayes would break the lease and turn him out?"
"It's possible," Kit answered cautiously.
Grace gave him a sharp glance. "What do you really think, Mr. Askew? I want to know."
"Then, my notion is Hayes would like to get Mireside for Jim Richardson."
"Richardson is his nephew."
"Just so," said Kit, with some dryness. "All the same he'd make a good tenant. His father is rich enough to start him well."
Grace's eyes sparkled, for she saw where the hint led, but she hid her resentment, because, after all, she had doubts. Osborn needed money and Hayes was cunning.
"I imagine it would hurt Railton to leave."
"It would hurt him much. He was born at Mireside and his father took the farm from your grandfather, a very long time since. Then he's an old man and has not enough money to begin again at another place."
"Ah," said Grace, "it would be very hard if he had to go! But if he hasn't money, he couldn't carry on, even if we renewed the lease."
"We have had remarkably bad weather for two or three years and the cold rain killed the young lambs, but a change is due. A dry spring and fine summer would put the old man straight."
Grace was silent for a few moments and then looked at Kit with some color in her face.
"Thank you for making the situation plain. You were not anxious to do so, were you? I think you don't trust us!"
"I don't trust Hayes," Kit said awkwardly.
"But Hayes is our agent. We are accountable for what he does."
"In a way, I suppose you are accountable. For all that, when a landlord has a capable agent it is not the rule for him to meddle. I understand Mr. Osborn leaves much to Hayes."
Grace pondered. Kit's embarrassment indicated that he was trying to save her feelings, but he must know, as she knew, that a landlord was rightly judged by his agent's deeds. Although she rather liked Kit Askew, he had humiliated her.
"Well," she said resolutely, "something must be done. If the strayed sheep could be found, it would help."
"Yes," said Kit. "Tom and I start for Swinset to-morrow to try to bring them back. But if you'll wait a moment, I'll open the gate."
He walked through the mud the cattle had churned up, and, lifting the broken gate, pushed it back so that Grace could cross a drier spot. Then, as he stood with his hands on the rotten bars, she stopped.
"Don't start for Swinset until you hear from me," she said. "Thank you.Good night!"
Grace went on and Kit turned back to the farm with a satisfaction that made his heart beat. In a way, the girl had given him her confidence; she had, at least, not hidden her feelings. Her proud calm was only on the surface; it covered a generous, impulsive nature. Then she had pluck, because he could understand her difficulties. She was loyal to her father, but hated injustice and was quickly moved to sympathy. All the same, he had noted that when she spoke of Osborn renewing the lease she said we, and since he knew why she had done so, it gave him cause to think.
It was the code of the old school; the family stood together, a compact unit to which she belonged and for whose deeds she believed herself accountable. In a sense, this was rather fine; but Kit, knowing Osborn's pride, saw it would confine their friendship to narrow limits. Still he had no ground for imagining she was his friend, and he tried to fix his thoughts upon the search for the sheep. Grace obviously meant to talk to Osborn, but Kit did not believe the latter would be moved by her arguments.
When Kit returned to the farm kitchen Railton was sitting moodily by the fire and his wife's face was sternly set. They are not an emotional people in the dales, and her trouble was too deep for useless tears, but as she glanced about the room all she saw wakened poignant memories. The old china in the rack had been her mother's; she had brought it and the black oak meal-chest to Mireside thirty years since. The copper kettles and jelly-pan were wedding presents, and Tom, her son, who died in Australia, had sent the money to buy the sewing machine. Now it looked as if her household treasures must be sold, and to leave Mireside would mean the tearing up of roots that had struck deep. Besides, while she would suffer it would hurt her husband worse. When Kit came in she gave him a keen glance.
"Weel, what had Miss Osborn to say?"
"She didn't say much; I think she means to talk to Osborn."
Railton looked up gloomily. "T' lass has a good heart, but talking toOsborn will be o' nea use. Hayes is real master and he wants Mireside forJim Richardson."
Kit made a sign of agreement. "The fellow's getting dangerous and must be stopped. I suspect he's backing Bell and now he means to use his nephew; it's not altogether for Richardson's sake he wants to break your lease. Some day I imagine Osborn will find his agent owns the estate; but that's not our business. Well, Peter told me to remind you that you and he are old friends, and if a hundred pounds would be some help—"
"It would be a big help," said Railton, and Kit turned to the shepherd when Mrs. Railton awkwardly began to thank him.
"About the broken dyke, Tom? What d'you think brought it down?"
"I canna tell. Dyke's good and there was nea wind."
They were all silent for a few moments, and then Kit said, "Well, Richardson is a cunning hound." He paused and picked up his hat before he turned to Railton. "I've a job at Ashness that must be finished to-night. There's not much time, but if it's possible Tom and I will find the sheep."
In the meantime, Grace walked home thinking hard. Kit was Railton's friend, but he had used some tact, until she forced him to tell her the truth. This, however, was not important, because she had got a jar. It looked as if Osborn had consented to a cruel plot; a landlord ought to help his tenants and not take advantage of their need. She tried not to blame him; he had a bad agent, who used a dangerous influence. She must try to protect him from the fellow and, in a way, from his own carelessness.
After all, it was, for the most part, carelessness, because he did not know Hayes as she knew him. Still, she had not undertaken an easy thing and she braced herself as she went up the steps of the new terrace. Grace hated the terrace. It was the price they, the Osborns, had taken for a shabby deed, and for which poor people and hard-worked women paid. Grace knew about the extra dust that peat fires caused and how often the bread was spoiled.
When she entered the library Osborn was studying some documents. He looked up impatiently, and she said, "I was at Mireside. Railton's no better and is much disturbed about his lease."
"Not more disturbed than he deserves!" Osborn rejoined. "The fellow has been getting slack for some time; he sold his store sheep imprudently and let the flock run down."
"He has been ill and the weather has been bad for some years."
"Exactly. A cautious man provides for bad years; he knows they will come."
Grace was surprised her father did not see that his statement had a humorous touch, since improvident extravagance was his rule; but it was obvious that he did not.
"One cannot save much money when rents are high and prices are low."
"Do you know much about these matters?" Osborn asked.
"I have heard the farmers talk. Sometimes I ask them questions."
Osborn frowned. "You talk too much to the farmers. I don't like it. You know this."
"Well," said Grace, "I think you ought not to break Railton's lease."
"Why?"
Grace hesitated. She began to see that Osborn could not be moved, but she had undertaken to plead Railton's cause.
"He's an old man and has been at Mireside all his life. He has worked hard and always paid his rent. Now he's ill and in trouble, it would be shabby to turn him out because there's a risk—it's only a risk—that we might lose something by letting him stay."
"You don't seem to understand a landlord's duty," Osborn rejoined. "He is, so to speak, the steward in charge of the estate; it belongs to the family and is not his. He must hand it on in good order and this means he cannot indulge his sentimental impulses. If he keeps a bad tenant from pity, or because he's afraid to seem harsh, he robs his heir."
Grace knew there were other, and perhaps worse, ways of robbing one's heir; but she said, "Aren't you taking Hayes's view that Railton is a bad tenant? After all, we are responsible."
"Then you suggest that Hayes is mistaken?" Osborn asked ironically.
"I don't know if he's mistaken or not," said Grace, with a steady look. "I know he's greedy and unjust. But there's a thing you ought not to let him do. Railton has lost forty sheep, that have strayed back to Swinset, and Hayes doesn't mean to count them in the tally."
Osborn's face got red and he knitted his brows. "I have tried to be patient; but this is too much! Do you know more about managing an estate than a clever agent? Or do you think I'm a fool and Hayes leads me like a child? Anyhow, you are much too young to criticize my actions. Let us have no more of it! An unmarried girl is not entitled to opinions that clash with her parents'."
Grace went out silently. To know that she had failed hurt her pride, and it hurt worse to suspect that her father had got angry because he knew she was right. Besides, she felt strangely alone; as she had often felt since she came home. Gerald was careless and thought about nothing but his extravagant amusements; her mother's main object was to avoid jars and smooth over awkward situations. Then, she had household cares; money was scarce, and since Osborn hated self-denial, she must economize. Grace could not tell her her troubles; but there was a way by which Railton might save his lease and Kit could help. Getting a pencil and paper, she wrote him a very short note:
"You must find Railton's sheep."
Then, knowing that she was rash, she went to look for the gardener's boy, and sent him to Ashness.
It was getting dark when Kit and Tom, the shepherd, stopped to rest behind a cairn on the summit of Swinset moor. Close by, the two score sheep stood in a compact flock, with heads towards the panting dogs. They were Herdwicks, a small, hardy breed that best withstands the rain and snow that sweep the high fells in the lambing season. When he had lighted his pipe, Kit thoughtfully looked about.
On one side the barren moor, getting dim in the distance, rolled back to the edge of the low country. Here and there patches of melting sleet gleamed a livid white among the withered ling, and storm-torn hummocks of peaty soil shone dark chocolate-brown. These were the only touches of color in the dreary landscape, except for the streak of pale-yellow sky that glimmered above a long black ridge. On the other side, a line of rugged fells with summits lost in snow clouds, rose dark and forbidding. It was very cold and a biting wind swept the heath.
Kit was tired, for he had been on the moor since morning and had not eaten much. It was an awkward matter to find the sheep, and then the men and dogs had some difficulty to keep the ewes moving, because the Herdwick never willingly leaves the neighborhood where it was born and will, if possible, return. The lambs, now grown large and fat, gave less trouble, and when they sometimes stopped irresolutely while the ewes tried to break away Kit understood their hesitation. Two instincts were at work: it was natural to follow their dams, but Mireside was their native heath and they knew they were going to be taken home.
Now they had gone some distance, Kit had to make a choice. One could reach Mireside by a rough moor-land road, but it went round the hills and there was a shorter way across the range. If he went round, he might arrive late for the reckoning and some of the lambs would get footsore and stop. On the other hand, he knew the fells and shrank from trying to find his way among the crags in the dark. It was, however, important that he should not be late. Hayes was hard, and the Herdwicks must arrive in time to be tallied with the rest of Railton's flock. In the dale, a tenant had a traditional right to have his sheep valued by a jury of his neighbors and Hayes had fixed the time at eight o'clock next day. The animals, however, must be sorted and penned before this, and the work would begin early in the morning.
"We had better try the fells, Tom," said Kit.
The shepherd looked at the threatening sky and fading line of rugged heights.
"Aw, yes. It's gan t' be a rough neet, but we'll try 't. We can rest a bit at oad mine-house this side Bleatarn ghyll."
Now their route was fixed, Kit mused about something else. Railton was his neighbor, but, except for this, Kit had no particular grounds for helping him; he had obviously nothing to gain. Then, the peat-cutting was his plan; he had, without altogether meaning to do so, allowed himself to become the leader of the revolt against Osborn. In a way, of course, he was the proper man, because Ashness belonged to his father, and Hayes could not punish him for meddling. Still, Hayes could punish the tenant farmers and Kit knew they ran some risk.
On the whole, he thought the risk worth while. He had a talent that was beginning to develop for leading and saw when one could negotiate and when one must fight. He did not want to fight Osborn, but was being forced into the conflict, and it was comforting to feel that Miss Osborn was not against him. Her note, telling him he must find the sheep, was in his pocket, and he thought it had cost her something to write. She was generous and plucky and he must not hesitate. After all, the job was his and since he had accepted it, he must, if needful, bear the consequences. Knocking out his pipe, he got up.
"We'll make a start, Tom," he said.
The shepherd shouted to the dogs, the flock broke up and trailed out across the heath. The ewes moved slowly, turning now and then, and Kit thought it ominous that they met other flocks coming down. The Herdwicks knew the weather and were heading for the sheltered dales. For all that, he pushed on, with a bitter wind in his face, and by and by cold rain began to fall. It changed to sleet and the night had got very dark when they crossed the shoulder of a stony fell. One could not see fifty yards, but the steepness of the slope and the click of little hoofs on the wet rock told Kit where they were.
Two hours afterwards, he stopped for breath at the bottom of a narrow valley. The sleet had turned to driving snow, the wind howled in the rocks above, and a swollen beck brawled angrily among the stones. Tom was hardly distinguishable a few yards ahead and Kit could not see the sheep, but the barking of the dogs came faintly down the steep white slope. The Herdwicks were strung out along the hillside, with a dog below and above, and it was comforting to know they could not leave the valley, which was shut in by rugged crags. For a time, driving them would be easy; but it would be different when they left the water and climbed the rise to Bleatarn ghyll.
"How far are we off the mine-house, Tom?" he shouted.
"I dinna ken," said the shepherd. "Mayhappen two miles. Ewes is travelling better; t'lambs is leading them."
Kit agreed, and they pushed on through the snow. After a time, the ground got steeper, and when they crossed the noisy beck and scrambled up a shaly bank, Kit was glad to see a broken wall loom among the tossing flakes. This was the shaft-house of an abandoned mine, and there was a sheep-fold, built with pulled-down material, close by. He shouted and waited until he heard the dogs bark and a rattle of stones. The Herdwicks were coming down and presently broke out from the snow in a compact, struggling flock. Tom shouted and threw a hurdle across the entrance when the dogs had driven the sheep into the fold.
"I dinna ken if snow'll tak' off or not, but it's early yet and we must have a rest before we try ghyll," he said.
They went into the shaft-house and Kit struck a match. One end of the building had been pulled down and the snow blew in through holes in the roof, but a pile of dry fern filled a corner and rotten beams lay about. With some trouble, they lighted a fire and, sitting down close by, took out the food they had brought. The wind screamed about the ruined walls, the smoke eddied round them, and now and then a shower of snow fell on their heads, but they had some shelter and could, if forced, wait for morning.
"Miss Osborn's a bonny lass and kind; but I reckon she couldn't talk her father round," Tom presently remarked.
"No," said Kit. "I believe she tried."
"Favors her mother," Tom resumed. "Mrs. Osborn's heart is good, but at Tarnside women dinna count. It's a kind o' pity, because t' Osborn menfolk are lakers and always was."
Alakeris a lounging pleasure-seeker and Kit admitted that the remark was justified.
"I sometimes think Osborn means well," he said.
"Mayhappen! For aw his ordering folks aboot, he's wake; like his father, I mind him weel. Might mak' a fair landlord if he was letten and had t' money; but oad Hayes is grasping and always at his tail."
"The rent-roll's good. The estate could be managed well."
"There's t' mortgages and Osborn canna keep money. When he has it he must spend. There would be nea poor landlord's, if I had my way. I'd let them putten rents up if they had money and spent it on the land. Low rent means poor farming."
Kit knew this was true on the Tarnside estate. Dykes that had kept the floods off the meadows were falling down, drains were choked, and land that had grown good crops was going sour. The wise use of capital would make a wholesome change, but Kit did not altogether like centralized control. Although it was economical, the landlord got the main advantage, and there was much a farmer could do, in cooperation with his neighbors, to help himself, if his lease was long enough. Then, joint action was once common in the dale. Men pooled their labor and implements at hay time and harvest, and combined for their mutual benefit in other ways. Now it looked as if they might combine again.
"Are they grumbling much at Allerby about burning peat?" he asked.
"T' women grumble," Tom said dryly. "But they willunt stop, for aw the dirt peat maks an' they canna get ovens hot. I reckon Bell has mair coal coming in than he can get shut of. When I was at station last t' yards was nearly full."
"I rather think Bell has been too greedy. He must pay for the coal as it arrives and his money is probably getting short; the traction engine and trailer cost a good sum, and he has spent something on the lime-kilns. In fact, if we hold on, he's bound to give way."
"Then we'll brek him. Our folks are slow to fratch, but they're not quick at letting go," said Tom, who paused and added: "I wunner where Bell got his money; he had none when he took a job at mill in oad Osborn's time."
This started Kit on another line of thought. Bell had, no doubt, saved something, for he was parsimonious, and was too keen a business man to leave his money in the bank. All he made by one speculation was sunk in another; but, after allowing for this, it was hard to see where he got the capital for his numerous ventures. Kit wondered whether Hayes helped; if he did, it was not from friendship. The agent was clever and might be playing a cunning game, in which he used both Osborn and Bell. In fact, Kit thought if he were Osborn he would watch Hayes. This, however, was not his business, and getting up he went to a hole in the wall.
It was snowing very hard; he could see nothing but a haze of tossing flakes, and the wind filled the valley with its roar. He could hardly hear the beck a few yards off.
"The drifts will be getting deep, but we can't start yet," he said. "If we miss the track at the top, there's nothing to stop us falling over the Ling Crag."
Tom agreed, and Kit shivered when he sat down again. He was cold and tired, and the worst part of the journey must yet be made. Looking at his watch he resigned himself to wait, and leaned back with eyes closed against the wall while a wet dog crouched at his feet. An hour or two passed and then Tom got up.
"Snow's takin' off," he said. "We must try it."
Kit, pulling himself together, went out and faced the storm. The snow was thinner, but the wind had not dropped and buffeted him savagely as he struggled through a drift to the fold. The dogs had some trouble to drive out the sheep, and when they straggled through the opening Kit imagined the lambs went in front. In a few moments the flock vanished, and he breathed hard as he followed their track up hill. Now and then the dogs barked, but for the most part he heard nothing except the roar of the wind in the crags. He hoped the dogs could find the path across the narrow tableland between two branching ghylls, because it was obvious that his judgment might be at fault. However, there were the lambs; one could trust a Herdwick to return to its heaf.
When he reached the top the wind had blown away the snow, and he stood near the middle of a narrow belt of heath, with his feet sinking in a bog. On each side, he got a glimpse of dark rocks, streaked with white where the wind had packed the snow into the gullies. In front there was a gulf, down which his path led. Scattered snowflakes and rolling mist streamed up from the forbidding hollow. At first he could see nothing of the sheep, but as he floundered across the bog the dogs barked and he found them presently, guarding the flock in a hollow among the crags.
The sheep broke away and Kit pushed on across the narrow belt of bog that was dotted by the marks of little feet. Sometimes he slackened his pace to wait for Tom; the shepherd was getting old and the long climb had tired him. Both stopped for some moments when they reached the brow of the descent, and Kit, bracing himself against the storm tried to look about. He thought he saw the flock close in front.
"They seem doubtful where to go," he said.
"We can do nowt but leave them to find t' ghyll," the shepherd remarked.
Kit agreed. Bleatarn ghyll was beneath him, but there was another hollow and it is hard to walk straight down hill in the dark. He must trust the sheep, and, huddling close together, they refused to leave the crag. When the dogs drove them out they vanished, and since the ground was bare of snow they left no tracks. He stumbled on, falling into pools and stumbling across banks of stones, and soon stopped again. He had come down the slope, so to speak, blindly, and now stood on the edge of a vast, dark pit. One could not see beyond the edge, but the confused noises that came up hinted at profound depth. The gale shrieked, but he heard the roar of falling water and the rattle of stones the wind dislodged.
"Do you think this is Beatarn ghyll?" he asked.
"I dinna ken," Tom answered; and added hopefully, "if it's t'ither, we'll mayhappen find oot before we step over Ling Crag."
They went down at a venture, whistling vainly for the dogs. The drop was very sharp, and now they were leaving the wind-swept pass, the snow had begun to pack among the stones and boggy grass. Still, so far as they could see, there were no marks of little feet and they wondered what had happened to the flock, until a faint bark came out of the mist. The noise got louder and Kit knew the dogs were running round the stopping sheep.
"We're right," he said. "They've gone through the broken wall and the dogs are holding them at the top of the force."
A few minutes afterwards he scrambled over a pile of fallen stones, shouted to Tom, and began to run, for he understood what had happened. The broken wall marked the boundary of the Mireside heaf and the sheep were now on familiar ground. It was his business to drive them to the farm, but they were trying to turn off to look for shelter among the crags. At the force, where the Bleatarn beck leaps in linked falls to the valley, one could get down between the water and the rocks; on the other side, a path about a foot wide led across the face of a precipice. In daylight, if the stones were dry, a man with steady nerves could use the path, but when slab and scree were packed with snow nothing but a Herdwick could cross it safely. The dogs knew this and were trying to hold the flock.
When the men came up they saw an indistinct, woolly mass on the other side of the beck. The mass was not level but slanted sharply, and the sheep at the bottom sent down showers of stones as they surged to and fro, with heads turned to the dogs. It was obvious that they did not mean to go down the ghyll, and Herdwicks born among the crags can climb where no dog can follow.
"The dogs canna turn them," gasped Tom. "They'll be away ower Eel Scar; they're brekkin' noo."
The flock began to open out and three or four sheep straggled forward, but Kit's bob-tailed dog slid down a snowy slab and fell upon the first. The sheep ran back, but the others stood and Kit saw the dog could not stop them long. The Herdwicks knew the advantage was theirs on ground like this.
Jumping from a boulder, he fell into the swollen beck and made his way up the nearly perpendicular slab. At the top he found a dangerous ledge and advanced upon the sheep, which had their backs to the stream. Twining his fingers in a lamb's wool, he picked up the animal and balancing himself precariously threw it as far as he could. It fell into the beck and scrambled out on the other side, where the track led down the ghyll. The effort had cost him much, for his heart beat and he gasped for breath, but he doubted if he had done enough. Dragging another lamb from the flock, he hurled it into the water, and then his foot slipped and he rolled down the slab and fell in the snow.
He got up, badly shaken, and saw that his plan had worked. Sheep will follow a leader and the flock was straggling down the ghyll behind the lambs. Kit recrossed the beck and descended cautiously, keeping close to the rocks. The ghyll is a rough climb in daylight, and summer tourists, trying to cross the fells, often turn back at the bottom. There is no path and one scrambles over large, sharp stones, some of which are loose and fall at a touch. In places, banks of treacherous gravel drop to the beck, which plunges over ledges into deep, spray-veiled pools. Now the stones were slippery with snow, the wind raged, and mist and tossing flakes hid the ground a few yards ahead.
Somehow he got down, but he was exhausted and breathless when he reached the bottom, where he was forced to wait before he could whistle to his dog. He heard its bark and stumbling forward, found the flock bunched together in a hollow. Then he sat down in the snow while Tom counted the sheep.
"They're aw here," said the shepherd. "A better job than I thowt we'd mak! Weel, let's gan on."
Kit was tired, and bruised by his fall, but he went forward behind the dogs. His troubles were over, for a broad smooth path led along the hill-foot to Mireside.
The morning was dark, and although the gale had dropped, a raw, cold wind blew up the valley past Mireside farm, where three or four farmers' traps and some rusty bicycles stood beneath the projecting roof of a barn. The bleating of sheep rose from a boggy pasture by the beck, and lights twinkled as men with lanterns moved about in the gloom. Now and then somebody shouted and dogs barked as a flock of Herdwicks was driven to the pens.
In the flagged kitchen, Mrs. Railton and Lucy bustled about by the light of a lamp and the glow of the fire. The table was covered with used plates and cups. The men outside had breakfasted, but one or two more might come and Mrs. Railton wondered when Kit would arrive. She had lain awake for the most part of the night, thinking about him and the strayed Herdwicks while she listened to the gale. Now and then Lucy went to the door and looked up the dale to the glimmering line of foam that marked the spot where Bleatarn beck came down. A path followed the water-side, but she could not see men or sheep in the gloom, and if Kit did not come soon he would be too late.
Railton sat gloomily by the fire. He had had rheumatic fever, and the damp cold racked his aching joints; besides, there was nothing for him to do. He had called in his neighbors to value his flock, but he knew, to a few pounds, what their judgment would be. Hayes Would presently arrive, and Railton would be asked to pay, or give security for, the shortage, which was impossible. Hayes knew this and meant to break his lease. Perhaps the hardest thing was that the shortage was small; if the next lambing season were good, he could pay. But Hayes would not wait.
Although Railton was too proud to beg for help from his neighbors, he had gone to the bank. Osborn, however, used the same bank, and it looked as if Hayes had given the manager a hint, because he refused a loan. Askew had offered a hundred pounds, but this was not enough, and even if Kit arrived with the sheep from Swinset, Railton could not find the rest of the money. However, the arrival of the Herdwicks would make a difference, and he did not altogether give up hope. By and by he tried to get up, and sitting down again with a groan, beckoned his wife.
"Martha, you might gan to door."
Mrs. Railton, knowing what he meant, went to the porch. It was lighter outside and the hillside was growing distinct. She thought something moved on the path beside the beck, and turned to her daughter, who had followed.
"What's yon by the water, Lucy?"
Lucy was silent for a few moments and then said quietly, "I think it's sheep!"
She watched the path. The mist made a puzzling background and her eyes were getting dazzled; but there was something. Then she heard a chair jar on the flags and glanced at Railton, who leaned forward.
"Weel?" he said. "Canna you speak? Is neabody coming yet?"
Lucy threw another glance up the dale and her heart beat. An indistinct row of small dark objects moved along the path, with two tall figures behind.
"Kit's coming down the beck; he's brought the Herdwicks!" she cried.
"Canny lad!" said Railton, and leaning back limply, wiped his face. His forehead was wet with sweat, for he was weak and the suspense had been keen.
The sheep vanished behind a wall, and Lucy began to put fresh food on the table. Mrs. Railton hung a kettle on a hook above the fire, and then turned with a start as a girl came into the porch.
"Miss Osborn!" she exclaimed.
Grace advanced calmly, although there was some color in her face, because she knew the others were surprised that she had come.
"Is Mr. Hayes here?" she asked.
"Mayhappen he's at the pens," Lucy replied. "I thought I heard his car."
"Then I missed him at the cross-roads," said Grace. "I was going toAllerby, and my father asked me to give him a note when he stopped atLawson's." She hesitated, and then resumed impulsively: "Perhaps Ioughtn't to have come on; but I wanted to do so."
They knew what she meant, but nobody answered, and Grace sat down on a bench by the table.
"Will you give the note to Mr. Hayes? Has Kit Askew brought theSwinset sheep?"
"He's coming now," said Lucy, picking up the note, and Grace's eyes sparkled.
"I knew he would bring them; I told him he must."
Lucy went out and Grace asked Railton about his pains. While they talked somebody shouted outside, and the old man, getting up with an effort, hobbled to the door.
"Hoad on; dinna close t' pen," a man called. "Here's Kit and t' lot fra Swinset."
Three of four more shouted and Grace, who had followed Railton, thought there was a note of triumph in their cries. Then dogs began to bark, somebody opened a gate, and a flock of Herdwicks, leaping out with wet fleeces shaking, and hoofs clicking on stone, ran across a shallow pool where the beck had overflowed.
A few minutes afterwards, Kit came in. He looked tired, his face was rather haggard, and his clothes were wet. Tom, the shepherd, followed and sat down by the fire.
"It was nea an easy job, but we manished it," he said. "Swinset sheep is thief sheep, but they're none a match for Kit's oad dog."
Kit stopped abruptly as he crossed the floor and his heart beat. "Ah!" he said. "Miss Osborn?"
Grace smiled as she got up and gave him her hand. "Well done! Have you brought them all? But of course you have!"
"They're in the pen," Kit answered, with some embarrassment.
Then Railton stood up, leaning awkwardly on his stick.
"I've misdoubted your new-fashioned plans, and ken that I was wrang.There's nea ither lad in aw t' dale could ha' browt Herdwicks doonBleatarn ghyll last neet. Weel, t' oad ways for t' oad men, but I'seniver deny again that the young and new are good."
He sat down and while Mrs. Railton began to bustle about the table Grace stole away. She knew she ought not to have come, and had done so with a feeling of rebellion against her father's harshness, although she tried to persuade herself that Hayes was most to blame. Now she was glad the note made a pretext for the visit; she had shown the Railtons her sympathy and had thanked Kit. After all, he had perhaps gone to look for the sheep because she told him; she rather hoped he had, and rejoiced with the others at his success.
Grace admitted that she liked Kit Askew. He was resolute but modest, and had just done a bold deed by which he had nothing to gain. Railton's praise had moved her, because she knew the dalesfolk's reserve and that the farmer would not, without good grounds, have spoken as he did. Moreover, she knew the fells, and it was something of an exploit to bring the sheep from Swinset in the storm. Kit was, of course, a farmer's son, but he was plucky and generous; besides, she approved his steady look, well-balanced, muscular figure, and clean brown skin. Then she blushed and began to wonder what she would say about her visit to Mireside when she went home.
In the meantime, Kit ate his breakfast, and soon afterwards Peter Askew came in and began to talk to Railton. Until the valuation was agreed upon there was nothing for them to do, and it was some time before the men returned from the pens. They were plain farmers with rather hard, brown faces, and stood about the fire in half-embarrassed silence while Hayes sat down at the table and opened his pocket-book.
"We have made up the tally," he began, and Railton interrupted.
"Counting in the lambs and ewes fra Swinset?"
"They are counted," Hayes replied. "I'll give you particulars of the different lots."
He read out some figures and then turned to the group by the fire. "I think we are all agreed?"
"Aw, yis," said one. "It's as near as yan can mak' it, withoot sending flock to auction."
Hayes turned to Railton. "Are you satisfied?"
"We willunt fratch. Mayhappen two or three lots would fetch anither pound or two, but we'll ca' it fair."
"Then we must thank these gentlemen," said Hayes, who shut his pocket-book and took out a document. "As there is some other business and they have given us some time, we need not keep them."
The men looked at one another and Peter Askew said, "If Railton doesn't mind, we'd sooner stop."
"Stop if you like," Railton agreed. "You've got me a just reckoning and you're neebors aw."
"It's not necessary," Hayes objected. "The business we have to transact is private."
"They ken it," Railton replied in a stubborn voice. "I've bid them stop and the hoose is mine until Mr. Osborn turns me oot."
"Very well. You know the sum due to the landlord. Are you ready to pay?"
"I canna pay. It's weel you ken."
"Then, can you give security for the debt?"
"I canna and wadn't give it if I could. There's ways a cliver agent can run up a reckoning, and when you want Mireside I'll have to gan."
"Then, I'm afraid we shall be forced to break the lease and take measures to recover the sum due."
"Hoad on a minute!" said one of the group, who turned to Railton. "Would you like to stop?"
"I would like; I've lived at Mireside sin' I was born. There's another thing: it's none too good a time for a sale o' farming stock, and when I've paid Osborn, I'll need some money to mak' anither start. Then may-happen a dry spring wold put me straight."
"It ought to; you're not much behind," Peter agreed. "Weel, you ken I'm generally willing to back my judgment, and noo it seems there's others think like me."
"In a sense, the lease does not run out yet," Kit interposed. "It has rather reached the half-term, because by our custom Railton is entitled to take it up again for an equal period if he and the landlord agree about the necessary adjustment. Our leases really cover a double term."
Hayes turned to him with an ironical smile. "Do you know much about tenant law?" he asked.
"No," said Kit, rather dryly. "I made some studies when I could get the books, but they didn't take me far. In fact, I imagine that in this neighborhood there's very little law and much precedent, which has generally been interpreted for the landlord's advantage. There are old Barony laws and Manor rights, and my notion is that nobody knows exactly how he stands. But we'll let this go. If Railton pays his fine, you will have some trouble to get rid of him."
Hayes agreed and Railton looked up with a puzzled air.
"But I canna pay," he said dully.
The farmer who had interrupted Hayes took out a bulky envelope and crossed the floor.
"Well," he said, "I think you're wrang. Your friends have been talking aboot the thing and wadn't like t' see you gan." He gave Railton the envelope, adding: "It's a loan."
Railton's hand shook as he took out a bundle of bank-notes. "You're good neebors," he said in a strained voice. "But I dinna think I ought to tak' your money. There's a risk."
"Not much risk in backing an honest man," the other rejoined, and taking the notes from Railton gave them to Hayes. "Noo, if you'll count these—"
Hayes' face was inscrutable as he flicked over the notes. "The total's correct. It's an awkward bundle; a check would have been simpler."
"A check has the drawback that it must be signed," Kit remarked with a meaning smile. "We're modest folk, and nobody was anxious to write himself down the leader."
"I see!" said Hayes. "I don't know if you're modest; but you're certainly cautious."
"Anyhow, we're aw in this," said one of the others.
"So it seems. I hope you won't lose your money," Hayes rejoined dryly and took out a fountain pen. "Well, here's your receipt, Mr. Railton. I don't think there is anything more to be said."
He put the receipt on the table and when he went away a farmer laughed.
"O'ad Hayes is quiet and cunning as a hill fox, but my lease has some time to go and he canna put us aw oot."
Railton tried to thank them, while Mrs. Railton smiled with tears in her eyes, but the dales folk dislike emotion and as soon as it was possible the visitors went away.
An hour or two afterwards Grace heard about the matter from the sick wife of a farmer, whom she had gone to see, and when she went home thought she had better not confess that she had taken Hayes' note to Mireside. When Osborn joined his wife and daughter at the tea-table in the hall after some disappointing shooting, his remarks about his tenants were rancorous. Grace thought it prudent not to talk and left the table as soon as she could. When she had gone, Osborn frowned and getting up savagely kicked a log in the grate.
"I got a nasty knock this morning," he said. "It's not so much that I mind letting Railton stop; I hate to feel I've been baffled and made the victim of a plot."
"After all, wasn't it rather Hayes's idea than yours that Railton ought to go?" Mrs. Osborn ventured.
"It was; there's some comfort in that! You don't like Hayes much."
"I don't know that I dislike him. I'm not sure I trust him."
"Well," said Osborn thoughtfully, "I sometimes feel he's keenest about my interests when they don't clash with his, and this last affair was a pretty good example of nepotism. For all that, his nephew would have been a better tenant and have paid a higher rent." He paused and knitted his brows angrily as he resumed: "However, it's done with, and one can't blame Railton for holding on to his lease. What I hate to feel is, the others plotted to baffle me. The land is mine, but I'd sooner get on well with my tenants."
"One cannot, so to speak, have it both ways," Mrs. Osborn remarked timidly.
"Oh, I know what you mean! But I don't think I'm a harsh landlord. If money was not quite so scarce, I might be generous. In fact, I don't know that I'd have agreed to turning Railton out if it hadn't been for Gerald's confounded debts and his allowance at Woolwich. That's a fresh expense."
Mrs. Osborn thought the expense did not count for much by comparison with her husband's extravagance; but he had been rather patient and she must not go too far.
"Well," she said, "you have got Railton's fine."
"It is not a large sum," Osborn answered with a frown. "I need the money, but in a sense I'd sooner it had not been paid. Anyhow, I'd sooner it had not been paid like that. The others' confounded organized opposition annoys me."
"They were forced to subscribe to a fund if they wanted to help."
"Just so; but they probably wouldn't have thought about subscribing if Askew hadn't suggested it. They're an independent lot and believe in standing on their own feet. For a time after I got Tarnside, they used a sensible, give-and-take attitude; it's only recently they've met with stupid, sullen suspicion."
"Perhaps it was rather a mistake to give Bell the coal yards' lease."
"The coal yards had nothing to do with it," Osborn declared. "The trouble began earlier, and I've grounds for believing it began at Ashness. If I was rich enough, I'd buy the Askews out. They know I've no power over them and take advantage of the situation. The old man was a bad example for the others, but his son, with his raw communistic notions, is dangerous. If I could get rid of the meddling fool somehow, it would be a keen relief."
He came back to the table and picked up a cup of tea. Then, grumbling that it had gone cold, he put it down noisily and went out.
Soon after the reckoning at Mireside, the snow melted off the fells and for a month dark rain clouds from the sea rolled up the dale. They broke upon the hill tops in heavy showers, gray mist drifted about the wet slopes, the becks roared in the ghylls, and threads of foam that wavered in the wind streaked the crags. In the bottom of the valley it was never really light, water flowed across the roads, and the low-standing farmsteads reeked with damp.
All this was not unusual and the dalesfolk would have borne it patiently had fuel not been short. Large fires were needed to dry the moisture that condensed in the flagged kitchens and soaked the thick walls, but coal could not be got at a price the house-wives were willing to pay. Some would have had to stint their families in food had they bought on Bell's terms, and the rest struggled, for the common cause, against the mould that gathered on clothing and spoiled the meal. They grumbled, but their resolution hardened as the strain got worse, while Bell waited rather anxiously for them to give way.
His yards were full and more coal was coming in, but he saw that if he let the farmers beat him his power to overcharge them another time would be gone. The new combine was dangerous, since the cooperative plan might be extended to the purchase of chemical manures, seed, and lime. In the meantime, there was plenty of peat, stacked so that it would escape much damage, on Malton Head; but Askew and his friends could not get it down. Carts could not be used on the fells and the clumsy wooden sledges the farmers called stone-boats would not run across the boggy moor. The few loads Kit brought down at the cost of heavy labor were carried off by anxious house-wives as soon as they arrived.
The weather was helping the monopolist, but he could not tell if a change to frost would be an advantage or not. Although it would make the need for coal felt keenly, it might simplify the transport of peat. When Bell thought about it, and the colliery company's bills came in, he felt disturbed, but he was stubborn and would not lower his price yet.
At length the rain stopped, and after a heavy fall of snow keen frost began. The white fells glittered in cold sunshine that only touched the bottom of the dale for an hour or two. The ice on the tarn was covered, so that skating was impossible, and Thorn, feeling the need for amusement, had a few sledges made. He had learned something about winter sports in Switzerland, and one afternoon stood with a party of young men and women at the top of Malton Head. They had practised with a pair of skis farther down the hill, where one or two were sliding on a small Swiss luge, but Thorn wanted to find a long run for his Canadian-pattern toboggan.
Grace stood near him; her face touched with warm color and her eyes sparkling as she looked about. She did not altogether approve of Alan Thorn, but she was young and vigorous and enjoyed the sport. Besides, she loved the high fells and now they looked majestic in the pale sunshine. They were not all white; dark rocks with glittering veins edged the snowfield, and the scarred face of Force Crag ran down where the shoulder of the moor broke off four hundred feet below. Where the sun did not strike, the snow was a curious delicate gray, and the bottom of the dale was colored an ethereal blue. The pale-gray riband, winding in a graceful curve round the crag, marked the old green road that was sometimes used for bringing down dry fern, and Grace's face got thoughtful as she noted a row of men and horses some distance off. She imagined they were Askew and his helpers.
In the meantime, Thorn studied her with artistic satisfaction. He had an eye for female beauty and the girl looked very well in her rather shabby furs. Her pose was light and graceful, her figure finely modeled, and he liked the glow the cold had brought to her skin. Moreover, he liked her joyous confidence when they tried the luge on a risky slide. She was as steady-nerved and plucky as a man, and was marked by a fine fastidiousness that did not characterize other girls he knew.
"I think this is about the best spot we have seen," he said. "The drop is steep but regular, although I expect we'll be breathless when we get to the bottom. Would you like to try? If not, perhaps somebody else will come."
He looked at the others, and they looked at the white declivity. It was much longer than any they had gone down, and a girl laughed.
"To begin with, we'll watch you. I was upset on the last slide and it's rather a long way to roll down to the dale."
Grace lay down on a cushion with her head just behind the toboggan's curved front; Thorn found room farther back, with his legs in the snow, and amidst some laughter and joking the others pushed; them off. The surface was hard, and for a time the toboggan ran smoothly and steadily; then the pace got faster, and showers of snow flew up like spray. It beat into Grace's eyes and whipped her face, until she bent her head in the shelter of the curled front.
The sharp hiss the steel runners made was louder, the wind began to scream, and she got something of a shock when she cautiously looked up. It was hard to see through the snowy spray, but the top of the crag looked ominously near. Glancing down hill with smarting eyes, she thought the slope, which, from the top, had seemed to fall evenly to the dale, was also inclined towards the crag. She could not see much of the latter, but there was a fringe of dark rock where the white declivity broke off.
"Aren't we getting too near?" she shouted.
"Nearer than I thought," Thorn gasped. "Not sure I can swing the sledge.Can you get back and help?"
Grace braced herself. Alan's nerve was good, but there was a disturbed note in his voice; besides he would not have asked her help unless it was needed. Wriggling back cautiously, she got level with Thorn, although there was not much room for them side by side. Her feet and the seam of her short dress brushed in the snow and tore up the surface. She felt the looser stuff beneath foam about her gaiters, but this was an advantage. The drag would help to stop the sledge, and if she could put an extra pressure on one side, to some extent direct it. Still they were going very fast and at first she was nearly pulled off. She tightened her grasp with her hands until she felt her gloves split, and then risked another glance ahead.
The rocks were very close, but the sledge had passed the top, and she could see a few yards down the dark side as they followed the curving edge of the crag. The sledge was now running nearly straight down the hill, but the curve bent in towards them, and she could not tell if they would shoot past the widest spot or plunge over.
"Perhaps you had better let go," Thorn said hoarsely.
Grace shook her head. If she dropped off, it was uncertain whether she would stop until she had rolled some distance; perhaps she might not stop before she reached the edge of the crag. Anyhow, she did not mean to let go, and tried to catch the snow with her toes in an effort to help Thorn to steer the sledge. It swerved a little but rushed on again, and she saw that the edge of the rock curved in yet. She doubted if they were far enough off to get past the bend.
Then she saw that Thorn had slipped farther back in order to increase the drag of his legs. His face was dark with blood and she heard his heavy breathing as he tried to change their course. She helped all she could while the snow rolled across her dress, and then for a moment lifted her head. Powdered snow beat into her face and nearly blinded her, but she thought there was now an unbroken slant in front. They must have passed the middle of the bend, although Thorn was between her and the side on which it lay and she was not sure yet. She remembered with horrible distinctness how she had once stood at the bottom of the crag and seen a stone that rolled over the top smash upon the rocks.
"Try again!" Thorn gasped. "Swing her to the right!"
Grace let her body slip back. The thrust and drag were telling, for the sledge had swerved, and then there came a few seconds of keen suspense. After this she heard Thorn draw a labored breath and felt his hand on her waist.
"We're past. Hitch yourself up before you're pulled off," he said.
With some trouble Grace got back to her place and lay still, while her heart thumped painfully and something rang in her ears. The reaction had begun and she knew she could not move if Thorn wanted help again. It looked, however, as if he did not, and some moments afterwards she saw that the way was clear ahead. She wondered whether they would stop before they reached the bottom of the dale and how far it was. The round sheepfold in the first field looked no larger than a finger ring. She was getting numb and the rush of bitter air took away her breath.
"Hold tight!" Thorn shouted presently and she noted that the hillside broke off not far in front.
Since there were no crags near the spot, it was obvious that they had come to an extra steep pitch, the brow of which prevented her from seeing the bottom. Next moment the sledge seemed to leave the ground and leap forward. Grace thought that for some yards they traveled through the air, and then the hiss of the runners that had suddenly stopped became a scream. The speed was bewildering and a haze of fine snow streamed past. By and by, however, this began to thin, the speed slackened, and Thorn gave a warning shout. She felt him try to turn the sledge, but they were going too fast; the light frame canted and turned over, and they rolled off into the snow. When Grace got up and shook herself, fifty yards lower down, she saw Thorn standing by the righted sledge. He came to meet her as she toiled back and his eyes sparkled.
"By George!" he said, "you are fine. You're a thorough sport!"
Grace colored. The compliment was obviously frank and not premeditated; perhaps she deserved it, but she did not want Thorn to praise her. His manners were good, but somehow he often jarred. He had not, within her memory, said anything that could justly offend her, and although he was a neighbor and there were no secrets in the dale, she had not known him do a shabby thing. Yet, on the whole, he rather repelled than attracted her. She studied him as he came down the hill.
He was a big, handsome man, and it was, of course, ridiculous to dislike him because he was older than she and was getting fat. He was an amusing talker and a good sportsman, but now and then one got a hint of hardness and cunning. Somehow, so to speak, he did not ring true.
"I held on because I thought I might fall over the crag if I let go," she said with a laugh. "Then as I did hold on, it was merely prudent to try to steer the sledge."
"Oh, yes," Thorn agreed. "But the important thing is you saw this and didn't lose your nerve. Anyhow, if you had lost it, I couldn't have blamed you; I blame myself for my confounded thoughtlessness that let you run the risk. In fact, I'm dreadfully sorry and don't mind owning that I got a fright."
Grace noted that he was rather shaken, and felt vaguely disturbed. She had seen him following the foxhounds among the crags, for they hunt on foot in the rugged dales, and knew his steadiness and pluck. He had not been afraid for himself, and she did not want him to be afraid for her.
"After all," she said, "the hill seemed to run down evenly when we stood at the top. If the little slant towards the crag deceived you, it deceived me."
"I know more about tobogganing and oughtn't to have been deceived. It hurts to feel I didn't take proper care of you."
"It really doesn't matter," Grace replied with a smile, and Thorn gave her a steady look.
"Oh, but it does matter! You ought to see that!"
"I don't see it," Grace insisted quietly, although her heart beat. "You were not accountable, and we got down quite safe. Let's talk about something else."
Thorn's eyes rested on her for another moment, and then he made a sign of acquiescence and they went back up the hill. At the top he marked a new line for the next day's sport, and then as the sun was getting low the party started home by the old stone-boat road. Near the bottom they overtook the Askews, and one or two others walking at their horses' heads as they cautiously descended a steep pitch. Grace noted that although they were not bringing much peat there was a risk of the sledges running down upon the teams.
"You have not got on very fast," she said to Peter.
"If we're no verra careful, we'll gan faster than we like."
"I suppose that's why you're only taking half a load?"
"Just that," Peter agreed. "It wadn't suit for load to run ower the team.Better safe than sorry, though it's a terrible loss o' time."
"Then, why don't you look for an easier way down?"
"There's only the oad green road. Fellside's ower steep for horses."
"Well, if I can think of a better way I'll tell you," Grace replied, smiling, and hurried on after the others.
They left her at the Tarnside gate and she stopped abruptly as she went up the drive. It had obviously taken Askew a long time to bring down half a load because of the risk to his horses; but she had found a better plan. It was not needful to use horses, after they had pulled the sledges up. The latter could be heavily loaded and left to run down alone. She must tell Kit Askew when she saw him next, but she did not reflect that it was curious she meant to tell Kit and not Peter.