Why, what did they think? When he’d given up his good job at the Darlington Motor Works to come to Eastthwaite and black Mr. Greathead’s boots, chop wood, carry coal and water for him, and drive his shabby secondhand car. Not that he cared what he did so long as he could live in the same house with Dorsy Oldishaw. It wasn’t likely he’d sit like a bloody Moses, looking on, while Ned— To be sure, he had half killed him. He could feel Ned’s neck swelling and rising up under the pressure of his hands, his fingers. He had struck him first, flinging him back against the inn wall, then he had pinned him—till the men ran up and dragged him off. And now they were all against him. Dorsy was against him. She had said she was afraid of him. “Steven,” she had said, “tha med ’a killed him.” “Well—p’r’aps next time he’ll knaw better than to coom meddlin’ with _my_ lass.” “I’m not thy lass, ef tha canna keep thy hands off folks. I should be feared for my life of thee. Ned wurn’t doing naw ’arm.” “Ef he doos it again, ef he cooms between thee and me, Dorsy, I shall do ’im in.” “Naw, tha maunna talk that road.” “It’s Gawd’s truth. Anybody that cooms between thee and me, loove, I shall do ’im in. Ef ’twas thy aunt, I should wring ’er neck, same as I wroong Ned’s.” “And ef it was me, Steven?” “Ef it wur thee, ef tha left me— Aw, doan’t tha assk me, Dorsy.” “There—that’s ’ow tha scares me.” “But tha’ ’astna left me—’tes thy wedding claithes tha’rt making.” “Aye, ’tes my wedding claithes.” She had started fingering the white stuff, looking at it with her head on one side, smiling prettily. Then all of a sudden she had flung it down in a heap and burst out crying. When he tried to comfort her she pushed him off and ran out of the room, to Mr. Greathead. It must have been half an hour ago and she had not come back yet. He got up and went through the yard gates into the dark drive. Turning there, he came to the house front and the lighted window of the study. Hidden behind a clump of yew he looked in. Mr. Greathead had risen from his chair. He was a little old man, shrunk and pinched, with a bowed narrow back and slender neck under his grey hanks of hair. Dorsy stood before him, facing Steven. The lamplight fell full on her. Her sweet flower-face was flushed. She had been crying. Mr. Greathead spoke. “Well, that’s my advice,” he said. “Think it over, Dorsy, before you do anything.” That night Dorsy packed her boxes, and the next day at noon, when Steven came in for his dinner, she had left the Lodge. She had gone back to her father’s house in Garthdale. She wrote to Steven saying that she had thought it over and found she daren’t marry him. She was afraid of him. She would be too unhappy. [Illustration: Then all of a sudden she had burst out crying ...] II