Part 10

"Nay, I've a fancy that they thowt they mud as weel get th' burying done wi' afore th' Ratcliffes war up to ony o' their tricks. Leastways that war what Nanny telled me, an' she war watching th' body all last neet at Marsh. I've been fettling up a bit, an' pondering a bit, an' going ower th' owd days. Eh, Jonas, but we shall see what we war meant to see afore th' winter comes again."

"What--fighting, dost think?"

"Ay, we shall that. I've getten a tidy-parcel o' Waynes down here, an' I can reckon five o' th' Marsh lot, let alone t' others, that fell by Ratcliffe swords an' Ratcliffe pistols, an' there's few knows as I do what a power o' hate ligs 'twixt Wildwater an' Marsh. I tell thee, lad, it maks my owd blood warm to think o' th' brave times coming back."

"I can niver stop wondering at thee, Sexton," said Jonas Feather, settling his arms more easifully on his stick. "Tha'rt a little, snipperty chap, as full o' dreaminess as a tummit is full o' waiter; tha's getten th' rheumatiz i' legs an' shoulder-blades, an' ivery winter brings thee browntitus, sure as Christmas. Yet here tha stands, an' I can see thy een fair blaze again when tha talks o' fighting. Hast iver seen owt o' th' sort, or is't just fancy, like?"

The Sexton laughed, a dry and feeble laugh. "I've seen part blood-letting, Jonas; an' ivery neet as I sit i' th' settle after th' day's moil is owered wi', I go backard i' my thowts. Small wonder that I'm gay, like, to think that soon there'll be a fight to butter my bread at ivery meal-time."

"Well, 'tis best for plain chaps like thee an' me, Sexton, to let 'em settle it among theirselns. Poor folk mun live, I allus did say, an' if tha addles a bit by burying, I willun't grudge it thee.--Will th' burying go forrard peaceable-like, dost think?"

"Nay, I couldn't tell thee. Like as not there'll be a fight on th' way fro' Marsh to th' kirkyard here.--Now, Jonas, hod th' stee-top while I clamber up," broke off the Sexton, throwing up his broom and setting one foot on the bottom rung of the ladder. "There's this an' there's that to be looked to, an' it's gone eleven a'ready."

"Sakes, tha doesn't mean it! An' here I stand cracking wi' thee i'stead o' smartening up th' sarving-wenches down at th' Bull yonder.--I'm noan for saying it doan't breed custom, mind ye, Witherlee, this senseless sort o' fratching 'twixt th' gentlefolk. They'll be coming fro' far an' wide to see th' last o' th' owd man, for all th' moorside war varry friendly to him; an' 'tis nobbut fitting 'at them as comes to mourn should be warmed a bit i' th' innards at after th' job is done wi'."

"Well, there's part folk hereabouts who care nowt whether they've getten warm drink or cold or none at all; an' that, mind ye, shows a sight more sense nor us poor shammocky chaps above ground hev to show for ourselns," said Witherlee, as he picked up his broom and cast a lingering glance of affection on his "tidy bits o' graves."

"Shameless Wayne is sobered by this time, I'm thinking," dropped Jonas, walking pace for pace with the Sexton down the path that led to the tool-house.

"He's getten a gooidish heart, hes th' lad, an' this may weel be th' making of him."

"Ay, he left me drunk t' other neet, an' he came back i' a two-three minutes after sober; an' when a man gets skifted out o' liquor so speedy like, he gets a sort o' hatred on 't. Leastways, that's what I've noticed more nor once, an' I reckon it hods gooid at most times."

The Sexton's robin, seeing the chance of dinner going by in spite of all its shy attempts to claim attention, hopped boldly on to Witherlee's arm.

"Now look at that, Jonas!" he cried, "I thowt I niver forgot a promise, an' here hev I been so thrang wi' talking o' what's past an' what's to come that I war all but going off without gi'eing robin redbreast his bit o' meat. Look at th' little chap! He fair speaks wi' yond wick een o' hisn, an' his feathers is all piked out to show 'at his belly is cold for hunger. Well, it taks all sorts to mak a world, an' I niver did see 'at redbreasts war ony way less to be thowt on nor us bigger folk; both sorts go on two legs, an' both turn their legs toes-uppermost one day, choose how th' wind blows."

"Ay, there isn't much to choose when it comes to th' latter end."

"Well, I'll be bidding thee good-day, Jonas," said the Sexton, turning down to the shed. "I mun put th' broom away, for I doan't like to see more tools about a kirkyard nor need be; an' then I'll turn up a two-three worms for th' robin. He allus looks on at a burying, does redbreast, an' I like to think he'll be well lined i' th' innards--it makes a burying more pleasurable, like."

Jonas, after nodding a farewell to the Sexton, sauntered down to his tavern, his hands in his pockets, as if there were ample time for everything in this world; and, though he would bestir the maids presently with a rough hand and a rougher tongue, he saw no cause to hurry.

"Hast been to hev a look at th' vault, Jonas?" said a farmer from over Wildwater way, who was just going in for a mug of ale as the landlord entered.

"Ay. All's ship-shape, an' as neat as a basket of eggs. We shall see a big stir, I reckon."

"A bigger stir nor ye think for, mebbe," said the other. "What dost mean, lad?"

"Nay, I can't rightly say--only that when I war crossing th' moor ower by Wildwater a while back, I see'd a band o' Ryecollar Ratcliffes come riding up to th' Lean Man's door. Their sword-belts were noan empty, awther, an' they war laughing."

"Laughing, war they? There's a saying that when a Ratcliffe laughs, there'll be wark for th' Sexton. How mony strong wod they be, like?"

"Six or seven, so far as I could reckon 'em up."

"Ay, it looks bad--it looks bad, an' I'm noan for denying it. Owd Witherlee war cracking o' summat o' th' sort, too, not mony minutes sin'. Well, there's none i' th' moorside but what wishes well to th' Waynes, if it come to a tussle--though I wodn't hev th' Lean Man hear me say 't."

The folk were gathering meanwhile in the graveyard. Some came in by the gate at the village end, others by the wicket that opened on the moor. All wore the air of sober merriment which a burying never fails to bring to the faces of the moor-folk; all clustered about the vault, and chattered like so many magpies, and turned to ask Sexton Witherlee, when he came from feeding his robin, a hundred silly questions as to the disposal of the coffins. These were holiday times for the moorside, and their real sorrow for the sturdy, upright master of Marsh House served only to add a more subtle edge to their enjoyment.

They were festivals for Witherlee likewise; and, though the Sexton held that pride became no man, seeing what he must come to in the end, he always bore himself more youthfully at a burial and looked his fellow-men more squarely in the face. This was his workshop, and it pleased him that his lustier fellows, who were proud of their skill at farming or joinering or the like, should see that he, too, man of dreams as he was, could show a deft hand at his trade.

Gossip grew rife as the knot of sight-seers increased. One would tell a tale of the old days when Waynes and Ratcliffes fought at every cross-road, and another would cap the narrative with one more fearsome. The women talked of the good deeds that Wayne of Marsh had done, of the tidy bit o' brass his coffin had cost, of the mad pranks that Shameless Wayne had played in times past. The children played hide-and-seek among the graves, or crept to the vault-edge and peered down in awed expectation, awaiting they knew not what of such terrors as their mothers had taught them to associate with the dead. The grown lasses came with lavender in their aprons, and sprinkled the vault-floor with the lovesome herb, and sent up a prayer to the unknown and dreadful God who dwelt amid the peat-wastes and the bogs--a prayer that they might escape this last close prison until wedlock had given them bairns, lest the curse of the women who were buried with empty breasts should light on them.

"Th' corpse is coming!" some one cried on the sudden.

The chatter ceased, and all eyes sought the yew-shadowed turning of the pathway. Shameless Wayne, his cousin Rolf and two others carried the coffin at shoulder height. In front walked the Parson, his white hair ruffled by the breeze; behind them followed a score of kinsmen, the Long Waynes of Cranshaw over-topping all the others by a head; and behind these again walked a line of farm-men and of women-servants.

"Good sakes, they've getten swords an' pistols!" muttered one of the onlookers, as the crowd made a clear lane to the kirk-porch.

"By th' Heart, who iver heard tell o' folk coming armed to a burying!" cried another. "There mun be summat more going forrard nor we've ony notion on. Look at Shameless Wayne! God keep me an' mine fro' seeing sich mortal anguish i' a lad's face again! He looks fair mad wi' grief."

"He's getten cause. Hast noan heard that he war droughen while Nanny Witherlee war ringing for his father? Nay, he's a slow-to-blush un, an' proper, an' I wonder he's getten grace enough to come sober to th' grave.--Stand back, childer! Willun't ye be telled? Or mun ye bide i' th' gate till they bury ye wi' th' coffin?"

The children shrank back, curiosity killed by fright, and the bearers moved slowly up the path until the grey church hid them. Tongues were loosened again, and Jonas Feather, coming up with the information he had gleaned from the farmer from Wildwater way, was beset by a clamorous knot of folk.

"Ay, I war sure there war summat out o' th' ordinary--see'd th Ryecollar Ratcliffes crossing th' moor, tha says, Jonas?--Well, I mind th' owd days, but there war nowt so outrageous as this shows like to be--theer, hod thy whisht! They're coming fro' th' kirk."

Again a lane was formed, from the porch to the vault where Sexton Witherlee was waiting with his ropes. The wind was at peace, and its soft stir among the budding leaves mingled with song of redbreast and love-pipe of the throstles. A faint odour of lavender crept upward from the vault, suggesting quiet and fragrant hopes for better days to come. Yet the hush that settled over the watching crowd had little rest in it, and it was plain by their laboured breathing, as the coffin was lowered by the creaking ropes, that none looked for a peaceful end to a burial that counted sword and pistol as mourners.

Amongst his kin, grouped thirty strong about the vault with set faces and hands on sword-hilts, Shameless Wayne stood noticeable; for his head was bent and the tears streamed down his cheeks unheeded. Not until now had the lad reckoned the full total of his past misdoings, nor known how shame can eat the manhood out of bravery.

"Dust to dust, ashes to ashes," said the Parson, in the ringing voice that seemed a challenge to grim Death himself.

But another than Death took up the challenge. Swift out of the moor a cry of "Ratcliffe, Ratcliffe!" answered him, and the crowd gave back on the sudden, leaving the thirty-and-one Waynes to turn face about, whipping their swords free of the scabbards. Down through the wicket-gate trooped a score of Ratcliffes, yelling their name-cry as they came. A moment they halted, for they had looked to find the Waynes unarmed; but the Lean Man cursed them forward.

Shameless Wayne looked up at the first cry; his pale face went ruddy, his eyes lit up. It was a welcome intrusion, this, on the sour trend of his thoughts, and he, who had shown most womanish among them, was now the leader of them all.

"A Wayne! In at them, lads! A Wayne, a Wayne!" he called, and leaped at the Lean Man, and sliced his left ear level with the cheek.

Old Nicholas groaned with pain, then forced a laugh and lifted his big two-handled sword above the head of Wayne of Marsh. But the Waynes came pushing upward from behind, and their leader was thrust against a gravestone on the left hand of the path, while a kinsman took the Lean Man's blow on his own uplifted blade. And after that Wayne mixed with Ratcliffe, and Ratcliffe closed with Wayne, all up and down between the graves, till there was no grass-green footway 'twixt the headstones but was rubbed black under the shifting feet of swordsmen. The crowd fell back for fear, or moved a few steps forward for awe according as the fight swept toward them or away. One against one, or one against two, it was, from the church porch to the field-wall, from the moor-wicket to the Bull; there was no space for a massed fight, and each man sought his special foe and followed him in and out until church-wall, or upreared cross, or spiked hedge of thorn, stopped pursuer and pursued and left no issue but the sword.

Sexton Witherlee found his youth again as he stood just under shelter of the porch, and watched, and rubbed his shrivelled hands together. The old stuff worked in him, and he, who had seen Wayne fight with Ratcliffe more than once, thanked God that the sweetest moil of all had been kept to lighten his last steps to the grave. His eyes went from group to group, from thrust to nimble parry, until the kirkyard held naught for him save the dancing shimmer of grey steel. The cries redoubled, and "Ratcliffe" went in the teeth of "Wayne" all down the pathway of the breeze; yet the Sexton knew, from the snarl that underlay each Ratcliffe voice, from the crisp fury of the Wayne-cry, that the Wildwater folk were going down like windle-straws before their foes. The Ratcliffes took to their pistols then, and hid behind gravestones, and sent red streaks of flame across the mist of whirling steel; but they had no time to reload, and hurry steered their bullets for the most part amiss, and the Waynes, disdaining powder at all times, hunted them from their cover like rats from out a barley-mow. Above all shouts, of onset or of mortal anguish, a lad's voice struck clear into the blue belly of the sky.

"No quarter, Waynes! In at them, and rip from heel to crown!"

Sexton Witherlee moved forward from his porch. "Yond war Shameless Wayne's voice. God, but he's getten th' fighting-fever as hot as iver I see'd a man tak it. Th' Lean Man 'ull carry a sore head back to Wildwater, I'm thinking--if he's spared.--There th' lad is! Sakes, but he's getten his hands as full as they'll hod, an' no mistak!" he broke off, straining his eyes toward the half-filled strip of graveyard beneath the Parsonage which he was wont to call his "bit o' garden." But Nicholas Ratcliffe was ever prudent in his hottest fury, and he saw that the fight was all against his folk. The long night of anguish was over for Wayne's son of Marsh, and the rebound from it had filled his veins with something more like the light fires that played across the boglands than with slow-moving blood; his pace was the wind's pace, and the fury of his onset put life into the sword-arms of each Wayne that heard his lusty battle-cry. Back and further back the Ratcliffes shrank, till the Lean Man's voice was heard, bidding them retreat fighting to the moor-gate and then escape as best they could.

"No quarter!" came Shameless Wayne's trumpet-note, as he chased them to the nearest wicket.

But pursuit could go no further, for the pursuers were all on foot and a moment saw the Ratcliffes mounted on the horses which they had tethered to the graveyard hedge. Shameless Wayne plucked out his pistol then, and laughed as a yell from one of the retreating redheads followed his quick pulling of the trigger. Then he turned back sharply, for the sound of running feet came up the path; re-entering by the wicket, he was met full by three Ratcliffes, left behind by their fellows in the wild rush for safety.

Wayne never halted, but drove down on them, his sword uplifted; and they, three to one, fell back in panic almost on to the points of the upcoming Waynes.

"Hold off! They're mine," cried Shameless Wayne, waving his folk aside.

Up and down he chased them, and up and down they ran, doubling behind gravestones or running hare-footed across open ground; for this lad, whom they had laughed at as a drunkard and a fool, seemed godlike in his fury. The Waynes held every outlet, and all watched the grim chase silently. And then Shameless Wayne's opportunity came; the three were running altogether now, and one tripped up the other, and Wayne was scarce a sword's length from them.

"I have them--" he began, and lifted his right arm.

But the open vault yawned under them before their brute terror showed where this second danger lay. They reeled at the edge and half recovered, then dropped to the paved floor beneath, where the coffin lay where Witherlee had dropped it at the first onset.

Shameless Wayne, mad with the swift onset and the crash of blows, stood laughing at the edge and beckoned to two of his folk. "Roof them over, and let them rot there," he cried, kicking the ringed vault-stone with his foot.

The crowd shrank back, and even his own people were affrighted by the wild command. None knew--none guessed, save Sexton Witherlee, watching from the porch--what fury of despair, and shame, and bitterness, had gone to the making of this brute mood of the lad's. Nor was he in case to wonder at himself; for the one moment he wished naught in heaven or earth save to see the flat stone ring down on those who would have done honest men to death by treachery.

"Why do ye draw back, ye fools?" he cried. "Is it a time for maidishness, or do ye want----"

"Stay, lad! Thou'lt think better of it in a while," said Rolf Wayne of Cranshaw, touching him on the shoulder.

While he halted, glowering from his folk to the stone, and from the stone to the Ratcliffes who lay, maimed and dumb with terror, over his father's coffin, a frail little body, robed all in white, stepped quietly to his side.

"'Tis my wedding-day, Ned," she said piteously, "and all the folk have come to mock at me, pretending 'tis a burial. What art doing here? Surely thou'lt come to church and help me find my lover there. Thou hast ever been kind to me when others mocked."

Shameless Wayne was silent for a space; and then, he knew not why, his mood swung round, and grief rushed thick to eyes and throat. He took the shivering woman by the hand, and turned, and led her down the path. "Come home, little bairn; 'tis over late to see thee wed to-day, but by and by we'll see to it," he said.

She went with him quietly, her face brightening as she clung close to his arm. And all the folk crossed themselves, and held their peace, and watched the strange pair go out at the churchyard gate.

"What's to be done with these?" said Wayne of Cranshaw, after a long silence, pointing to the vault.

"They shall not foul a Wayne vault, at any rate," said a kinsman. "Poor hounds! See how they tremble--they're scarce worth the killing. Up with them, lads, and if they can stand at all, we'll set them free to cross to Wildwater."

"Ay, I warrant ye will," murmured Sexton Witherlee, who had moved to the grave-side. "But would the Ratcliffes have done the like to ye in such a case?--Well--pity comes wi' gooid breeding, I reckon, an' 'tis noan for us poorer sort to teach ye better--but these three may live to plague ye yet."

All were gone at last--all save Parson and Sexton, who stood and looked, one at the other first, and afterward across the kirkyard. The sun was silver under grey rain-clouds now; a wet drift of mist came with the westward wind; no throstle sang, but the peewits came wheeling, wheeling, crying, crying, from across the moor, and far up above a sentinel vulture flapped wings and watched the unburied dead who lay with their faces to the rain.

The Sexton had been round the graveyard once again. His battle-glee had left him, and a soft light was in his face as he leaned against a headstone and watched the Parson, who stood as he had left him, his head bent in prayer.

"'Tis a drear day's work, Witherlee," said the Parson, lifting his eyes at last.

"A drear day's wark, Parson--but sweet as honey while it lasted. Praise God there's nobbut one Wayne killed--one o' th' Hill House lot, he is, an' he ligs up by th' wicket yonder. An' praise God, says I, 'at there'll three Ratcliffes niver trouble Marshcotes wi' their tricks again; one of 'em is stretched at th' wall-side there, an' another under th' Parsonage.--I see'd th' stroke that cleft yond last--cleft him fair like a hazel-nut."

The Parson eyed his Sexton gravely, and would have spoken; but Witherlee's soft-moving voice crossed his own before the first word was well out.

"Now, Parson, I can see by th' face on ye that ye wod liefer I read a sarmon nor a frolic i' all this; an' so I do, when I can frame to gi'e my mind to 't. 'Tis noan th' bloodshed itseln 'at pleasures me--for I'm soft wi' pity when I come to see 'em lying cold--but th' blows, Parson! Th' swing o' well-fed thews, an' th' dancing flicker o' live steel, an' a man standing up to death wi' belly-deep laughter i' his throat! I may be wrang, mind ye--there's few as isn't time an' time--but I wod gi'e five years o' life to watch this moil all ower again, and to see Shameless Wayne show how the old breed strikes."

"Vanity, Witherlee--all is vanity, save prayer, and chastening of man's pride. Hast pity for the dead, thou say'st? Ay, but that should sober thy zest in what went before."

"Yet th' pity is war nor t' other, being foolish altogether," said the Sexton reflectively, "for I allus did say 'at there's greener grass, an' sweeter, grows ower a dead man's grave nor under his living feet. But there's a winding-sheet for all, so we munnot complain."

"Soften thy heart, for God's mercy's sake, before the end overtakes thee. Art hard, Witherlee, hard, with never a hope beyond the grave."

"We'll noan' fratch, Parson," said Witherlee slowly. "Ye've learned all fro' Heaven and Hell; but I've learned fro' gooid, strong soil--what me an' ye came fro', an' what we mun go back to i' th' end. It sticks, does kneaded earth, an' when ye've lived husband-to-wife wi' 't i' a manner o' speaking, ye get to look no forrarder."

The Parson sighed. It was but an old argument with a drear new setting. "Earth holds earth--but it cannot hold the soul," he said, wearily a little, and as if foredoomed to plead in vain.

"That's as may be," said Witherlee, in the low, even voice that had likewise been taught him by his trade. "I niver hed no dealings, so to say, wi' th' soul; I've knawn buryings but no risings--save when th' ghosties stir up an' down among th' graves, as they will do time an' time. An' th' ghosts 'ud seem to hev won no further off nor Marshcotes kirkyard."

"Art full of vain superstition, Witherlee. The soul thou doubtest; but ghosts, in which no God-fearing man need believe----"

"Theer!" said Witherlee patiently. "I allus said there niver wod be any sort of argreement 'twixt me an' ye, though we jog on together. Ye live nigh th' kirkyard, Parson, but ye doan't live _in_ it, as I've done--ye hevn't learned th' _feel_ of a graveyard, or ye'd niver say nay to th' soft-footed ghosties. Why, only last back-end, I mind, I see'd----"

The Parson shivered. "I am sick, Witherlee, with all that has chanced, and my knees are weak under me. I will bid thee good-day, and wish thee a softer heart," he said, moving up the pathway.

"Good-day to ye, Parson. I fear I'm ower owd to mend--but I trust ye'll be no war for this day's moil."

The Sexton watched him go, a weak and bent old figure, until the Parsonage gate closed behind him. Then he sat him down, and filled a pipe, and forgot to feel for his tinder-box as the memories of the day came back to him. The rain was dropping, and the wind was gathering chill.