Part 13

"What ails thee, little bairn?" he said, slipping from the saddle and coming close to her.

She put one hand into his, with the trustfulness which only he was sure of winning from her. "I have been frightened, Ned. It was to have been my wedding-morn, and I dressed all in white and went to church--and instead of the altar there was a great grave opened, and men fighting all about it--and I could not understand."

"Never try. 'Tis over and done with long since; the grave is shut down tight,--and all your ghosties with it, little one."

"Is it over and done with?" she said.

Her voice was passionless and clear, and Wayne was growing more and more perplexed of late to know what lay beneath these sudden, wandering questions of his step-mother's.

"Ay, 'tis over," he said; "how should it be else? See how the leaves are greening, and tell me who would think of graves on such an April eve as this?"

"The leaves are greening? Nay, thou'rt jesting with me, they're reddening, like the sun up yonder--like the long wisp of sky that trails across the brink-field there. And the graves, too, are red--they keep opening, opening, and I dread to look for fear of what may come from them. Hold both my hands tight, Ned--it should have been my wedding-morn, and a great trouble came, and now I can see no green fields, nor trees, for the red mist that hugs them. Dear, thou'lt not leave me?"

"Nay, I'll not leave thee, little one," began Wayne, and turned as a footstep sounded close behind them.

Hiram Hey, crossing from the mistals, had caught sight of the Master and had stopped to ask for his orders touching the morrow's farm-work--orders which he received day by day with the same grudging, half-scornful air, in token that the new rule liked him little.

"Th' brink-field is sown, an' we're through wi' ploughing them lower fields. What's to be done next, Maister?" he asked with a side glance of curiosity at Mistress Wayne.

Wayne was not minded to think of farming-matters to-night; and Hiram, noting his mood, took a wry sort of pleasure in holding him to the topic.

"I thowt he'd get stalled afore so varry long," said the old man to himself. "Ay, he can't bide to think o' crops to-neet."

He began to rock with one foot the mossy ball that had lain so long under the right-hand pillar of the gateway; and the set of his body spoke of leisure and of obstinacy.

"Well?" he asked at last. "There's marrow i' what ye said to me a while back, Maister. Sleep ower th' next day's wark, an' ye go wi' a ready hand to it i' th' morn."

Wayne, following the motion of Hiram's foot with impatient spleen, tried to bring his mind round to the matter, but could not. His meeting with Janet had left him out of heart and spent with the old struggle between love and kinship.

"Pest take thee, come to me after supper for thy orders," he began. Then, pointing to the stone, "As a start," he added, "thou canst set that ball up on the gateway top. It wears an untidy look, and every day I've meant to tell thee of it."

"Th' gate-ball? Ye'll not know, happen, that it fell on th' varry day your mother died? An' th' owd Maister said 'at it should lig theer, being a sign i' a way o' speaking."

Hiram could always find excuse for evading a troublesome bit of work; but his words brought a stranger light to the Master's face than he had looked to see there. Superstitious at all times, the strained order of these latter days had rendered Wayne well-nigh as full of fancies as the Sexton's wife; the stone here was a sign, and as such he would not tamper with it.

"It shall lie there, Hiram," he said slowly, "until the old Master is avenged on those who slew him. 'Tis a token, haply.--Come, little bairn," he added, turning to his stepmother. "Come with me while I put my horse in stable, and then we'll sup together."

Hiram turned over the ball after Wayne had gone. "Lord save us, there's a power o' fooil's talk wends abroad," he growled. "What hes yond lump o' stone getten to do wi' th' feud? A token, is't? Well, I'm saved a bit o' sweating, so I'll noan fratch about it."

Mistress Wayne followed Ned quietly, as some dumb favourite might have done, and watched him stable his horse, leaning against the doorway the while and prattling of a hundred foolish matters. Then she fell silent for a space, and Shameless Wayne, glancing up, saw that she was crying bitterly. Angered at his own impotence to help her, he spoke more gruffly than his wont.

"Some one has frightened you. Who was 't?" he said.

His peremptoriness seemed to bring back her memory. "'Twas--what call you him?--the man with the hard eyes and the lean face, and one ear clipped level with his cheek. He met me on the road this afternoon----"

"What, Nicholas Ratcliffe?"

"Ratcliffe--yes. He lives in a great drear house above Wildwater Pool, and once--nay, I cannot recall, 'tis so long ago; but I think he was cruel to me when I went to seek my lover. And to-day he stopped me as I tried to pass him by."

Wayne finished rubbing down his horse, then turned quietly. "What said he?" he asked.

"Ned, don't look so stern! It frightens me. And thy voice is hard, too, as it was when I heard thee bid them throw the vault-stone down."

"There are matters that make a man hard, little bairn. Was Nicholas Ratcliffe cruel to you?"

"Oh, so cruel," she said, shivering. "He looked through and through me, Ned, and laughed as I never heard any one laugh before, and asked me where I had found shelter. And when I told him he laughed again, and said that soon there would be none at Marsh to give me shelter. And then----"

"Aye--and then?"

"He--he told me all that he meant to do to thee, Ned; and when I tried to run away he held me by the arm, and hurt me--see! I carry the marks of it."

She lifted her sleeve and held out her arm to him; and he nodded gravely as he saw the red finger-prints clear marked in red upon the dainty flesh.

"He hates thee, Ned," she went on. "Why should he hate thee? I seem to have heard something--nay, it has gone!--what has he against thee, dear?"

Shameless Wayne laughed grimly. "Less than I have against him, bairn. God, could he make sport of such as you?"

"Shall you kill him, Ned?" she asked, looking up suddenly.

He started at the question, voiced in so quiet and babyish a tone. "God willing, little bairn," he said, and was for crossing to the house, but she led him through the wicket that opened on the garden.

"Come see my flowers first, Ned," she pleaded, forgetful altogether of her fright. "There's a clump of daffy-down-dillies opening under the wall, and I bade them keep their eyes open till thou cam'st to say good-night to them.--'Tis summer-time, I think; look at the lady's slipper yonder, and the celandines--Is't not strange there should be so sweet a spot among these dreadful moors? I feel safer here always--as if none could do me hurt while I stayed with the flowers. Ned, wilt not stay here, too? The man with the hard face would never think to look for thee among the flowers, would he?"

"May be not," he answered lightly.--"See, bairn, your daffies have closed their eyes after all; they could not hold up their heads for weariness, I warrant, when they found me so late in coming."

"Shall I wake them, Ned?" she asked, looking gravely from the flowers to his face.

"Nay, let them be till morning, and then I'll have a word with them. 'Tis supper-time, bairn, and we must not keep Nell waiting."

"Nell does not shrink away from me as she did a little while ago," said Mistress Wayne.

He held his peace, wondering that this elf-like woman should note so many trifling matters that might well have escaped her; and he was glad to think that Nell's heart was softening to the other's helplessness.

Nell was already at table, with the lads and Rolf Wayne of Cranshaw, who had just ridden across to see that all was well at Marsh. The lads were eyeing a saddle of mutton wistfully, and their faces brightened soon as Shameless Wayne took his place at the head of the board.

"Hungry, lads?" he said, with a kindly glance at them. "Well, and should be, after the rare work we've done to-day with sword and spear--Rolf, there'll be four more fighting men at Marsh by and by; these youngsters take to cut and parry like ducks to water."

"Ye'll need more fighting men at Marsh," said Rolf, gravely, and would have said more, but checked himself.

"Likely," said Shameless Wayne, glancing at his brothers. "How fares it with the wounded up at Cranshaw?"

"As well as might be. We took some deepish cuts a fortnight since, and they'll take time to heal."

Mistress Wayne ceased playing with her food, and looked steadfastly at Rolf. "Ratcliffe of Wildwater said 'twould never heal, when he met me on the road; he saw me looking at his ear, I fancy, for he said 'twould never heal till Ned yonder had paid his price for the blow. Ay, but he's hard, hard! I shall hide Ned among the flowers lest they trap him some day on the moors."

Nell, seated next to her, whispered some soothing speech; scorn was in the girl's face yet, but it was plain that compassion was ousting her fierce hatred of her step-mother. Wayne of Cranshaw glanced across at Ned with gloomy wonder. The boys nudged one another, and laughed a little. But Mistress Wayne was already following a fresh fancy, and she paid no heed to the deep pause that followed her speech.

"See the moon peeping through the lattice!" she cried, moving to the door. "It shames the candle-light in here; thou'lt not be angered, Ned, if I slip away to the garden? The fairy-folk come out of the daffy-bells, and they'll miss me sadly if I do not go."

"But, bairn, you've eaten naught."

"Why, how fond thou art! The fairies will not talk to me unless I seek them fasting."

She waved a light hand to him at the door and was gone. Griff, the eldest of the lads, looked after her and then at Shameless Wayne.

"There'll be more than fairies sporting in the moonlight--something plump-bodied and more toothsome," he cried. "The low pasture will be thick with hares; can we go down, Ned, and take the dogs with us?"

Shameless Wayne did not answer just at once; then, "Ay, ye can go," he said, "if ye'll keep to the low lands. The Wildwater hares are friskier, but ye must be content with worse sport. Dost promise, Griff?"

"'Twould be the best sport of all to catch the Lean Man out of doors and set the dogs at him," said Griff, with a laugh.

"Doubtless--but if Wildwater is in your minds, I shall keep you safe at home."

"Well, then, we promise, Ned. Wilt let me have thy dog Rover? There's none at Marsh as quick on a hare's track as he."

"Ned, ought they to go," put in his sister. "'Tis late, and you never know what cover hides a Ratcliffe."

"Pish! We must not coddle growing lads.--Off with you, and if ye take Rover, see that ye bring him back again; I doubt he will not answer to your whistle as he does to mine."

"They're likely lads, and stiff-set-up," said Wayne of Cranshaw, as the four of them raced pell-mell out of the hall. "But thou need'st more than these about thee, Ned."

Shameless Wayne squared his jaw, after a fashion that brought back his father to Nell's mind. "I've said nay once and for all to what thou hast in mind," he answered. "What, leave Marsh and show the white rabbit-scut to Nicholas Ratcliffe?"

"Show that thou hast sense enough to know when the odds are all against thee. I tell thee, ye Marsh Waynes would never learn when to give ground. There's fresh trouble brewing, Ned--and 'tis aimed all at thee."

"How, at me? Has the Lean Man, then, vowed friendship with Cranshaw and with Hill House?"

"Nay, but his hate is hottest against thee. He thought thee a fool, and he found thee somewhat different; and he blames thee altogether for their defeat in the kirkyard."

"How dost learn all this, Rolf?"

"The Lean Man makes a boast of it up and down, and only to-night as I came through Marshcotes, they told me he had sworn to pin thy right hand to thy own door."

"Why, that was what Mistress Wayne said just now," cried Nell. Her eyes were fixed on her brother, and there was grief and something near to terror in them.

"Ay, her wandering talk hit straightish to the truth," said Wayne of Cranshaw. "Whether 'twas guess-work on her part, or whether she did meet Nicholas in the road, I cannot say--but any village yokel will tell thee what the Lean Man's purpose is. See, Ned, there are eight of us at Cranshaw; come and bring all thy folk with thee."

Shameless Wayne shook his head, and would have spoken, but the door was burst open suddenly and his brothers stood on the threshold, an unwonted gravity in their mien.

"The dogs are poisoned, Ned," said Griff.

"Poisoned? What, all of them?"

"All. When we went into the courtyard we found Rover stretched by the well, his muzzle half in the water, and his body twisted all out of shape."

"Hemlock," muttered Ned. "'Twas grown on Wildwater soil, I'll warrant."

"Then we went to the kennels, and found the doors open, and all the dogs but one laid here and there. The white bitch was missing, but she has gone to some quiet corner, likely, to die."

"God's curse on them!" cried Shameless Wayne, getting to his feet. "Why should they fight with the poor brutes when they dare not face their master?"

"'Tis but one more argument," said Rolf quietly. "Come to Cranshaw, Ned; it is witless to forego a plain chance of safety."

"Take Nell and the women-folk, if they will go--but the lads and I stay here while there's a roof to the four walls. Dost think I have not smirched the Marsh pride enough in times past?"

"That's done with, Ned; none doubts thee now, and thou'lt lose naught by seeking a safer dwelling."

"The Lean Man wants me. Well, he knows where to find me. Did father play hide-and-seek, leaving the old place to be burned to the ground, when the feud was up aforetime?"

"He stayed--as thou wilt do," said Nell, her pride undaunted by any ebb and flow of danger.

"But, Nell, 'tis stubbornness--'tis folly--" began Wayne of Cranshaw.

"That may be," answered the girl, "but it is Wayne stubbornness, and I was reared on that. I stay, and Ned stays, and with God's help we'll worst the Lean Man yet."

Shameless Wayne crossed to where his sister sat and laid a hand on her shoulder. "We'll worst him yet, Nell," he said, and turned to leave them to their confidences. "Why, where are the lads gone?" he cried, staring at the open door, through which a gentle breeze was blowing.

"They feared to miss their sport if they asked leave a second time," said Rolf, "and so they slipped away while thy back was turned to them."

"Young fools!" muttered Shameless Wayne, as he went out. "Could they not keep to home when those who strew hemlock privily are within pistol-shot?--I'll walk round the yard and outbuildings, Rolf, and see if aught else has gone amiss."

"Hadst better have company," said Wayne of Cranshaw, moving to his feet.

"Nay. The times are hard for love-making; take thy chance while thou hast it, Rolf, or it may not come again."

Rolf looked after him, and wondered at his bitterness. But Nell, remembering Janet Ratcliffe, knew well enough which way her brother's thoughts were tending, and she sighed impatiently.

"'Tis well to love by kinship," she said.

Rolf missed her meaning, being full of his own fears for her.

"I've loved thee well, dear, and I fear to lose thee," he said, after a silence. "Wilt wed me out of hand and let me take thee safe to Cranshaw?"

"Not yet, Rolf. I cannot." Her voice was low; but he gleaned scant hope even from its tenderness.

"Think," he urged. "It is hard to have waited for the good day--waited through summer heat and winter frost, Nell--and then to see such danger lying on the threshold as may rob me of my right in thee. Thou know'st these Ratcliffe swine; a woman's honour is cheap as a man's life to them. Lass, give me the right to have thee in keeping day and night."

"Some day, Rolf--but not yet."

"Thou hast scant love for me, or none at all," he flashed, pacing moodily up and down the hall.

"That is not true, Rolf, and thou know'st it; but I have love for the old home, too, and love for Ned. I'm young, dear, as years go, but there's none save me to mother them at Marsh. What would Ned do, what would the lads do, if I left them to fight it out alone? And Ned"--she faltered a little--"Ned is very new to repentance, and who knows how the wind would shift if he had none to care for him?"

"He would follow thee to Cranshaw--where I would have him be."

"Nay, but he would not! If he stood alone, without a sword to his hand, he would wait here for what might come."

Still he pleaded with her, and still she held to her resolve. And at last he gave up the struggle.

"None knows what the end will be, but we must win through it somehow," he said.

And then, her object gained, she crept close to his embrace, and, "Rolf," she whispered, "how can Ned fight the Lean Man and all his folk? Is it true that he is the first victim chosen?"

"I fear it, lass."

"But, dear, I cannot bear to lose him! I cannot."

"What, all thy bravery gone? There, hide thy face awhile--the tears will ease thee. There's hope for the lad yet, Nell, for he means to live and he has a ready sword-arm."

Shameless Wayne, meanwhile, had gone the round of the farm-buildings, railing at the wantonness which had bidden the Ratcliffes kill the best hounds in Marshcotes; but beyond the dogs' stiffened bodies he had found no sign of mischief. Restless, and ill-at-ease about the lads' safety, he wandered into the garden in search of the frail little woman who had gone thither to seek the fairies. He said nothing of his troubles nowadays to Nell or to any of his kinsfolk; but Mistress Wayne offered the trusty, unquestioning sympathy that a horse or any other dumb animal might give, and day by day he was growing more prone to drop into confidences when he found himself alone with her, half-smiling at his folly, yet gleaning a sort of consolation from the friendship.

She was standing by the sun-dial when he found her to-night. The moonlight was soft in her neatly ordered hair and flower-like face, and Shameless Wayne thought that surely she was nearer kin to the other world of ghosts than to this workaday earth which had already proved too hard for her.

"Well, were the fairies kind to you?" he asked, leaning against the dial and watching the moon-shadows play across her face.

She pointed to a green ring traced in the blue-white dewdrops that gemmed the lawn. "Yes, they were kind," she said, "I'm friends with them, thou know'st, and they came and danced for me round yonder ring."

"And what has come of them? Did I scare them all away, little bairn?"

"Oh, no," she answered gravely. "They guessed, I think, that I was weary of them, and scampered off before thou camest. Wilt mock me, Ned, if I tell thee something?"

He did not answer--only shook his head and put his arm more closely round her.

"It is all so dark and strange. I seemed to fall asleep long, long ago, and then I woke to a new world--a world of mists and moonlight, Ned, where the human folk move like shadows and only the fairies and the ghosts are real. The fairies claimed me for their own, and I was content until I saw the wee birds nesting and the spring come in. But now I'm hungry, Ned, for something that the fairies cannot give." She stopped; then, "Didst meet thy lady-love to-day?" she asked.

Wayne's eyes went up toward the hills that cradled Wildwater. "Hast a queer touch, bairn, on a man's hidden wounds," he said, after a silence. "Did I meet my lady-love? Nay, but I met one who is playing the will-o'-the-wisp to my feet--one whom I love or loathe. Who told thee, child, that I had seen her?"

"I think it was Hiram Hey; he was telling Nanny when I went into the kitchen how he had seen you cross the moors with her."

"Trust Hiram to pass on the tale!" muttered Wayne.

"Ned, 'tis a drear world, and thou'rt not right to make it harder," said the little woman, turning suddenly to him. "Somewhere, in a far-away land, I once met love and scomed him; and I have lacked him ever since, dear."

He bent toward her eagerly; so grave and full of wit she seemed, and haply she was a better riddle-reader than he during these brief moments when she slipped into touch again with the things of substance. But the light was already pale in her childish eyes, and soon she was laughing carelessly as she traced the moon's shadow on the dial with one slender forefinger.

"See, Ned!" she cried. "It points to mid-day, when all the while we know 'tis long past gloaming. I wouldn't keep so false a time-piece if I were thou; the dandelions make better clocks at seeding-time."

The night was warm, and the moon-shadows of the gable-ends scarce flickered on the grass; but on the sudden a little puff of icy wind came downward from the moors and whimpered dolefully.

"The night wears shrewd, bairn, and we've talked moon-nonsense long enough," said Wayne sharply, turning to go indoors. He was sore that she had lost the thread of reason just when he most needed guidance.

But Mistress Wayne was shivering under a keener wind than ever was bred in the hollow of the sky, and her face was piteous as she followed her companion with her eyes. "Ned, canst not see it?" she stammered.

"See what? The shadows lengthening across your fairy-ring?" he said, impatiently.

"He crept behind thee--he's fawning to thy hand--shake him off, Ned, shake him off! Such a great beast he is----"

Shameless Wayne glanced sharp behind him. "By the Heart, 'tis Barguest she sees!" he muttered.

"Thou canst not help but see him--his coat is brown against thy darker wear--he's pressed close against thee, now, as if he fears for thee."

He could see naught, but there were those who had the second sight, he knew, and the old dreads crept cold about his heart. "Would God the lads were safe indoors," he muttered.

"How if it be thou he comes to warn?" she whispered.

He laughed harshly. "I've over many loads on my shoulders, bairn, to slip them off so lightly; but the lads are young to life yet, and full of heart--'twould be like one of Fortune's twists to send them across the Lean Man's path."

"Hark, Ned, didst hear?" she broke in, as a low whistle sounded through the leafing garden-trees.

Shameless Wayne could not find his manhood all at once; but at last he shook himself free of dread a little. "Ay, I heard some poor hound whimpering--it has crept away to die, belike, after eating what those cursed Ratcliffes dropped. Come, child! There's naught save ague to be gained by staying among the night dews here."

*CHAPTER XI*

*HOW THE RATCLIFFES RODE OUT BY STEALTH*

The moon was crisp and clear over the low pastures when Griff and his brothers went down for the hunting. Wayne of Cranshaw had hit the truth when he said that they feared denial from Shameless Wayne, and so had slipped out quietly while their elders were discussing the old vexed topic as to whether Marsh should be left to its fate.

"Ned will not leave the old place," said Griff, as they crossed the first field.

"Not while he has us to help him to fight," answered Bob, the youngest, drawing himself to as full a height as his fourteen years allowed.

"There's naught in it," grumbled a third. "Ned would not let us go to the kirkyard that day, and there was a merry fight--and now all's as tame as a chushat on the nest. I thought the Lean Man would come down and let us have a spear-thrust at him; but we never see a Ratcliffe now, and 'tis hard after learning so many tricks of fence."

"Bide awhile," answered Griff sagely. "There'll be frolic yet if we can but wait for it. Dost think they poisoned the dogs for naught?"