Part 20

The Sexton's wife could not resist that simple query. "News? What's agate?" she said, half turning about.

"Why, th' Wildwater farm-lads is getting past all. There's no day goes by now, so Hiram Hey telled me, but what they come to words or blows wi' th' Marsh lot. It means summat: like master, like man, an' I warrant they've ta'en example fro' th' Lean Man hisseln. What mak o' chance lies Shameless Wayne, that's what I want to knaw?"

"Tha wert up at Wildwater thyseln awhile back?" said the Sexton, still with one eye on his wife.

"Ay, for sure. I war in an' amang 'em while I war doing yond walling job for th' Lean Man; an' they war allus clevering then about what th' Ratcliffes war bahn to do, an' allus striving to pick a quarrel wi' ony o' th' Marsh lads 'at came handy. I tak no sides myseln----"

"I'll warrant tha doesn't. He'd nearly as lief wark as fight, wod slack-back Earnshaw," put in Nanny.

"Well," cried Witherlee, "yond lad at Marsh is making as grand a fight as ony Wayne that's gone afore him, an' we're all fain, I reckon, to see him win i' th' end.--What say ye, Mistress?" he broke off, turning to the little woman who sat apart, hearkening to their gossip but taking no share in it.

"He will win, Sexton," she answered quietly. "Dost doubt it?"

Nanny softened for a moment, as she, too, glanced at Mistress Wayne. "Not wi' ye beside him. By th' Heart, Mistress, but I'd be flaired for Shameless Wayne if he'd no friend sich as ye to keep him fro' ill hap."

"Nay, I can do naught--save sit with hands in lap sometimes, and read the future, and see Ned moving safe through bloodshed and through glint of swords."

"Do nowt?" echoed the Sexton's wife. "Ye said as mich when Bet Earnshaw axed ye to go an' touch her bairn. Did ye do nowt that day, Mistress, or is it thanks to ye that th' little un mended fro' th' minute ye set hand on her?"

"'Tis something that goes out of me--I know not what," murmured the little woman. "It is strange, is it not, that such as I should have the gift of healing when wise men have failed?"

"Book-learning never cured a cough, as they say i' Marshcotes," put in Nanny.--"Who's that at th' moor-gate? Why, if it isn't Mistress Ratcliffe herseln! My sakes, it's a full kirkyard this morn. What mud she be after, think ye? She's hitching her horse to th' gate-post, mark ye--an' now she's coming down wi' that long, lad-like stride o' hers, as if she war varry full o' some business.--I'd rarely like to know what brings her so far afield."

Janet stopped on seeing the chattering group of rustics, with Mistress Wayne sitting quiet and motionless behind them; then, finding that Earnshaw was among the gossips, the girl went down to him. The Sexton's wife eyed her narrowly as she approached, and nodded her head with a gesture which said, more plainly than words could have done, that beauty and a free carriage were dust in the balance when weighed against the damning fact that she was born a Ratcliffe.

"Earnshaw, I want thee to come and doctor that roan mare of mine," said Janet.

"Doan't axe him to do owt he could call wark, Mistress," cried Nanny, missing no opportunity to gibe. "Call it laking, an' he'll come like a hare; but reckon it's wark, an' ye may whistle a twelve-month for him."

"Thee hod thy whisht, Nanny," Earnshaw interposed. "If there's a horse to be physicked, Mistress Ratcliffe hes come to th' right man, choose who hears me say 't."

"There's them as says tha wert born i' a stable, Earnshaw, an' I can weel believe it; bred an' born, I reckon, for tha'd walk further to see a horse nor to sup a quart of ale--an' that's saying a deal. Now, Witherlee, art coming, or shall I hev to sweep thee indoors wi' a besom?"

Nanny, her temper no wise improved on learning that Janet's errand promised so little mystery, carried off Witherlee without more ado. Earnshaw could find no good excuse to linger after he had discussed the roan mare's ailments with Janet; and he, too, passed up the graveyard and out at the top gate. The girl was about to follow him and ride home again, when Mistress Wayne called to her.

"Come hither, Mistress. I have somewhat to say to thee," she cried, motioning the girl to the seat beside her.

Janet, who had last seen her, a wind-driven waif, come wailing into the Wildwater hall, was startled by the change in her--by the wild grief in her blue eyes, and the resolution in her baby face. Without a word she took the proffered seat, wondering what Mistress Wayne could find to say to her.

"I saw you come in at the wicket, and I knew you," said the other presently. "It is so strange, girl; all has come back to me in a wave, and I remember faces--dead faces, some of them; and some again are living, and beautiful like yours. I want to talk with you of Ned--him they call Shameless Wayne."

Janet glanced at her in surprise. A faint colour crept over her brow. "You--you know, then?" she murmured.

"Yes, I know. Often--in the days when I could only half understand--Ned talked of you to me; and I recall now that, before the troubles came, you used to meet him up by the kirk-stone. Dear, I cannot let you both go into the pitiless marshes, as I have done. He loves you----"

"Ay, a little less than he loves his pride," said Janet bitterly.

"Some day he will love you more." She clutched the girl's arm eagerly. "None knows but I how bitter the struggle has been for him. He is mad, mad, to let good love slip from him while he grasps at shadows. _I_ had a man's love once, girl, and I threw it aside, and--God pity all who let the gift go by."

Tears were crowding thick to the eyes of Mistress Wayne--warm, heart-healing tears which had been denied her until now. A sudden compassion seized Janet, and under the pity a gladness that Wayne of Marsh had found the struggle bitter as she could have wished it.

"He loves me, say you? Say it again, Mistress; 'tis the pleasantest speech I've heard these long days past," cried the girl.

"He is wearying for you--wearying for you. Hark ye, dear! I cannot let you drift apart. Come with me back to Marsh, and I'll make all smooth between you--ay, though Ned strives with all his might against us."

Janet smiled and shook her head. "That is a little more, methinks, than the most love-sick maid would do. Bring him to me, and I will welcome him----"

"Nay, life is so short, so very short. See, I'm but a child yet, and impatient, and all my heart is set on giving Ned his happiness, because he cared for me when there was none else to befriend me. I'm sure 'twill all come right: Ned has gone riding up the moor, but he'll be home by now, and we can----"

"Up the moor, say ye?" cried Janet, with sudden misgiving. "Which road took he, Mistress?"

"To Bents Farm, I think he said. He was to have gone yesterday, but was hindered."

Janet sprang to her feet and stood looking down on Mistress Wayne. This, then, was the end of her wise scheme; this was the fruit of all her care for him. And in her recklessness she had bidden the Lean Man take three other Ratcliffes to meet him by the way.

"What is't?" asked Mistress Wayne, wonderingly.

"What is't?" cried Janet, with a hard laugh. "Naught, Mistress--save that I've murdered one who was dearer to me than my own body."

Turning, she ran up the path, and out at the wicket, and tugged at her horse's bridle, which she had fastened to the gate-post, so hard that it broke between her hands. And fast as they galloped across the moor, toward Bents Farm, the pace seemed sluggish when measured by her thoughts. Was it too late? Was Wayne already lying face to sky, with lids close-shut over the eyes that would see neither sky nor moor again? Nay, it should not be, it must not be.

_Gallop_. She would ride into the thick of them, and somehow pluck him from between their blades; they dared not strike a woman, one of their own kin, and while she held them off Wayne might compass his escape. Yet she knew it was too late, and again the picture came before her, clear in its every detail, of the quiet body and the upturned face that would be lying somewhere on this same road to Bents. Each turn of the way was a hell to her, because of what might lie beyond, each turning safely past was heaven. _Gallop_. There was yet time.

She neared the dip of Hoylus Slack and heard the sound of hoof-beats in the hollow. It was done, then; the strain was over, and there was no room for hope. Was this Red Ratcliffe, come to bear news to Marsh that its Master was dead? If so, she would gallop her horse against his, and snatch for his weapon as they fell together. The horseman was half up the hill now, and a great cry broke from her as she saw the blunt, rugged face with the kerchief tied across the brow. Pulling her beast back almost on to his haunches, she stood and waited till the horseman topped the rise and came to a sudden halt at sight of her.

"Ned, Ned, art safe?" she cried, reining in close beside him.

Wayne of Marsh eyed her soberly. "Safe? Ay. Wilt sorrow or be glad of it, Mistress Janet?"

"Cease mockery!" she pleaded. "See, I would think shame to confess it at another time, but all the way from Marshcotes I have sickened at thought of--God's pity, Ned, what might have chanced!"

"Well, enough has chanced, I fancy, for one morning's work. If a ripped forehead, that scarce will let me see for bleeding through the kerchief----"

"Stoop, Ned. Thou hast tied it ill, and my fingers are better at the work."

She was glad of the least labour she could do for him; he might be churlish, he might accept her service as if it were a penance, but he was safe, and free to treat her as he would. Shrinking a little when the bandage was loosened, she glanced at the wound and noted its discoloured look.

"Bide awhile," she said, slipping to the ground. "Thou'lt have trouble with it, Ned, unless I lay fresh peat on it to drive out the bad humours."

"'Twill heal of itself; I would not trouble thee," he muttered. It was a nice, bewildering point of honour to Wayne of Marsh, this acceptance of aid from Ratcliffe hands, and he spoke with scant civility.

But Janet was back already with a handful of the warm red mould, and she bade him get down from saddle that she might the better fasten on the bandage.

"Now tell me. How didst come through it, Ned?" she asked, tying a second knot in the kerchief.

"That is what I cannot tell thee. They met me, four of them, where the road is narrow up by Dead Lad's Rigg."

"Ay, four of them. God give me shame," murmured Janet.

"I heard the Lean Man bid them stand aside and leave us to it, and after that I knew no more till he and I were lunging each at the other. He knocked my sword up at the last, and lifted his own blade to strike----"

"Yes, yes, go on. What then, Ned?"

"Nay, I told thee I could give no right answer. Just as I had given all up--with a thought, it may be, of one who had been forbidden--the Lean Man's arm dropped to his side, and he sprang back in the saddle, all but unseating himself."

"But, Ned, I cannot credit it. Didst thou make no movement to drive him back?"

"None, for 'twas all done in a flash, and he might have split my skull in two if he had brought down that great blade of his."

"Was there naught, then, to occasion it?"

"Naught that I could see, yet he backed as if the fiend were at his throat. His own folk were no less puzzled than I, but his terror ran out to them and held them; and when I made at him afresh not one rode forward."

"Didst--didst not kill him?" she said. Any but the Lean Man he might slay, but her grandfather--nay, she could not brook that when faced so suddenly with the chance of it.

"I did not," answered Wayne grimly--"for the reason that he fled."

Again she stared at him. "_Fled_? Grandfather fled, say'st thou?"

"Did I not say that there was Ratcliffe pride in thee? Ay, plain in thy voice, and in thy little faith that the Lean Man could flee. Yet so it is, Janet; and I made after him almost to the gates of Wildwater; and if his had not been the better horse----"

"Then whence came this ugly gash of thine? 'Tis all a puzzle, Ned, and my late fear for thee has dulled my wits, I think."

"Why, his folk came after me in half-hearted fashion, and I had to ride through the three of them when I turned back for Wildwater. I took this cut in passing, and he who gave it me will go lame for the rest of a short life; and then they, too, made off, daunted by the old man's panic, and I was left to wonder what goblin had come between Nicholas Ratcliffe's blade and me."

"He has been strange of late--ever since the night when he came down to burn thee out of Marsh. Some illness has taken him; it was the fire that did it, may be, when he fell face foremost into it."

They stood awhile, neither breaking the strained silence. Then Janet touched the bandage lightly, and smoothed it a little over the close-cropped hair, and, "Ned," she whispered, "thou said'st something just now. _With a thought of one who had been forbidden_. Who was it, Ned?"

Very grave he was; not rough now, nor uncivil, but sad with the sadness that old hatreds, formed before his birth, had woven for him.

"Who should it be but thou, Janet? I told myself in that one moment how well I loved thee--and I was glad. And then some strange thing warded death from me--and, see, the feud stands gaunt as ever between us two."

The reaction from her late dread was stealing over Janet fast, and with it there came the memory of how she had brought him into this desperate hazard, from which a miracle alone had saved him.

"Ned," she cried, "who bade the Lean Man take three of his folk against thee, think'st thou? Who told them thou would'st ride to Bents Farm to-day?"

"Red Ratcliffe, at a venture."

"Nay, it was I. Thinking to keep thee safe, I said thou would'st go to Bents to-day instead of yestermorn. So thy wound, Ned, was all of my giving, and--why dost not hate me for it?" she finished, with a passion that ended in a storm of tears.

Wayne set both arms about her then, and strove to comfort her; angry he had seen her, and scornful, but this sudden grief, so little like her, and so unexpected, loosed all the harshness that he was wont to set between them as a barrier when they met.

"Nay, Janet, never cry because of what might have chanced and did not," he whispered. "'Twas no fault of thine, lass, that I went to Bents to-day."

A sour face showed over the wall that bounded the left hand of the highway, and presently a pair of wide shoulders followed as Hiram Hey began to climb over into the road.

"What in the Dog's name art doing here, Hiram?" cried his Master, starting guiltily away from Mistress Janet.

"Nay, I like as I hed to look after some beasts i' th' High Pasture. 'Tis fine weather, Maister--but a thowt past mating-time, I should hev said."

"Thy ears are big, Hiram, but my hands will cover them."

"Now, look ye! It hes been a failing o' mine wi' th' gentry iver sin' I war a lad; I may speak as civil as ye please, an' I get looks as black as Marshcotes steeple. An' all th' while I war nobbut thinking o' two fond stock-doves that I fund nesting a three-week late up i' Little John's wood."

Janet waited for no more, but beckoned Wayne to lift her to the saddle and touched the roan mare with her whip.

"Is there danger for thee at Wildwater?" he whispered, clutching her bridle. "If there be--I tell thee I'll not let thee go."

"Danger? Nay, if thou hadst failed to go to Bents, there might have been; but now they'll think I warned them in good faith."

"But what of the bargain, Janet? The last time we met thou told'st me of some bargain, made by the Lean Man, which touched thy welfare."

She paused, eager to toll him all; but a second glance showed her that he was in no fit state just now to have more troubles thrust on him. Even the effort of lifting her to saddle had blanched his face; the cloth was reddening, too, about his forehead, and he swayed a little as he held her rein. She must find a better time to tell him; for if he learned what that grim bargain was which pledged her to his murderer, he would run headlong against her folk, weak as he was, and find himself outmatched.

"The bargain was of little consequence," she said. "There was a price named for my hand--but such a price as none at Wildwater, I think, will ever claim. There, Ned! Let go my bridle, for that hind of yours is watching all we do."

Still he was not satisfied; but his hand slackened for a moment on the rein, and Janet started forward at the trot. Once she turned, at the bend of the road, and waved to him; and then the moor seemed emptied of its sunlight on the sudden.

Wayne stood looking up the highway long after she had gone, and turned at last to find Hiram's quiet grey eyes upon him.

"Well, Hiram? What art thinking of?" he said, with something between wrath and grudging laughter in his voice.

"Nowt so mich, Maister. 'Twould be a poor farmer as 'ud frame to sow Hawkhill Bog wi' wheat; that war all I hed i' mind. Soil's soil, choose how ye tak it, an' ye cannot alter th' natur on 't. Theer! My thowts do run on farming till I've getten no room seemingly for owt else; an' I niver axed ye how ye came by this red coxcomb o' yourn."

Wayne glanced over Hiram's question as he put his foot in the stirrup. He read the old fellow's meaning clear enough, and it angered him that his love for Janet should be hinted at under cover of this slow farming-talk.

"Soil's soil, Hiram," he said, "and I had as lief sow corn on yond stone wall as look for any crop of kindliness from that dried heart of thine."

"Begow, he knows nowt about me an' Martha," chuckled Hiram, as his Master rode down the highway. "My heart's as soft as butter nowadays; but I wodn't let young Maister guess it.--Martha, now. I believe i' going slow, an' that's gospel, but I'm getting flaired she'll slip me. There's shepherd Jose, th' owd fooil, dangling at her apron-strings, an' I'd be main sorry to see a lass like Martha so senseless as to wed him just for spite.--Well, Martha's noan a Ratcliffe, thanks be, an' that's more nor th' Maister can say o' yond leetsome wench fro' Wildwater. She'll bring him trouble yet, as sure as I shall mow th' Low Meadow by and by."

*CHAPTER XVII*

*THE DOG-DREAD*

A soft wind was fluttering from the edge of dark. The moon lay like a silver sickle over Dead Lad's Rigg, watching the fading banners of the sunset go down beneath the dark red-purple of the heath. No bird piped, save the ever-moaning curlew; the reeds whispered one to another, nodding their sleepy heads together; the voice of waters distant and of waters near at hand sobbed drearily. Over all was the masterful silence of the sky, that dread and mighty stillness of the star-spaces where the hill-gods stretched tired limbs and slumbered. Full of infinite sweets was the breeze, and the scent of heather mingled with the damp, heart-saddening odour of marsh-weeds and of bog-mosses.

The Lean Man, prone in the heather with his eyes on the dying sunset, felt every subtle influence of the hour. His life's grand failure had been compassed, the first and last deep terror had laid its grip on him; the wide moor, which had spoken of freedom once, was narrowed now to a prison, whose walls of sky were creeping close and closer in upon him. Man-like, he clothed his own dead passions--his love of fight, his pitiless lust for vengeance--with all the majesty of larger nature; man-like, he thought the moor's face darkened for his own tragedy, that even the curlews thrilled with something of his own intimate and tearless sorrow. What was this ghoul that had come, naught out of nothingness, and chilled the life-blood in him? It was a phantom, yet a hard reality--a thing of unclean vapours, yet stronger than if it had plied a giant's sword with more than a giant's strength of arm.

Near must all men come, once in their lifetime, to that deep horror of brain and heart when they stand, less and greater than their manhood, at the gulf-edge which lies between them and the space that fathered them. The Lean Man was peering over the gulf to-night, and the soul of him was naked to the moor-wind. No groan, no little muttered protest escaped him; for throat and lips were powerless, and the body that they served stood far off from Nicholas Ratcliffe.

"The night wears late, grandfather. Will you not come home to Wildwater?" said a low voice at his side.

He did not hear till the words had been twice repeated; then, starting as if a rude hand had wakened him from sleep, he began to moisten dry lips with a tongue as dry.

"Janet, what brings thee here?" he said hoarsely.

"Care for you, sir. You have been out of health, and I feared to leave you so late on the moor lest sickness----"

He laughed brokenly. "Sickness--ay. I have been--not well. 'Twas rightly spoken, girl."

His mood changed presently. The nearness of this girl, who alone had touched his heart to deep and selfless love; the drear sympathy of the gloaming heath; the swift and over-powering need of fellowship; all made for the confession which he had kept close locked these many days.

"Sit thee down beside me, Janet. Thou'lt take no hurt from the warm night. There, lass. And let me put an arm about thee--so. God's life, how real thou art, after the boggart-company I've kept of late."

Her cheeks burned at thought of the poor requital she had given his love; but she would not remember Wayne of Marsh, and she waited, her grey eyes pitiful on his, until he should find words to ease his trouble.

"We'll start far back, Janet," he said, slowly, "in the old days before my father, or his father's father before him, had seen the light. Ratcliffes were at feud then with Waynes, and both were busy sowing the crop which generation after generation was to reap. The tale is old to thee, but thou'lt not grudge to hear it all again?"

"Not that tale to-night, grandfather--any tale save that," pleaded the girl.

But Nicholas did not hear her. "The tale," he went on, "is of how one Anthony Ratcliffe, dwelling at Wildwater, rode down to Marsh to slay Rupert Wayne. He found there only Wayne's young wife, and asked where her goodman was. She would not answer; so Anthony Ratcliffe bade his men heat a sword-blade in the fire till it was white, and had the lady of Marsh stripped mother-naked, and marked a broad red scar all down her body between each question and each refusal of an answer. But she would not tell where Wayne had gone--not till she heard the steel hiss for the fifth time on her tender flesh. And then she told that he was riding home over Ludworth Slack; and they left her dying of her wounds."

"Hush, grandfather! I cannot bear it. Hark to the rushes yonder--and the curlews--they've heard your tale, methinks."

"'Tis grim, lass, but what I have to tell thee is grimmer still, so bide in patience. They got to horse again, Anthony Ratcliffe and his men, and they met Wayne of Marsh on the road, riding home with his favourite hound for company. They made at him, and the hound sprang straight and true at Anthony's throat"--the Lean Man halted a moment and wiped the sweat-drops from his forehead--"and nipped the life out of him. One of his folk thrust a spear then through the dog's heart, and the rest fell upon Wayne of Marsh and slew him."

Janet thought of another Wayne of Marsh who had lately been met in just such a fashion up by Dead Lad's Rigg. "Go on, grandfather," she whispered, in an awe-stricken voice.