Part 25

"Mind that ye bring the Ratcliffe sheep with you; I'd not lose them for the world," he said at parting, and rode light-hearted down the slope, the lads beside him, with a thought that home and a full meal and the sight of women's faces would be passing good.

The hall at Marsh was empty when he went in, after leaving his brothers to put the horses into stable. Man-like, he felt aggrieved that there was none to give him welcome, when he had looked forward to such greeting throughout the journey home. Where was Nell? Or, failing her, surely his step-mother should be at hand somewhere. He went to the garden in search of them, but that was empty too; so he crossed to the kitchen, where he found Martha busy with preparation of the evening meal.

"Where is the Mistress? I can find her nowhere," he said, leaning against the doorway.

Martha looked up from the joint that was turning on the spit, and settled herself into an easiful attitude that suggested a hope of gossip.

"Nay, I cannot tell ye, Maister," she answered. "I've been wondering myseln, for I've niver set een on her sin' afternooin. Mary telled me 'at Mistress Wayne came in, looking gaumless-like an' flaired, an' a two-three minutes at after Mistress Nell went out wi' her. But nawther one nor t' other hes comed back that I knaw on."

Wayne nodded curtly to Martha and turned on his heel, cutting short her expectation of a pleasant round of doubt and fear and surmise.

"I would they were safe back again," he muttered. "Nell must be fey, to go wandering abroad at this late hour."

A brisk step sounded behind him, as Nanny Witherlee entered by the outer door of the kitchen and hobbled across the rush-strewn flag-stones.

"Good-even, Maister. Is there owt wrang at Marsh?" said the Sexton's wife.

"Why, Nanny, what dost thou here?" cried Wayne. "Lord, nurse, thou wear'st thy eerie look, as if thou wert ringing God-speed to a dead man's soul. What ails thee to cross from Marshcotes after sundown?"

"Nay, I've heard th' wind sobbing all th' day, like a bairn that's lost on th' moor; an' th' wind niver cries like yond save it hes getten gooid cause. So, says I, at after Witherlee an' me hed hed our bit o' supper, I'll step dahn to Marsh, says I, for I cannot bide a minute longer without knawing what's agate."

Wayne kept well in the shadow of the passage, for he shrank from letting Nanny see the marks he carried of the late fight--shrank, too, from showing how prone he was to-night to catch the infection of her ghostly speech. This bent old woman, with her sharp tongue, her outspokenness, her queer, familiar talk of other-worldly things, had never lost her hold upon the Master; she was still the nurse who lang syne had sent him shivering to bed with her tales of wind-speech and of water-speech, of the Dog, and the Sorrowful Woman, and the shrouded shapes that stalked at midnight over kirkyard graves. He had been no more than vaguely troubled hitherto by Nell's absence; but now he feared the worst, for he had never known the Sexton's wife make prophecy of dole for naught.

Nanny stood looking at him all this while--trying to read his face, but baulked by the shadows that clustered thick beyond the fringe of candle-light.

"Well, Maister?" she said softly, as still he did not speak.

"Well, nurse? Dost think I'm still unbreeked, and ready as of old to shiver at thy tales?"

"Then there's nowt wrang at Marsh?"

"What should be wrong?"

"If all goes weel, why do ye stand so quiet there, Maister? An' why do ye hide your face when Nanny talks to ye?"

Wayne forced a laugh as he moved down the passage. "Hunger puts strange fancies in a man," he said, "and 'tis long since I had bite or sup."

Nanny did not follow him, but turned to Martha, who had listened with dismay to all that passed.

"Proud--allus proud," she said. "He niver wod own to feeling flaired, wodn't th' Maister. But I tell thee, lass, there's bahn to be sich happenings as nawther thee nor me hes seen th' like on."

"We've hed happenings enough, Nanny--Lord save us fro' owt but peace, say I."

"Lord save us, says th' wench! As if there war Lord to hearken save th' God that fills th' storm's belly wi' thunder an' wi' leetning. Cannot tha hear, Martha, lass? 'Tis throb, throb--an' ivery cranny o' th' owd walls hes getten a voice to-neet.--Hark ye! Th' Maister hes gone out into th' courtyard! An' there's Wayne o' Cranshaw's rough-edged voice. Th' storm is gathering fast, I warrant."

Shameless Wayne, meanwhile, wandering out of doors to see if there were any sign of Nell's return, had found his cousin in the courtyard. Rolf had just ridden over from Cranshaw, and the four lads stood round his horse in an eager knot, telling him of the day's exploits and making off-hand mention of their wounds.

"Why, Ned, has the day borne hardly on thee? Thou look'st out of heart," cried Rolf, as Shameless Wayne came slowly across the courtyard.

Wayne tried to shake off his forebodings. "Nay, 'tis not the day's work troubles me," he said. "We trounced them bonnily, Rolf, and these four rascals would have chased them to the Pit had I not held them in. Griff yonder will be a better swordsman than his teacher before the year is out."

"Thou'rt wounded deepish, by the look of thee. Ned, I'd give a twelvemonth of my life to have fought beside thee at the washing-pools."

Shameless Wayne laughed soberly. "'Twas worth as much.--There, Rolf! Thou'lt have thy chance, I fancy, by and by."

"Then there's to be another battle?" cried Griff eagerly.

"Likely, thou man of blood," said Shameless Wayne, with a would-be lightness that sounded strangely heavy to Rolf's ears.

"What troubles thee?" he asked. "'Tis naught to do with the Ratcliffes, thou say'st?"

"With the Ratcliffes? I'm not so sure, lad. Nell has not come home since dinner, nor Mistress Wayne.--Ah, there's the little bairn at last; haply she can tell us what mad scamper Nell is bent on."

Mistress Wayne was walking down the lane as if she could scarce trail one foot behind the other; but she glanced up as she came through the gate, and her weariness left her on the sudden. One startled cry she gave at sight of her step-son, and then she ran to him with outstretched hands.

"Well, what is it, bairn?" he asked.

"They said thou wast dying, Ned, and I never thought to doubt them. Tell me it is no dream; thou'rt living, dear--yes, yes, thy grasp feels warm and real. Ah, God be thanked!"

"_They said_. Who troubled to tell lies to thee?" cried Wayne, sore perplexed.

"Three of the Ratcliffes who met me on the moor."

Wayne of Cranshaw looked at his cousin. "Trickery," he muttered.

"Ay, there's trickery somewhere.--Tell us more, bairn, about this ill-timed meeting."

Little by little they drew the whole tale from Mistress Wayne--how they had bidden her bring Nell to the boundary-stone, how Nell had gone, she following; how she had seen her last on the hill-top, and then had found an empty road.

"I swooned, Ned, then," she finished, "and lay so for a long while. And when I came out of it I had no strength to move at first, and I thought the journey down to Marsh would never end."

"I am riding to Wildwater, Ned. Who comes with me?" said Wayne of Cranshaw brusquely.

"All of us," broke in the four lads, with a gaiety ill-matching the occasion.

"Nay, youngsters, ye've done enough for the one day," said Shameless Wayne.--"Let's start forthwith, then, Rolf, and rattle their cursed house about their ears."

"What, two against them all?" cried the little woman, aghast. "Ned, 'twould be throwing thy life away--ride up to Hill House and to Cranshaw first, and get thy folk about thee."

"Mistress Wayne is right," said Rolf, after a pause. "We shall but throw our lives away if we go up alone--and what will chance then to Nell?"

Still Wayne would not yield; the speed of his last battle was in his veins still, and he could not brook delay. And while they stood there, halting between the two courses, a red-headed horseman came at a wary trot down Barguest Lane. The summer dusk was enough to show that he glanced guardedly from side to side and kept a light hold of the reins as if to turn at the first hint of danger. Seeing the gate fast closed, however, he drew rein at the far side of it and peered over into the courtyard. He glanced at the men's belts first, and saw that they were empty of pistols; then turned his horse in readiness for flight.

"God's life the fool is venturesome," muttered Wayne. "What should he want at Marsh?"

"I've a message for thee, Wayne of Marsh," cried the horseman, still fingering the reins uneasily and striving to cover his mistrust with a laugh. For he had liked this mission ill, and only the Lean Man's command had forced him to it.

"A message, have ye?" said Wayne. "Your news is known already. Ride back, you lean-ribbed hound, before we whip you on the road."

The horseman gathered confidence a little from the closed gate. "Soft, fool Wayne! We hold your sister safe at Wildwater, and the Lean Man, of his courtesy, bade me ride down and ensure you a fair night's rest by telling you what we mean to do with her. She will lie soft to-night----"

The red-head, even while the taunt was on his lips, pulled sharply at the curb. But Wayne of Cranshaw was overquick for him. With a cry that rang up every hollow of the fields, Rolf set his horse at the gate, and landed at the rider's side, and dropped him from the saddle before he guessed that there was danger.

Rolf steadied his horse, then was silent for awhile as he wiped his blade with unhurried carefulness.

"Dost see the plot, Ned?" he asked grimly, with another glance at the fallen horseman.

"Nay, I see only that Nell is in peril all this while--and that the Ratcliffes had need to rid them of a fool, since they sent him here to meet so plain a death."

"He came, this same fool, to taunt thee into going to Wildwater, if I can read the matter--came to make sure that we should do just what thou wast so hot to do just now.--God, Ned! _She shall lie soft to-night_--how the foul words stick----"

"Ned, is there no end to it--no end to it?" broke in Mistress Wayne, clinging tight to his hand and keeping her eyes away from the body lying in the roadway just without.

"Get thee within-doors, bairn; 'tis no fit place for thee."

"Not unless thou'lt come, too. Ned, I'll not have thee ride to Wildwater--keep within shelter while thou canst----"

But her step-son shook off her hand. "Rolf," he said, coming to the gate and trying to read the other's face, "wilt come with me now to Wildwater?"

Wayne of Cranshaw straightened himself in the saddle and gathered the reins with a firmer grip. "Nay, for we'll make sure--we'll go neither by ones nor twos, but take our whole force with us. Hast had supper, Ned? No? Well, thou need'st it if thou'rt to fight a second time to-day; so let the lads go fetch our kin from Hill House. I'll ride to Cranshaw for my folk, and we'll all fare up together."

"Nay, we'll not wait--" began Ned.

But Rolf was already on his road to Cranshaw, and Shameless Wayne, knowing that any other plan was madness, curbed his hot mood as best he might. He would have ridden to Hill House himself, but the lads pleaded so hard to go, and he had such crying need for food to brace him for the coming struggle, that he agreed at last.

"Be off, then, lads," he said. "'Tis a short ride, with no danger by the way, if ye'll promise not to turn aside for any sort of frolic."

They scampered off to the stables to re-saddle their horses; and Wayne, as he watched them go, sighed for the boyish heedlessness which had been his not a twelvemonth ago. Griff's thoughts were all of danger, the thrill and rush of battle; and his sister's capture, it was plain, was no more to him than a fresh fight, in which the Ratcliffes would again go down before them.

"Ay, if it meant no more!" mused Shameless Wayne, and turned as his step-mother came timidly to his side.

"Come in to supper, dear. Thou need'st it, as Wayne of Cranshaw said," she pleaded, threading her arm through his and coaxing him indoors.

The board was ready spread; but the brave show of pewter, the meats and pasties and piled heaps of haverbread, served only to make the wide, empty hall look drearier, and Wayne would not glance at the slender, high-backed chair which marked Nell's wonted seat at table.

Hunger was killed in him; but he forced himself to eat, since food meant strength to fight Nell's battle by and by. And while he ate, the little woman sat close beside him, watching his every movement, and wishful, so it seemed, to speak of something that lay near her heart.

"Ned," she whispered, finding courage at last, "it was I who sent Nell across the moor to-day; and what she said to me was true--I have brought nothing but disaster on your house since first I came to Marsh. The man who lies outside there, Ned--the man whom your cousin slew--I was feared just now, seeing him dead. But need I be? God knows I would fain lie where he lies now, for then--then, dear, I should bring no more trouble upon those I love. Naught but disaster I've brought----"

"That is not true, bairn," said Wayne gently. "Many a time thou hast brought rest to me when none else could--no, not Nell herself.--Ay, once thou gav'st me hope that there was no such crying shame in loving awry," he added, with sudden bitterness. "What of thy wisdom now, bairn? Shall I woo Mistress Janet while I help tear Wildwater stone from stone?"

"It was no fault of hers, dear. How if she sorrows for Nell as much as thou, or I, or any of us?"

But Wayne would not listen. "How the time crawls!" he muttered, as he pushed his plate away and rose impatiently. "Surely they are here by now. Hark! was not that the courtyard-gate? I left it unbarred against their coming. Didst hear it opened?"

"Ay, I heard it opened--and there's a footstep on the paving-stones."

"Bairn, help me to buckle my sword-belt on again. I know there's luck goes where thy hand has rested."

She helped him eagerly. "It is not all disaster that I bring, then? Thanks for that word, Ned; I needed it," she murmured, chafing her baby fingers against the stiff buckle.

She was still striving with it, and Ned was stooping to help her, when the main door opened, and Janet Ratcliffe stood slender on the threshold, not laughing, but with an odd merriment lurking in her eyes and about her resolute mouth.

"I have come to our dearest enemy. Make me your captive, Wayne of Marsh," she said.

He sprang back as if she had been less warmly flesh and blood; but Mistress Wayne smiled in her pleased child's fashion as she crept out of sight among the shadows at the far end of the hall.

"You have chosen your time well, Mistress, if a jest is in your mind," said Wayne.

"Nothing further, sir. Your sister is in dire peril; would less have brought me to one who has spurned my warnings oft aforetime?"

He waited, frowning, till she should tell him more.

"Men's wits move like the snail does, methinks," she cried. "Am I less dear at Wildwater than Nell at Marsh? Send up to the Lean Man, sir, and say what dread things you will do to me, and see if he will not exchange his prisoner for yours."

Wayne looked hard at her, doubtful still and bewildered by the heedless devilry of her plan. "You have risked much for the honour of my house," he said slowly.

"Nay, for the honour of a woman who had little deserved the infamy they planned for her."

"But 'tis out of reason! You run too great a hazard, Mistress.--See, our plans are laid, and already the Cranshaw and the Hill House Waynes are on the road hither. Go back while you have time, Mistress."

"I shall not go back, sir, for I know how hopeless are your plans. They have guarded Wildwater securely against attack; and even if you seemed like to force an entry they would make sure--how shall I tell thee, Ned?" she broke off, lapsing to the old familiar speech and turning her eyes shamefacedly from his.

"They would make sure of Nell's dishonour. That is thy meaning, Janet? God's life, that is a true word. Yet--when they learn that this capture was all thy doing, not mine, thou'lt have a rough welcome home to Wildwater?"

"There is always danger for me there," she said, her voice deepening; "but that should not vex thee, surely, Wayne of Marsh?"

Shameless Wayne glanced neither back nor forward now. It seemed as if some hidden chord, frayed by the months of self-denial, had snapped on the sudden; her fearless strength, her man's power to frame a swift stroke of daring and to carry it through, her woman's fierce, unheeding tenderness--all these he understood at last--understood, too, that his love for her, nurtured in rough soil and inclement weather, had come to a hardier growth than pride. Before, he had lacked her, felt the keen need of possession; but now he loved her, and watched the old barriers crumble into unmeaning dust.

"Janet," he said quietly, not moving nearer to her yet, "dost think I care naught what chances to thee?"

"'Twould seem so, Ned. Twice I have told thee of the bargain made between the Lean Man and my cousins----"

"Nay, only hinted at it. What was this bargain, Janet?"

Lower still her voice dropped. "That I should be given to the one who slew thee," she said.

She glanced once at him, and for the first time since leaving Wildwater she felt a touch of fear. For Shameless Wayne had given a cry--a cry such as she had never hearkened to, so deep it was, so brutish in its rage against those who had agreed to this foul bargain. He sprang to her side--she could feel his arms close masterful about her--and then, with some strange instinct of defence, she forced herself away.

"Not that, Ned," she cried. "Is it a fit hour for--for softness?--And see, thou'rt wounded, Ned--and I've had no time to tell thee----"

A dozen feints of speech she would have tried to keep him at arm's-length, but Wayne would none of them.

"There's one wound, lass, of thy own giving, that matters more than all the rest," he said.

"Hush! I'll not listen. There's work to be done--'twill not wait--it is no fit hour, I tell thee."

The last flush of gloaming stained the dark oak walls, the spears and trophies of the chase that hung on them; it lighted, too, the girl's straight figure and bent head, as she shrank against the window--shrank from Wayne, and from the knowledge that her will was broken once for all. Ay, she was conquered, she who had lived her own life heretofore; what if she could hide it from him? Was it too late to escape into the free wilderness where she was mistress of her thoughts and secrets? It had been easy once, when they had met, boy and girl, to pass light love-vows at the kirk-stone; but this was giving all to him, and her pride rebelled, ashamed of its own powerlessness.

But Wayne was not to be held in check. He wooed like a storm-wind, and like a reed she bent to him.

"It is a fit hour," he cried--"and what is to be done will wait, child, till thou hast told me--" He stopped, and lifted her face till she was forced to meet his glance.

"Told thee what, Ned?" she asked, not knowing whether her unwillingness were real or feigned.

"That thou'rt mine altogether--that thy thoughts are mine, and thy body, and thy pride--ay, that I've mastered thee."

Wayne kept her face tight prisoned. She could feel his touch gain fierceness; his voice had a note in it not to be gainsaid.

"Ned, I will not say it--will not--" she faltered.

And then on the sudden she put both arms about his neck, and laid her face to his, and, "Thou art my master--my master, God be thanked," she whispered.

The good-nights of birds came sleepily from the dim garden; there was a stir of laggard bees among the flowers; and pride of summer reigned for its little spell with these storm-driven children of the moor. And frail Mistress Wayne, who had watched, mute and unheeded, from the shadows that seemed scarce more unsubstantial than herself, went out and left them to it.

So for a space; and then a new sound was born of this restless, haunted night. Far off from Barguest Lane there came a shouting of gruff voices, and the sparrows in the eaves awoke to chirp a fitful protest.

Janet turned in Ned's arms and glanced toward the door. "What is't, Ned?" she whispered.

"The Waynes are here," he cried--"and I'll take a lighter heart to Wildwater, Janet, for knowing----"

"But, Ned, thou didst promise not to go," she cried.

"Ay, but I've learned that from thee which makes me doubly set on going. Dost think I could let thee return now to the Lean Man's care?"

"Yes, yes! I tell thee, there's no danger but what I have faced before, and can meet again."

"We were over-happy just now, girl; fate grudges that. Thou shalt not go, I say."

"There! I knew 'twas folly to name thee _master_. Hark how thou usest the whip at the first chance! Is every wish of mine to be thwarted now, to prove thy sovereignty?"

"Nay, for it's sure. But when I hear thee ask to fight my battles----"

"Whose else should I fight, dear lad?" she broke in, with pretty wilfulness. "See, 'tis the first thing I've asked of thee, and I will not take denial. Ride to Wildwater, thou and thy friends, and ye place Nell in peril, as I told thee. Send word that I am here, and she will be brought safely down to Marsh. Ned, try the plan at least! And if it fails, I'll let thee----"

"But what of Nell meanwhile? Each moment lost----"

"I left her my own dagger, and she has given proof already that she can use it. But there's no fear for her, unless ye drive my folk to bay."

The noise without grew louder, and Wayne moved slowly to the door. How could he let Janet go? Yet how could he place Nell in greater jeopardy than need be? It was a hard knot to unravel, but the dogged self-denial of the past months stood him in good stead now.

"Thou shalt go," he said, and went out into the courtyard, wondering how best to send a message up to Wildwater.

The Waynes had not come yet, however. The shouting he had heard was from the farm-hands, returning in gay spirits to the supper he had promised them. But their jollity had met with a sudden check. The moon was rising over Worm's Hill, and by its light the men were stealing awed glances at the Ratcliffe whom Wayne of Cranshaw had left lying by the gate.

"Nay, begow!" Hiram Hey was saying. "If this doan't beat all. First we mun sheep-wesh; then we mun fight; an' at after that we mun wesh an' wesh till our bodies is squeezed dry o' sweat. An' then, just as we think all's done, th' Maister mun needs go killing fair on th' Marsh door-stuns. We'll hev to whistle for yond supper, lads, ye mark my words."

"Not for long, Hiram," said Wayne lightly. He was anxious to keep Nell's capture secret from all these chattering folk as long as might be.

Hiram, no whit abashed to find the Master standing so unexpectedly at his elbow, thrust his hands still deeper into his pockets.

"Well, I'm hoping not," he said, in his slow way; "for I'm that droughty I scarce know how to bide. Wark's wark, Maister, I've hed as mich fighting as iver I can thoyle i' th' one day."

"Get to the kitchen, all of you, and tell the maids I sent you," cried the Maister, disregarding Hiram's snarls.

"An' th' ale, Maister? October, ye said, if I call to mind--there's no weaker-bodied ale could fill th' hoil I've getten i' my innards."

"Broach a fresh barrel, then," snapped Wayne, "and put thy mouth to the bung-hole if it pleases thee."

"I wonder," said Hiram shrewdly to himself as he slouched off at the head of his fellows. "Th' Maister hes a queerish look, I'm thinking--trouble i' th' forefront of his een, an' behind it a rare gladsomeness. There's a lass in 't, mebbe--his face hes niver caught that fly-by-sky brightness sin' he used to come fro' coorting Mistress Ratcliffe i' his owd wild days."