Part 27

Again Wayne lifted his head and looked straight in through the doorway, himself unseen across the moonlit strip of yard which stood between the garden and the kitchen. Hiram's wryness was no more to him than the thistle-burrs which waited for him during any of his usual walks about the fields; but the shepherd's plain kindliness toward him, the shepherd's quiet assurance that there could be naught 'twixt Janet and himself, touched him to the quick. In vain he mocked himself for hearkening to what such folk as these could find to say of him; he stayed stone-still, his arms upon the rounded garden-wall, and heard them wear the matter threadbare with their talk. And there was not one--save Martha--who augured less than disaster from the match.

"Good hap, my very dogs will turn next and look askance at me," muttered Wayne.

But still he did not move, for he had plumbed the bottom depth of weariness to-night, and it was easier to stay hearkening to distasteful gossip than to turn to the ill company of his own thoughts. Work had succeeded fight and loss of blood; and close after these had followed his anxiety on Nell's behalf, his sudden yielding to the passion that had dogged his path all through the uphill months; then had come the struggle with his honour, the victory that was worse than defeat, and, last of all, the chill glances of those who were his nearest kin. Aged as he had grown of late, his youth was slow to die outright, and the quick ebb and flow of passion had left him weak to bend to the touch of his surroundings; and the chatter of these farm-folk, who condemned him in such frank, straightforward terms, seemed the last straw added to his burden.

They left talking of him by and by, as the ale began to warm them and frolic pressed for outlet. Little by little the Master lost his own cares in watching their rustic comedy played out; from time to time he smiled; and once, when Martha encouraged shepherd Jose too patently at the expense of Hiram, he laughed outright. Heretofore Wayne had been friendly with his servants in his own proud way; but to-night it was borne in upon him how like their betters, after all, were these rough-speeched folk. The same jealousies were theirs, the same under-fret of passion, veiled by banter or rude coquetry; and they, too, reared a score of stumbling-blocks, feigned or real, about the path of wedlock.

The night was wearing late meanwhile, and the farm-folk got to their feet at length and shuffled out by twos and threes--some to return to outlying farms or shepherds' huts far up the moor, others to less distant farms. Martha came to the gate to give them a God-speed, with Hiram Hey beside her, and it was long before the last shout of farewell died echoing up the moor.

Perhaps it was the ale he had drunk; perhaps it was Martha's flouting of him throughout the evening in favour of shepherd Jose; but for one cause or the other Hiram showed less than his wonted hesitation as he drew nearer to her in the moonlit yard. Their faces were turned sideways to the Master, and neither noted his quiet figure leaning against the wall.

"Martha, 'tis a drear house, this, I'm thinking," said Hiram.

"Ay, but it's all the roof I've getten."

"'Tis as full o' dead men's ghosts as it can hod, an' nobbut to-neet there war one more ligged quiet beside th' gate, as if th' owd place fare went hungering for bloodshed an' sudden death."

"Well, Hiram?"

He pointed down the fields to where, in a snug-sheltered hollow, the gable-end of his own farm climbed up into the moon-mists.

"Yond's a likelier spot, an' quieter, for a wench," he said.

"Sakes, Hiram! Tha'rt noan so backard-like i' coming forrard, when all's said."

Hiram was quiet for a space, and the Master could see a laughable air of doubt steal into his face as he ruffled the frill of hair that framed his smooth-shaved chin.

"An' then," put in Martha softly, "there's even a quieter spot nor yond that mud varry weel be mine for th' axing."

Hiram Hey ceased doubting. "What, dost mean that owd fooil Jose wod like to tak thee to th' wind-riven barn he calls a house?"

"Summat o' th' sort, Hiram--ay, he'd be fain, wod shepherd Jose. An' if th' house be i' a wildish spot--well, 'tis farther out o' harm's way."

"That sattles it. Wilt wed me afore th' corn ripens, lass, an' come to yond snug bigging dahn i' th' hollow?"

"I reckon I will, lad. Why didst not axe me plain afore?"

Then Hiram kissed her, under the left ear; and the Master, forgetting that they did not count upon a listener, laughed outright. Martha turned, with cheeks aflame like the peonies newly-opened in the garden place behind her; and Hiram lost his calmness for the moment.

"Thou dost well, Hiram," said the Master drily. "Love while thou canst, for thou'd'st better make the most of what few years are left thee."

Hiram took the stroke staunchly, knowing it was the return-thrust for many a home-blow he had given Wayne.

"An' so I bed, Maister," he answered, not shifting a muscle of his face--"by wedding one that counts no red folk i' her family."

The Lean Man and Janet had been riding slowly home while Wayne sat listening to the shepherds' gossip; and as they went up Barguest Lane Nicholas had bent toward his grand-daughter with more than his wonted tenderness.

"Janet, girl, 'tis good to know thou'rt safe again," he said. "What would Wildwater be without thee?"

She did not answer, but turned her head away a little; and so they rode on in silence until they reached the open moor. The old man shivered then, and glanced behind with the quick gesture she had learned to know.

"I had forgotten it," he muttered.--"Didst hear aught in the wind, Janet?"

"I heard a moor-bird calling, sir, and the rustle of dry heather-stalks."

"Naught else? No sound, say, of a hound baying down the lane?"

"There's a farm-dog barking at the moon; that is all."

He straightened in the saddle. "To be sure! When a fool is old, he's past praying for, eh, girl? Yet--is yond brown shadow going to fare to Wildwater with us?"

"So long as there's a moon to cast it, sir."

Another silence, while a mile of heath slipped underneath their hoofs.

"They bade me keep Nell Wayne, and let thee take thy chance," said Nicholas presently. "Think of it, Janet! To wake in the morning and have no slip of sunshine like thyself to come down to."

"Grandfather, it--it hurts me to hear you praise me so."

"Why, what ails thee? Cannot I praise the one thing on God's earth that I love, without hurting thee?"

Yes, she must tell him all. All the way up it had been borne in on her that she would let the deceit go no further. She owed no less than frankness to him, and he should have it, though afterward he struck her to the ground. They were alone with the sky and the wind; the hour, the dim-lying spaces of the moor, encouraged confidence. She had chosen her road--but at least she would start fair on it, honest as the man who had her love in keeping. Quietly, without shrinking or appeal, she told him all--how she used to meet Shameless Wayne by stealth, how she had given him warning, how, lastly, she had to-night ridden down to Marsh and surrendered herself into Wayne's hands.

The Lean Man was very quiet when she had finished, and not till they were skirting the dull ooze of Wildwater pool did he break silence. "I had rather have shovelled the earth above thy dead body, girl," he said, checking his horse at the brink.

She watched his face working fantastically as he stared into the water. Mechanically she traced the scars of fire, the lump of discoloured flesh that marked where his right ear had been shorn level with the cheek; and she told herself that Wayne of Marsh was answerable for both. His anger, gathering slowly, was terrible to meet.

"What is't to thee that my heart is broken?" he went on. "I could set finger and thumb to thy throat, girl, but would that heal my own hurts? The care I've given thee, the constant thought--womanish thought--the way I shamed myself by opening to thee all my secret fears." He laughed drily. "Barguest? Methinks thou hast killed him, lass, with a worse sickness. Hark ye! This shall not be. I've sap in my veins yet, and I'll cheat thee of thy lover before I die."

"Sir, is this the love you have for me? What has Wayne ever done that you should not cry 'peace' and let our marriage staunch the feud?"

"What has he done? He has fooled me, beaten me in fight, robbed me of more than life. Is that naught, or must I fawn on him and thank him for good service rendered in wedding Janet Ratcliffe? Thou hast heard of Sad Man's Luck, girl? It comes to those who have lost all, and it nerves them to strange deeds."

He moved forward, Janet following; and as they waited for the gates to be thrown open, he gave the low, hard laugh which never yet had boded good to man or woman.

"The luck has veered at last," he said quietly. "Wayne will begin to fear for himself, now that he has thee to unman him. His pluck will get tied to thy apron, lass, and he will quaver a little in his sword-strokes--what, did I say thou hadst broken my heart? I lied. Thou hast put new heart in me."

*CHAPTER XXIV*

*HOW THE LEAN MAN FOUGHT WITH SHAMELESS WAYNE*

Sexton Witherlee moved unsubstantial among his graves, stopping here to pull up a tuft of weed and there to rub a sprig of lavender or rosemary between his shrivelled fingers. He looked old beyond belief, and the afternoon sun, hot in a sweltering sky, traced crow's feet of sadness across his cheeks, and in among the sunken hollows underneath his eyes.

"What's amiss wi' me?" he murmured. "Here hev I been gay as a throstle all through this God-sent-weather--going about my business wi' a quiet sort o' pleasure i' seeing this little garden-place look so green, like, an' trim-fashioned--so green an' trim--an' now, all i' a minute, I'm sick-like an' sorry. Ay, I could cry like any bairn, an' niver a reason for 't, save it be this thunner-weather that's coming up fro' ower Dead Lad's Rigg.--Well, I mun hev a bit of a smoke, an' see what that 'ull do for me."

He lit his pipe, then fetched a broom from the tool-house and began to sweep the path of the leaves which had fallen, curled and brown, during the long spell of drought. But he desisted soon and sat him down on the nearest grave-stone.

"Nay, I've sweated ower long at helping th' living to bury their dead out o' mind, till now there's no lovesome sight, nor sound, nor smell of sweetbriar, say--but what it leads my crazy thoughts to th' one bourne--th' one bourne--an' that's a blackish hole, measuring six feet by length an' three by breadth. Lord God, I'm stalled, fair stalled! Hevn't I toiled enough at life? An' th' Lord God knaws how fain I am to be ligging flesh to earth myseln."

He sat silent for a long while, and his favourite robin came and perched on his shoulder, asking him to dig up its evening meal; but Witherlee paid no heed to the bird.

"I reckon it's a sight o' little Mistress Wayne I'm sickening for," he went on presently. "When she war fairy-kist, she niver let day pass without heving her bit of a crack wi' th' Sexton; but now she's fund her wits again--why, she hesn't mich need o' th' likes o' me, seemingly. Eh, but I wod like to hear her butter-soft voice again! There's peace in 't, somehow, to my thinking."

"Oh, tha'rt theer, art 'a?" put in Nanny's voice at his elbow.

"Begow, tha made me jump! What is't, Nanny?"

"Nay, I nobbut came for a two-three sprigs o' rosemary. It grows rare an' sweet i' th' kirkyard here, I call to mind, an' Mistress Nell, 'at I've nursed fro' a babby, is bahn to be wed to-morn to Wayne o' Cranshaw--sakes, how th' days run by!--an' she'll be wanting rosemary to wear ower her heart i' sign o' maidenhood. Well, I'd like to see one who's more a maid, or bonnier, i' all th' parish--an' I'll thank thee, Witherlee, to stir thy legs a bit for fear they'll stiffen for want o' use. What mak o' use is a gooidman, if he willun't stir hisseln to pluck a two-three herbs?"

The Sexton rose with his old habit of obedience, and went to the corner where the rosemary grew, and brought her both hands full.

"'Tis queer, I've often thowt," he said; "we all knaw what mak o' soil grows under foot here--yet out on 't come th' sweetest herbs i' Marshcotes. An' that's a true pictur o' life, as I've fund it through three-score year an' ten."

"What's tha knaw about life?" snapped Nanny. "Death is more i' thy way, an' tha'll be a wise man, Witherlee, sooin as tha comes to join th' ghosties.--Not but what there's sense for once i' what tha says. Sweetness grows i' muck, an' ye can't get beyond that; an' if onybody thinks to say it isn't so, let 'em look at Shameless Wayne, an' set him beside what he war afore th' feud broke out."

"Ay, he's better for th' fighting," put in Witherlee, with something of his wonted zest.

"Fighting? I reckon nowt on 't. All moil, an' mess, an' litter--gaping wounds that drip on to th' floors just when ye've bee's-waxed 'em--women crying their een out, an' lossing so mich time, ower them 'at's goan--'tis mucky soil, I tell thee, Luke. An' yet, begow, it hes bred summat into Shameless Wayne that he niver hed afore."

"They say him an' th' Lean Man is hunting one t' other fro' morn to neet, but allus seem to tak different roads. What's come to th' Lean Man, Nanny? He war daunted a while back, an' now he's keen as ony lad again!"

"Tha doesn't knaw Barguest's ways as I knaw 'em, lad. Th' Dog, when he's haunted a man nigh out of his senses, hods off for a bit, for sport, like, an' maks him 'at he's marked think th' sickness is all owered wi'--an' then, when he's thinking o' summat else entirely, up th' Brown Beast leaps, snarling fit to mak his blood run cold.--Ay, it's true th' Lean Man is hunting this day, for I met him riding into Marshcotes not a half-hour sin', wi' his een on both sides o' th' road at once, an' his hand set tight on his sword-heft."

"Did he say owt to thee, Nanny? He's noan just friendly to thee, an'----"

"He said nowt to me," broke in Nanny, "but I said a deal to him. I asked if Barguest's hide war as rough, an' his teeth as sharp, as when he fought th' owd feud for th' Waynes. An' he seemed fit to strike me first of all; an' then he sickened; an' at after that he rode forrard, saying nowt nawther one way nor t' other. Well, he minds how his father died, an' his father's father; an' he'll be crazy again by fall o' neet, if I knaw owt. It's th' Dog-days, an' all, an' th' month when dogs run mad is Barguest's holiday, I've noticed."

"Tha mud weel say it's th' Dog-days," said Witherlee, pointing to the moor above. "We shall hev sich a storm as nawther thee nor me hev seen th' like on, Nanny, sin' we war wedded."

From the moor-edge an angry haze was beating up against the wind, and the sun, a round ball that seemed dropping from the steel-blue of the sky above it, was cruel with the earth. Everywhere peatland and tillage-soil--the very graveyard earth--opened parched mouths and cried for drink. But still the sun shone, and only the slow-moving haze told of the rain to come.

"Ay, it 'ull be a staunch un," said Nanny. "Tha'd best come indoors, Witherlee, afore it breaks--for when it does break, buckets willun't hod th' drops, an' tha'll be drenched i' crossing th' kirkyard.--Why, there's Mistress Wayne. If iver I see'd a body choose unlikely times, it's yond little bit o' sugar an' spice."

Witherlee glanced eagerly down the graveyard path. "Now, that's strange," he murmured. "I war nobbut saying afore tha comed, Nanny, that I hedn't bed speech of her this mony a day--an' here she comes. Eh, but she's a sight for sore een, is th' bonnie bairn!"

Nanny's half-religious awe of Mistress Wayne was disappearing now that she had come to her right mind again. "Nay," she grumbled, "I reckon nowt so mich on her. She war bahn to do a deal for th' Maister, so I thowt; but what's comed on 't? Nowt, save 'at she carried a fond tale to Mistress Nell a while back, an' all but brought her into ruin.--Now, lad, art minded to get out o' th' wet that's coming?"

"Nay, I'll step indoors by an' by, for I'm fain of a crack wi' th' little Mistress at all times."

Nanny glanced shrewdly at her husband; something in his voice--a weariness that was at once helpless and resigned--brought an unwonted pity for him to the front. Impatient she was with him at most times; but under all her fretfulness there was a sure remembrance of the days that had been.

"Luke," she said, laying a hand on his sleeve, "tha'rt nobbut poorly, I fear me. Stop for a word wi' Mistress Wayne, if needs must, but don't stand cracking till tha'rt wet to th' bone."

"Nay, I'll noan stay long, lass--noan stay long," he murmured.

Nanny moved down toward her cottage, and the Sexton, sighing contentedly, gave a good-day to Mistress Wayne while yet she was half up the path.

"Ye've not been nigh me lately, Mistress," he murmured, making room for her on the grave-stone which had grown to be their wonted seat.

"I have been restless, Sexton, and my walks have taken me far a-field. But to-day I'm tired, and full of fancies, and I thought 'twould be pleasant to sit beside thee here and talk."

"To be sure, to be sure. Ye're looking poorly-like, an' all; it 'ull be this heavy weather, for I feel that low i' sperrits myseln----"

"'Tis more than the weather," she interrupted, turning her grave child's eyes on his. "The mists begin to come down again, Sexton, as they did when my lover was killed yonder on the vault-stone. Sometimes I can see men and women as thou see'st them; and then a mist steals over them, and they are only shadows, and the ghosts creep out of the moor, moving real among the unreal men and women."

"That's nobbut th' second-sight," said Witherlee gently. "I've getten it, an' ye've getten it, Mistress, an' we've to pay our price for 't. But it's nowt to fret yourseln about."

"Not when I hear Barguest--Barguest creeping pad-footed down the lane? Sexton, I've heard him every night of late--just at dusk he comes, and if I pay no heed he presses like a cold wind against my skirts. Does it mean trouble for Wayne of Marsh, think'st thou?"

"Hev ye set een on th' Dog?" asked Witherlee sharply.

"Nay, I have but heard him, and felt his touch."

"Then there's danger near Wayne o' Marsh, but nowt no more nor what he'll come through. 'Tis when th' Brown Dog shows hisseln 'at he doubts his power to save th' Maister--he like as he seeks human help then, an' it's time for all as wish well to Marsh to be up an' doing.--Begow, but we'd better be seeking shelter, Mistress."

She followed his glance, and shivered at that look of earth and heaven which they called in Marshcotes the scowl of God. To the west, whence the wind was gathering strength, the sky was a dull, blue-green; from the east a tight-drawn curtain of cloud moved nearer to the sun, which shone with dimmed light and heat unbearable. Light drifts of cloud trailed like brown smoke between earth and sky. The whole wide land was still, save for quick breaths of suffocation which stirred the summer dust and whipped up the leaves untimely fallen.

"I am frightened, Sexton. Let us go," murmured Mistress Wayne.

"All day I've watched it creeping up," said Witherlee, regarding with rapt eyes the eastern sky. "There's storms as come quick, an' go as lightly--but this un hes nursed its rage a whole long day, an' when it bursts, 'twill be like Heaven tumbling into Hell-pit fire. Ay, I've seen one sich storm, an' it bred bloodshed. See ye, Mistress, th' first rain-drops fall! An' th' streams that are dry this minute 'ull race bank-top high afore an hour is spent. An' them as seeks for tokens need seek no farther."

Beyond the kirkyard hedge a horseman passed, fast riding at the trot.

"What did I tell ye!" cried the Sexton. "Th' storm an' th' Lean Man ride together, an' th' streams that war empty shall be filled."

"He must be hastening from the rain. See, Sexton, he rides as if pursued."

Witherlee remembered Nanny's meeting with Nicholas. "It may be th' rain he's hastening fro'--or it may be summat 'at ye've heard whining, Mistress, when dusk is settling over Barguest Lane," he said.

For a while he stood there, nursing his visions and heedless of the gathering drops; then, seeing how Mistress Wayne was shivering, he came back to workaday matters.

"Come ye wi' me, Mistress," he cried. "Th' drops is falling like crown-pieces.--Good sakes, there's another horseman skifting out of th' wet, or intul 't; who mud it be, like?"

Shameless Wayne, riding up the field-side that ran from the Bull tavern to the moor, looked over and saw his step-mother standing beside the Sexton in the kirkyard.

"The clouds blow up against the wind. There'll be thunder, Witherlee," said Wayne, and would have passed on.

"Well, there's one gooid thing 'ull come on 't, ony way," answered the Sexton. "Th' Lean Man o' Wildwater is like to get wet to th' bone afore he wins across th' moor. An' ye can niver tell but what a wetting may tak a man off--I've knawn mony a----"

Wayne swung his horse round sharply. "The Lean Man! Hast seen him, then?" he cried.

"Not ten minutes agone. He crossed up aboon there at a gooidish trot."

"What, by the moor-track?"

"Nay, his face war set for th' Ling Crag road; he war hurrying, an' wanted better foot-hold for his horse, I reckon, nor th' peat 'ud gi'e him."

Mistress Wayne was at the wall-side now. "Ned, thou'lt not ride after him?" she pleaded. "'Tis Nell's wedding-day to-morrow--she'll think it a drear omen."

But Wayne was already gathering the reins more firmly into his hand. "Nell will want a wedding-gift, little bairn--and, by the Red Heart, I'll bring her one of the choicest.--Sexton, shall I overtake him before he gets within hail of Wildwater?"

"Wi' that mare's belly betwixt your legs, Maister, ye'd catch him six times ower."

Wayne stopped for no more, but touched the mare once with his heels and swung up the field and round the bend of the Ling Crag road. The Sexton looked after him and nodded soberly; and it was strange to see his old eyes brighten, as if at the grave-edge he were turning back to see this one last fight.

"There's more nor one storm brewing; I said as mich," he muttered, and hobbled to the wicket to see the flying trail of dust and rain that marked the rider's headlong course.

The wind rose on the sudden. The rain-drops fell by twos now where lately they had fallen singly. A far rumble of thunder crept dull through the leaden sky-wrack.

"Gallop, thou laggard, gallop!" muttered Wayne to his mare, as Ling Crag village swirled by and the rough track to Wildwater stretched clear ahead.

The village folk came out of their houses as he passed, but they were slow of foot, and all that they reaped for their trouble was the fast-dying beat of horse-hoofs down the wind.

"Wayne, 'tis Shameless Wayne. Who but him carries Judgment-fire i' his hoss's heels?" they said.

Past Blackshaw Hall and through the Conie Crag ravine swept Wayne the Shameless; past the three wells of Robin Hood and Little John and Will Scarlett, and up into the naked moor. The land lay flat to the sky up here, and through the thickening rain-sheets Wayne could see his enemy's lean figure rising and falling to the trot of his lean bay horse. Soon the track crept timorous round the bog, and under foot the water splashed and creamed; but still Wayne plied his mare with tongue and spur. The thunder-throb grew nearer, and muttered all along the murky sky-edge and down the dun moor-fastnesses. Earth and sky, bog and peat and cloud-wrack, were wakeful and at war; the starveling moor-birds fled on down-drooping wings, and from the under-deeps the Brown Folk chattered restlessly.