Part 30

"How drear it is, how drear!" murmured Janet, and looked at the Lean Man again, and saw that a bitter sadness had come into his face--a sadness whose depth she could not fathom.

"Come back," whispered the Lean Man, beckoning feebly to her.--"Thou hast loved me well, Janet," he went on, as she stooped above him.

"I have loved you well, grandfather--better than ever you knew of."

"But less than Wayne of Marsh--Wayne, who thwarted me at every turn--who--there, lass! What am I saying? That is wiped out, and haply I like him none the worse because he gave shrewd blows. God, to think how fain I am to see thee wed to him--safely wed to him."

He dwelt on the last words, repeating them with a vehemence half grim, half childish. And then he pointed to the door, and not till Janet's footfall sounded on the stair did he break silence.

"The lad has thwarted me, and I forgive him," said the Lean Man slowly. "Janet has played me false, and I make her the messenger of peace. 'Tis fitting; the old hatred was an ill comrade for grey hairs."

And then he lay back, listening to the _spit-spit_ of the rain, the falling cadence of the wind. And a smile, as of hardly-won content, played round about his hollow face.

Red Ratcliffe was waiting at the stair-foot when Janet came down into the hall.

"How goes it with the dotard?" he cried.

She made no answer, but brushed past him toward the door.

"Ay, go where thou wilt," sneered Ratcliffe, watching her put on cloak and hood; "so long as the Lean Man lives, I'll lay no finger on thee, for there's a devil in him that only the grave can kill. But what after that?"

"After that, Ratcliffe the Red," she cried, turning suddenly to face him, "after that I shall put my safety in the keeping of one thou know'st."

"Wayne of Marsh, I take it? Shameless Wayne, who drank his own father's quarrel away, who----"

"Who goes abroad with a cry of _Wayne and the Dog_. Hast ever heard the cry, Red Ratcliffe?"

He winced, remembering how often he had fled panic-stricken with the cry behind him; and Janet, turning from him in disdain, crossed to the stables through the misty drizzle that was scattered from the skirts of the late storm.

It might be a half-hour later, as she dipped down the Ling Crag hill, that she met Shameless Wayne galloping hard up the stiff rise. He checked on seeing her and brought his mare on to her haunches.

"I was riding to thee, Janet. What brings thee here? No ill news, is't?" he cried.

"Nay, Ned--save that grandfather is not like to live the day through."

"There's no danger threatens thee?"

"Never less, Ned. Whither wast galloping so hard, and why dost look so tempest-driven?"

"What hast done to me, Janet?" he cried. "I'm full of dreads since winning thee; and just because Mistress Wayne saw thee last night in a vision, I needs must come helter-skelter to learn if thou wast safe."

"If the vision foretold disaster, Ned, methinks it erred--and, by that token, it is well we met, for I have a message to thee."

"What, from Wildwater?"

"Ay. Grandfather, like thee, is full of doubts--but his are a sick man's terrors. His fury I know, and his tenderness--ay, I have seen him panic-stricken, too--but I cannot tell what ails him now. His talk is all of peace between our houses; and yet, when he speaks of my wedding thee, he scarce knows whether to jest or scowl."

"I was a youngster, and chance gave me the better of the fight," said Wayne quietly. "Canst wonder he grudges it a little?"

"It must be so--and, Ned, we've happiness to thank him for. His message was that, soon as he is dead, you are to come with your folk to wake beside the body. My kinsmen are rough, Ned, but they know grandfather's wish, and when ye stand beside the bier with them, be sure the thought of death will soften them to the truce."

"I promised him as much a week since, and I'll keep faith, dear lass--for thy sake, if for no other."

"Yet he fears the Cranshaw Waynes will still hold back. Ned, canst make sure of them? 'Tis his last wish, and I would not have him thwarted.--And now, dear, fare thee well. I dare not be away from Wildwater, lest he be wanting aught, or--lest he die, Ned, without my hand in his."

Wayne turned about. "I'll ride to Hill House now, and then to Cranshaw. They shall come with me, Janet; trust me to persuade them."

"Ned! 'Twill be--'twill be to-night, I think. To look at him, he cannot live through the day."

"Then to-night shall find us ready.--Why, child, what is't?"

She brushed the quick-rising tears away. "Naught--'twas naught--only, Ned, I've no friend in the world but thou when grandfather has gone."

She was gone with that, and Wayne, after seeing her gallop into the mists, turned his mare's head and made across the moor to Hill House, where he told them of the Lean Man's message and the nearness of his end. Some were in favour of the truce, others refused to abandon their settled mistrust of Nicholas Ratcliffe; and last of all they rode with him to Cranshaw, there to take counsel of the Long Waynes. At Cranshaw it was the same; some were on Shameless Wayne's side, others were hot against his plan; and Nell herself was the first to resist his counsel.

"It seems the Lean Man's dying wish is more to thee than father's," she cried; "but, for my part, I can hear no talk of peace for the cry that rings day-long in my ears. No quarter, Ned--dost mind the cry?"

"We have followed it far enough," he answered. "Has wedlock taught thee so little, Nell, that peace shows not worth the gaining?"

"As I told thee,--neither wedlock nor aught else can wipe one picture out."

"Well, I for one, Nell, am fain to see the end of all this blood-letting," cried her husband.

"And art thou fain," she answered bitterly, "to see him wedded to this Ratcliffe girl?"

"Ay, even that I'd welcome, though 'tis not long since I thought ill of it. But it should help to heal the feud--and, besides, they say she is no Ratcliffe in her honesty."

"Have it as ye will. Mistress Janet is leagued with her kin, doubtless--but men do not believe these matters when their logic is a bonnie face."

"Mistress Janet is well enough; all the moorside has a kindly word for her," put in one of the Waynes of Hill House; "but what if the Lean Man has not done yet with his accursed trickeries?"

"Then we are armed, and in full force," said Shameless Wayne. "Would the Lean Man have bidden all of us to the feast, think'st thou, if he had meant trickery?"

"Ned is right," put in Rolf; "we will go to the lyke-wake, and if the feud is to be staunched above his body, there'll many a wife go happier to bed than she has done since the spring came in."

Nell held out against them still; but they overruled her, and one by one the malcontents agreed to follow the counsel of those they counted as their leaders.

"He'll not last through the day, so Janet told me," said Shameless Wayne. "Best come with me to Marsh forthwith, and wait the messenger."

"So thou'lt marry this daughter of the Ratcliffes?" said Nell, as she stood at the gate and watched her brother get to horse.

"God willing, Nell--and one day thou wilt love her near as much as I."

"Nay, I have done with loving. Ride on, Ned, and if they tell thee I have cared for thee--why, say they lie."

He touched his horse and rode slowly out; and all the way to Marsh his thoughts were busy with this sister's love that would fain have kept him close in prison. It was not the feud only then, that warped her nature. _I have done with loving_, she had said; and dimly he understood that even her husband had no place beside him in her heart.

"Od's life, these women! Who framed them at the start?" he muttered, as he gained the steep down-hill that led to Marsh.

And then he remembered little Mistress Wayne, and wondered if she had rid her of the needless fears which had driven him out this morning in search of Janet.

But his step-mother had left Marsh House and was already nearing the lane-top that took her to the moors. All morning she had wandered from room to room, from house to courtyard, to see if Ned were coming home. Why had she listened to her dreams, she asked herself? Why told him how Janet had stood on the verge of Wildwater Pool, entreating help? Visions might play her false and had done as much a score of times. Yet--what of Barguest? He at least was real; he at least--

She put her hands against the gate to steady herself, and looked up the lane; for the sound of pattering feet was in her ears once more, and there was a coldness in the wind more shrewd than any that blew off the moors. And not only the sound of feet, and icy, upward moving breeze--for a dun and shaggy-coated hound crept out of the empty road, and swung up toward the heath.

Mistress Wayne halted no longer now. There were many who had heard the Dog in Marshcotes, but none save she to whom he showed himself. It must be as she feared; Ned was in peril at Wildwater, and the Dog was leading her to him. Not once did she halt to ask what service she could render him; it was enough that he was in danger, and that Barguest sought her aid.

The dun mist hugged the moor as she made forward. The clouds were grey as hopelessness, and everywhere the sound of moorland brooks, flushed by the heavy rains, was like a doom-song in her ears. Underfoot the peat oozed black at every step. The further hills were blotted out, the nearer rises showed unsubstantial, wan and ghoulish; the very grouse were wearied into silence. The shaggy-coated beast that had led her here had vanished into the drifting mists; but still she pressed on, her whole mind bent on reaching Wildwater.

She would have been lost at the first mile had she brought reason to help her find the track to Wildwater; but instinct guided her more surely, and presently the black house in the wilderness showed swart among the mists. So dark it looked, so evil, that once she half turned back; but Ned had need of her--and she would go to the house-door and knock, and ask what they had done with him. And if they killed her--well, it would not matter.

On and on she went. And now she had reached the outer-most intake; and now she had crossed the lank grass, and gone through the gate at the top, and reached the bare house-side that looked from its solitary window on to the path which led to the courtyard. Mistress Wayne caught her breath, and stopped, and listened; but the house was still as death. Her resolution faltered; she looked up and down the wall, with the rain-lines shimmering grey from the gable-end to the rustling weeds at its foot--looked, and saw nothing for awhile--looked, with the absent gaze of those who wander in their sleep, until a shadow crossed the window-pane, a shadow that took substance.

Then there was a crash, the falling of broken glass, and Mistress Wayne had wit neither to scream nor flee. She could but follow the hand that beckoned through the broken pane.

*CHAPTER XXVII*

*HOW THE LEAN MAN FORGOT THE FEUD*

Janet, soon as she reached Wildwater after bidding farewell to Shameless Wayne, went up to the Lean Man's room to tell him how she had fulfilled her errand and to see if he were in need of anything. But the sound of voices met her when she gained the stair-head, and she stopped irresolute. The pity that she felt for her grandfather was such as to make her shrink from showing it to the rude eyes of her kinsmen, and she would wait until the Lean Man and she could be alone together.

The door was wide open, and as she turned to go downstairs again Red Ratcliffe's voice sounded harshly across the landing. "By the Heart, sir, we judged you all amiss! We thought the fight was dead in you, and now----"

"Dead? The fight will die, lad, when I do," chuckled the Lean Man. "Tell me, is it not bravely planned?"

Janet crept close to the door, her eyes wide-open with dismay.

"Bravely, sir," went on Red Ratcliffe. "Peste! We have them in the hollow of our hands, and yond Wayne of Marsh will learn, as his father did, whither courteous foolery leads a man. He drank in your tale, then, when you went to him that night at Marsh?"

"Ay, did he; and God knows how I kept my laughter in when I saw him falling into the wonted softness of his race. How could he refuse an old man's plea? How could he be less than courteous when I fetched a tear or so and babbled of my failing strength?"

Janet leaned against the wall, sick and nerveless. The blow had fallen on her like a thunder-bolt, and as yet she could not realise that the Lean Man on his very death-bed was playing so grim a part.

"I would have had them ride up this afternoon," went on Nicholas, "because I feared to die before the good hour came. But the Waynes of Cranshaw are less guileless, it would seem, than him of Marsh, and they would trust me not a stiver till the breath was cold in me. What, then? Ye shall lay me out in state in the great hall below us, and I will show death that I am ready to play his game before he calls me--ay, but I'll not die, call he never so, before I have sat me up on my bier and cheered you to the fight."

"You'll look so reverend, I warrant, that the sight of you will disarm them altogether," laughed Red Ratcliffe boisterously. "We shall pledge your soul with such sorrow, we Wildwater folk, and they'll be eyeing us so steadfastly, that our blades will be clean through them before they have got hand to hilt. Courage, grandfather! You'll see the end of every Wayne that steps before you leave us."

"If fortune holds. I bade them all to the feast--all, lest one should be lacking from the tally of dead men. Lord God, I must live until the dawn!"

"And Janet was your messenger? A bonnie stroke, to make the stock-dove lure the wild goose into bowshot."

The Lean Man rose from his pillows, and his voice was terrible to hear. "Janet?" he cried. "She played me false, she let my foe wanton with her in sight of all the moorside; she killed my love, I tell thee, and I hate her more than I hate Wayne of Marsh. From the first moment that I learned it, I cursed her by the Dog; and to my last breath I'll curse her. I all but killed her on the first impulse; but then I thought better of it, and planned to tear her heart in two by making her the bait for Wayne--and the plan will carry--the plan will carry, lad!"

"Ay, it will carry, sir. But she must guess naught of it, or by the Mass she'll find a way to warn them. Where is she now?"

Again the feeble, hollow laugh. "With Shameless Wayne, lad, to be sure. I sent her to him, saying I was like to die this night and bidding him be ready for the lyke-wake."

"Christ pity me! It was I who sent him for his kinsfolk," murmured Janet.

She was dazed yet from the shock; the wall against which she leaned seemed to turn round and round her; love, faith and honour, so sure a moment since, were empty phantoms now; nothing was real, save these two evil voices, of the youngster she had hated and the old man she had loved.

"And they'll be fondling one another," cried Red Ratcliffe, after a silence, "and saying how all is made straight for them at last.--Look ye, sir," he broke off fiercely. "I claim Janet after this night's bloody work is done."

"And shalt have her, Red-pate, if for no other reason than that she loathes the sight of thee. Ay, she shall learn the price a Ratcliffe asks when he is thwarted."

The colour was returning to Janet's face. She had been stunned by the first shock of discovery; but now that they threatened--threatened death to Wayne, and worse than death to her whom Wayne had mastered--her face went hard of purpose as the Lean Man's own. She rallied quickly, stood for a moment with one ear turned toward the door, then moved on tip-toe to the stairs.

"What's that?" she heard Red Ratcliffe say. "Didst hear a footfall on the landing, sir?"

"Not I. Tush, lad, I begin to think thou'rt feared of what's to come."

"I'm feared of naught, save treachery."

"Then why dost grow pale because a puff of wind sets doorways creaking? As for treachery--Janet is at Marsh, I tell thee; she cannot have got there and back by now."

Janet held her breath and started down the steps, slowly, with a thief's tread. One step, two--all was well. But the stones were slippery with the wet mud that Red Ratcliffe had brought up with him from the stable-yard, and at the third step she slipped and would have fallen but for the oaken rail that protected the stairway from the well. There was a pause and then she heard the sound of heavy feet crossing the floor above.

"'Tis Janet, I say! Who else would be spying up and down the steps?" cried Red Ratcliffe, running to the stairhead.

Janet, reckless of another fall, sped down the steps, and on along the gloomy passage. Red Ratcliffe, heedless likewise of his neck, leaped after her. She reached the side-door leading to the orchard, and wrenched the bolts back; but the wood was swollen by the rain, and she could not move it. Red Ratcliffe was close behind her now; she tugged at the heavy door, but still it would not yield, though her fingers bled and the nails were broken half-way down.

"Not again, pretty one!" laughed Red Ratcliffe, as he caught her by the arms.

"Let me go. I--I will not have thee hurt me so."

"Thou'lt have what I think good for thee in future," he answered, tightening his grip until she screamed for pain. "Thou didst hear, doubtless, that the Lean Man gave thee to me just now? Well, 'tis best to show who is master at the start."

"Master!" she cried. "Thou dar'st to call thyself my master?"

The word was like a knife-thrust to the girl. This lewd, red-headed fool to claim the title which belonged to Shameless Wayne! And then she remembered that Wayne's safety and her own depended, not upon passion, but on coolness now. She turned as Red Ratcliffe loosed his hold, and eyed him very softly.

"Cousin," she said, "thou wast wont to prate of thy love for me."

"I'll prove it by and by."

"Nay, prove it now--by gentleness. I only ask a moment's freedom--just to the garden-gate and back again, to cool my feverishness. This house-air stifles me. Cousin, be kind this once, and I will--will love thee for it."

"Thou hast fooled me so oft, lass, that it seems the fondest lie is reckoned deep enough to take me now. How far is't, tell me, from the garden-gate to Marsh?"

"Wayne is not at Marsh," she broke in. "Why should I want to go there?"

"So thou hast persuaded him to ride to Cranshaw? My thanks for the news, pretty one. The sport speeds better than I hoped for when I found thee returning over-soon from thy errand. Didst meet him by the way, then?"

She rued her hastiness; for she saw by Red Ratcliffe's face that no turn of speech or eye could cozen him; and she had confessed, all for naught, that Shameless Wayne would come to the lyke-wake when they bade him.

"Cousin, let me have speech of grandfather," she said, making a last effort. "I--I can explain all to him----"

"Doubtless," answered the other grimly. "Old liking is hard to kill, Janet, and I would not trust thee with him--nay, not though he hates thee now. Thou would'st be soft with him, letting thy lashes melt upon thy cheeks. God, yes, I can see thee at thy antics!--A murrain on thee!" he broke off. "Is there so little to be done that I must needs stand chattering here? Follow me, girl."

"I will not follow thee," she answered stubbornly.

For answer he set his arms about her and half carried, half dragged her to the little room at the bottom of the passage where once he had prisoned Nell Wayne; then pulled the door to and turned the key sharply in the lock.

Janet, left to herself, gave way utterly. She had no heart to lift herself from the floor, but sat there, her head bowed upon her knees, and pictured what was so soon to follow in the great hall that lay just behind her prison-chamber. And by and by her mind began to wander idly down strange paths of thought, as she recalled each speech and glance of her grandfather's at their last meeting. All that had puzzled her in his air grew clear--the touch of remorse, the look of pity that came into his face at parting. For the one moment he had wavered, remembering his love for her; why had she not known, not guessed what he was planning? For then she might have over-ridden his purpose.

Too late! There was nothing to be done now. The thought maddened her. Springing to her feet, she crossed to the one small window of the room and stood looking out upon the mist-swept greyness of the heath. But there was no chance of escape, for a child could not creep through it--she must wait, then, watching the hours slip ghostly past this strip of moor--watching the dark come stealthily from the sky-edge--listening to the noise of men about the house and knowing the reason of their gaiety.

And she had led Wayne here. In a flash she recalled that other day when she had sought to save him from going to Bents Farm in face of peril; now as then her very care for him had been his undoing. If he were here now--if she could have one poor five minutes with him before the end he would never doubt her love again.

Then she could bear her thoughts no longer, and she threw herself time after time against the door, striving to beat it down. That brought weariness, and welcome pain of body, to her aid, and she sank into a sort of numb heedlessness that yet was nothing kin to sleep.

She was roused by the sound of feet, slow-moving down the stair as if some heavy burden were being carried from an upper room. The house, empty of all furniture save such as the rough needs of their life demanded, re-echoed every sound. Janet could hear the very shuffle of the men's boots as they halted at the stair-foot. Then, slowly, with measured burial-tread, the footfalls came down and down the passage, halted at the rearward door of the hall, made forward again until they sounded close beside the wall of Janet's prison. What were they doing, she asked herself? And then the Lean Man's voice sounded from the other side of the wall, and she understood the grim business that they had on hand.

"Ay, well in the corner, lads," said the Lean Man. "Custom bids me lie in state in the middle of the hall--but I should ill like to cumber fighting-ground. Say, is there room for all of you--ourselves and all the Waynes in Cranshaw and in Marshcotes?"

"Room and to spare, sir," answered Red Ratcliffe. "God rest the builder of the hall for giving it such width."

"Well, remember to strike swift at the word. Fill up your glasses and lift them to the cry, 'In the name of the dead man--peace between Wayne and Ratcliffe.' And then--on to them while they drink, and the dead man on the bier will lift himself to watch."

A subdued hum of laughter followed, broken by the Lean Man's voice.

"I warrant ye found the carrying of me no light work. By the Mass, the sweat drips from under your red thatches like rain from mistal-eaves!"

Janet shuddered to hear his gaiety. This man was dying, and yet by sheer force of hate he was keeping the life in him until--but she dared not think what followed that "until."

"A messenger has gone to bid the Ryecollar Ratcliffes to the wake," said another voice presently.

"'Tis well. And Wayne of Marsh?"

"He will be gladdening at your death by this time, sir; for Ralph here, who rode down to Marsh, as thou badest him, to tell them of thy death----"

"Returns," put in Ralph, "with Wayne's greeting to my kin, and his pledged word that he and his will come to the lyke-wake after sundown."