Part 31

"Lord Harry, what a night 'twill be!" cried the Lean Man. "Do ye wonder, lads, that I was eager to get me to the bier before I need? I like the feel of it; I like to meet yond dotard death half-way and show him that I have scant respect for him. Death? What is death, when I shall see the sweep of swords on splintering skulls before I leave? Come, wrap the cere-cloths round me; they'll be softer bedfellows than any wife I ever lay beside."

Janet listened to it all and wondered if her wits were playing her false. This man, who could rest on his own bier and play with the death which was already overwatching him--was he the grandfather she had loved, or some bog-begotten thing that had come from out the moor and claimed his body? It might be so, for strange tales were told of what chanced to men who halted between this world and the next. Again she turned to the window, striving to keep her wits by deadening sense and hearing to what was passing on the other side of the wall. Without, grey clouds were hiding the last edge of sunset, and a grey mist was trailing up the pathway of the wind. Oh, for a moment's freedom! No more--for not the wind itself could race as she would race to warn the Ratcliffes' enemies.

She passed a hand across her eyes, thinking that in sober truth she was going mad at last. For out of the mist-wreaths a figure--a frail figure, with wet, wind-scattered hair--was coming toward the house of Wildwater. Janet, awe-stricken, watched it draw near and nearer yet; and then, with a rush of hope that was almost agony, she saw that it was no phantom, this, but Mistress Wayne of Marsh--Ned's stepmother, and his constant friend. Clenching her fist she drove it through the window-pane with one clean blow.

"Quick! I've a word for you, Mistress Wayne," she stammered, dreading lest one of her folk should come to learn the meaning of the crash.

"Yond is the pretty traitor," she heard Red Ratcliffe say. "Let her break every shred of glass the window holds--not even her slim body can win through the opening."

Mistress Wayne, startled out of the lonely musings that had kept her company across the moor, turned about as if to flee; but terror held her to the spot.

"'Tis I--Janet Ratcliffe--Ned's sweetheart--do you not know me, Mistress?" cried Janet, feverishly.

The little woman drew near a step or two and eyed her gravely. "I remember--yes, you are Janet Ratcliffe--why did you fright me so?" she whimpered.

"Mary Mother, must our safety rest with such a want-wit babe as this," muttered Janet.--"Come closer, Mistress!" she went on peremptorily.

Mistress Wayne obeyed the stronger will, though still she was afraid of she knew not what.

"Go back to Marsh and tell them there is treachery," whispered Janet. "Tell them, if come they will--and Ned, I know, will do no less--that they must come with swords loose in the scabbards. The signal is, 'In the name of the dead man, peace between Wayne and Ratcliffe.' Now, hasten, Mistress--hasten, I tell you, unless you wish to see Ned killed at Wildwater; for see, the sun sinks fast, and sundown is the time appointed."

Not at once did Mistress Wayne learn her message; she had to repeat it, child-like, over and over until she had it letter-perfect, while all the time Janet could scarce get the words out for impatience. But one thing the little woman understood--.that Barguest had not led her up the moor for naught, that Ned was in instant peril, that only she could save him by hurrying back to Marsh.

Janet watched her, when at last her lesson was well learned, fade ghost-like into the darkening banks of mist. And then she dropped to the floor, and lay there forgetful of the preparations that were afoot behind her in the hall, heedless of the rattle of swords, the interchange of pleasantries between the Lean Man and his folk, the chink of flagons on the lyke-wake board. And afterward she found cause to thank Our Lady for the swoon which gave her so merciful a breathing-space between what had chanced and what was yet to follow.

Mistress Wayne never halted until she had gained the door of Marsh. Shameless Wayne himself answered her knocking; his mind seemed bent on weightier matters for he scarce noticed her after the first quick glance of surprise, but led her into hall, where thirty of his kinsfolk were gathered in chattering knots about the hearth, or in the window-nooks, or round about the supper-table. Griff and the three lads stood together in one corner, whispering and trying the edges of their swords.

"There's no place for trickery, I tell thee," Rolf Wayne of Cranshaw was saying as she entered. "Why should they send a messenger to say that the Lean Man is dead? Why should they press us to go drink in amity above his body?"

"Because they've hatched some pesty stratagem," answered his fellow, whose doubts had reawakened during the suspense of waiting. "They'll find it easier to fight at home than in the open."

"Pish! We've eyes and swords to help us," cried Shameless Wayne, turning sharp round from his step-mother. "If they want peace, they shall have it; and if war, then they shall have that likewise. But 'tis peace, I tell you, for the Lean Man had repented of his hate before he died."

None answered him, for all had turned as Mistress Wayne came in. And Shameless Wayne turned then and scanned her up and down; yet, startled as he was to see her in this plight, he asked her no question, but filled a wine-cup to the brim and set it to her lips.

"Wast ever kind to me, Ned," she whispered brokenly. "None knows, I think, how thou hast watched to give me my least need."

"Thy needs are no great burden for a man's back," he answered, in the old kindly tone that he kept for her alone.--"Does the company fright thee, bairn? Why, then, we'll none of them. Come to the parlour and tell me all thou hast to say."

She shook her head, and stood with one hand in his, and looked from one to another of the swart, sinewy men who kept so mute a watch on her.

"There's treason," she said simply, and stopped till she could gather the scattered items of her message.

Wayne looked at Wayne, but none spoke. The silence that foreruns a storm held one and all of them.

"I--I went to Wildwater--in search of Ned," went on the little woman. "He was long a-coming, and I feared for him."

"Why, what could'st thou have done to help?" muttered Shameless Wayne.

"I did not know--only, that Barguest had called me to thy aid. I crossed the moor, and it was very dreary, and I was frightened. But I saw the Dog go footing it up the lane before me, and I went on--on--until I reached the black house of the Ratcliffes."

Still no word, not a murmur, from the listening group. All eyes were on the little figure by the table, but she stood with clasped hands and far-away regard, as if she were looking at some other scene.

"I passed close to the one end of the house--the end that has a little window looking on the moor--and I grew lonely, so lonely, that I wished to turn and run back home to Marsh. And then I saw a hand beckoning me from behind the window--and there was a crash--and, when I had found my wits again, Janet Ratcliffe was whispering to me through the broken pane. A long tale she told me, and I learned it all by heart, and--nay, it has gone! There's but one word in my ears--and it sings so loudly that I cannot hear the rest."

"What is the word?" asked her step-son gently.

"Treason--treason--treason. But there was more--some--some signal. Oh, what will Janet say when she knows I have forgotten my lesson!"

The strain was over great for her; her face worked piteously, her hands clasped and unclasped each other in the effort to remember. And Shameless Wayne, dumbfounded as he was to know he had been the Lean Man's dupe, knew well that they must humour this poor waif if they were to get her tale from her.

"Come, little bairn," he said, "thou hast told enough. Rest thyself awhile, and never heed the finish of thy tale."

"Oh, but I must! It touches thee so nearly, Ned." Her face cleared on the sudden. "I know now," she went on still with the same grave simplicity. "They have asked you to wake with them in token that the feud is healed. They will fill your goblets and their own, and lift them to the cry, 'In the name of the dead man, peace between Wayne and Ratcliffe.' And then, while ye are drinking, they will kill you with their swords."

The storm was let loose now. The Long Waynes of Cranshaw had their say, and the Waynes of Hill House; Griff and his brothers watched from their corner, with eager faces that showed how they were spoiling for a fight. The Lean Man's name flew hither and thither through the clamour; none doubted that the plot was his, and they cursed him by the Brown Dog of Marsh.

Shameless Wayne stood aloof from all until the din had lessened; and when at last he spoke his voice was rough and hard.

"Waynes, are ye ready for the lyke-wake? 'Tis time we got to saddle," he said.

"Art mad?" cried one. "Is the warning to go for naught, that we should put our necks into so trim a noose?"

"Let be, Ned. Wildwater is no good drinking-house for us," said another.

"Would'st ride thy luck till it floundered?" snarled a third.

Shameless Wayne beckoned to his four brothers. "Come hither, lads," he said quietly.

They came and ranged themselves about him, facing the noisy throng.

"Will ye ride with me to Wildwater?" he asked.

"Ay, if thou mean'st to fight," answered Griff. And, "Ay, will we!" cried the rest.

"Then saddle.--Who goes with us?" he went on, turning to his kinsfolk.

They glanced at each other, angrily, sheepishly. If Griff and his stripling brothers were fain to follow this bog-o'-lanthorn chase, could they hold back?

"Think twice about it, Ned, and keep thy strength to meet them in the open," said one of the Long Waynes of Cranshaw.

"I go, and the lads go, whoever follows.--Hark ye, Waynes! These swine have fooled us; they have twice broken hospitality--once in drinking with me here, and once in offering us a friendly cup at Wildwater. Will our sword's rest light in the scabbard, think ye, if we hold back for one single day?"

"Ned is right," struck in Wayne of Cranshaw; "and we shall take them at unawares. They count us unprepared. The first blow will be ours."

He crossed to his cousin's side, and others with him; and those who still thought the enterprise foolhardy could not for shame's sake stand aloof.

"Waynes," said Ned grimly, as they clattered to the door, "they think us over-gentle, these Ratcliffes; but to-night, I warrant, we'll be something better than our reputation. _Kill_."

"By the Mass, we shall see fair sport at last!" cried Griff, his face afire with eagerness.

Mistress Wayne laid a hand on Ned's arm as he was following the rest. "I--I want to come with thee," she faltered.

"To come with me?" he cried impatiently. "Thou look'st fitter for thy bed, foolish one."

"Say it is fancy--only take me. I'll not fear the bloodshed--I'll not give one cry--take me, Ned!"

"But, bairn, what should I do with thee?"

"Hast heard what they say in Marshcotes--that I am thy luck, Ned? Thou'lt win to-night if I am near at hand."

He reasoned with her, stormed at her, all to no purpose; for the little woman could be obstinate as himself when she believed that his safety was in case.

"I say thou shalt not come with us," he said. "There's work to be done, bairn, and we want no women-folk to watch."

Yet for all that he would have had her come, for the superstition which he disavowed was quick in him. She was his luck, and he knew it well as she.

"Ned, I never yet asked aught of thee and was refused," she pleaded.

"Hold thy peace, child! I cannot take thee--and I will not."

Her eyes filled with tears; it was as idle, she could see, to turn him from his refusal as to hold him back from Wildwater.

"There! I was harsh with thee. Never heed it, bairn," he said, looking toward the courtyard where already he could hear the fretful pawing of horses, the rattle of scabbards as his folk sprang into the saddle, the gruff cries of the stable-men.

A thought came to him, then. He fingered the dagger at his belt, in absent fashion, and turned to ask Mistress Wayne if the room where Janet was prisoned was easy to be found.

"I could show it to thee if thou would'st take me," she said, with a child's subtlety.

"Wilt make me curse thee, bairn? Where is the room, I say?"

"It--it lies fair on the bridle-way. 'Tis the only chamber on that side the house."

"So Janet learned their secret, and they held her back from warning us," he muttered. "What if the day goes against us? Peste! I never asked myself so mean a question before I had two lives to think for."

"Ned! Where art thou?" cried Rolf from the courtyard. "There's thy mare here, kicking all to splinters because thou wilt not mount her."

But Wayne was already out in the courtyard and had stepped to the roan mare's head. The roan ceased pawing at sight of him, and came and thrust her muzzle close against the master's cheek; and Wayne with one clean vault was in the saddle.

But his step-mother had all the cunning of the fairy-kist. Quick as himself she had followed him into the yard. The flaring torch-light showed her Griff's boyish figure and eager, laughing face on the outskirts of the throng.

"Griff, I must ride with thee to Wildwater," she said, laying a hand on his saddle.

The lad started. He was a little afraid of his step-mother in these latter days, as youngsters are of those they cannot understand.

"Why, Mistress?" he asked bluntly.

"'Tis a whim of mine--nay, 'tis a crying need. Ask no more, Griff; it is for thy brother's sake--and if thou wilt not take me, I'll run beside thy stirrup till I drop."

Puzzled, liking neither to take her nor to refuse a plea so urgent, Griff stooped at last and swung her to his crupper. "The Lord knows how it will fare with you at Wildwater," he muttered, as his brother's call to start rang through the courtyard.

In silence they went up the moor, a score and ten of them. The wind, quiet for awhile, was gathering strength again, and its breath was bitter cold. A blurred round of yellow marked where the moon was fighting with the cloud-wrack over Dead Lad's Rigg. The whole wide moor was dark, and lonely, and afraid. The heather dripped beneath the keen lash of the wind, and over Lostwithens Marsh the blue corpse-candles fluttered.

"Are ye feared, Mistress?" said Griff, stooping to the ear of Mistress Wayne when the journey was half over. His voice was jaunty, but in truth his dread of moor-boggarts was keener for the moment than his zest for the battle that was waiting them up yonder on the stormy hill-crest.

"I fear the moor always, Griff; 'tis pitiless, like those red folk who dwell at Wildwater," whispered Mistress Wayne, clinging more tightly to him.

"Well, there'll be fewer of them by and by, so keep thy courage warm with that."

Nearer and nearer they drew to Wildwater, while Janet Ratcliffe was still kept prisoned in the narrow chamber that overlooked the moor. She had wakened from her swoon in time to hear the last preparations of her folk in the hall behind her, and the Lean Man's voice was in her ears as she lifted her aching head and heavy limbs.

"Do I fit this cursed bier?" he was saying.

"Like a gauntlet, sir," answered Red Ratcliffe.

"Do I look pale enough? Lord knows I need, for the fight to keep old death at bay shows like to break me. Lads, if only my right arm were whole! I'd take my turn with you, 'od rot me, and have one merry sword-cut for my last. What hour is't?"

"'Tis close on ten of the clock. They should be here by now."

"Tie up my chin, then, lest aught be wanting. Poor fools! Poor, courteous fools! To think they come in innocence."

Would the dread farce never end, thought Janet? Or would a hand reach out of the moor--the moor that was her friend--and strike the Lean Man in the midst of his cool-ordered devilry? But still their voices sounded through her prison-wall. She listened more intently now, for old Nicholas was talking of herself.

"When all is over, bring the girl into hall here--the girl who mocked me and played the harlot with my foes. Spare her no drop of agony; bring her to where Wayne of Marsh lies bloody, and tell her that is the bridal I had set my heart on. God, how deep my hate goes! And"--his voice faltered by a hair's-breadth--"and once I loved her."

He loved her still, thought Janet, and the half-confession touched a strange chord in her. A moment since she had burned with hate of her grandfather; yet now, with the obstinacy of her race, a spark of the old love wakened for this crafty rogue who had spent his last hours in working for her misery. Nay, there was a touch of pride in him, because he kept so staunch a spirit to the end.

"Well, time wags. Tie up my chin, I tell thee, Ratcliffe the Red," said the Lean Man after a lengthy silence.

Janet could hear Red Ratcliffe start forward to do the old man's bidding, could hear the awed laughter that followed. Her fleeting love for him died out. She loathed his treachery, and his impious trafficking with death. Sick at heart she got to her feet and began to pace up and down the room. Had Mistress Wayne carried the message to Marsh House? Or had she faltered by the way? She was so slender a bridge to safety that it seemed she must break down.

The wind whistled through the shattered window, and with it came a spit or two of rain. Janet, her senses sharpened by anxiety, heard the least under-sound that came from the hall, the moor, the moaning chimney-stacks. She started on the sudden and put her ear to the casement. Up the path that skirted the house-side came the faint _slush-slush_ of horse-hoofs striking sodden earth.

"They are coming!" she muttered, racked with fear lest her warning had miscarried.

Soon she could see thick shadows crossing the window-space--shadows of men on shadows of horses, outlined against the lesser blackness of the sky beyond. Something struck the ground at her feet; she groped for it and her fingers closed upon a dagger with a curving blade. She knew then that Wayne of Marsh was forewarned--knew, too, the meaning of his quiet message to her. If he should fall he had given her a refuge from dishonour.

Her courage returned. At worst she could die with him; and Wayne's luck in battle did not let her fear the worst. She stood straight in the darkness of her prison, and heard the horsemen turn the corner of the house, and waited.

Wayne of Marsh, meanwhile, led his folk straight in at the Wildwater gates, which stood wide-open in proof that they were welcome guests.

"Now, Mistress, what am I to do with you?" whispered Griff to his step-mother as he pulled up his horse and lifted his frail burden to the ground.

But Mistress Wayne, not answering him, slipped from his side and lost herself amid the darkness. Nor did she know what purpose was in her mind--only, that where Ned was, there must she be also.

Shameless Wayne sprang from the saddle and knocked sharply on the door with a cry of "Ratcliffes, ho! Ratcliffes!"

The door was flung wide. "Welcome, all Waynes who come in peace," cried Red Ratcliffe from the threshold.

"We come to secure peace," said Wayne, and turned in the darkness of the courtyard and whispered, "_kill_."

The hall was aglow with light as they entered. Candles stood in all the sconces of the walls, on the mantel-shelf, on the great dining-table which was pushed close against the outer wall; and, at the head and foot of the Lean Man's bier, a double row of flames shone yellow on the burial-trappings. Over the mantel were the rude letters of the Ratcliffe motto, _We strike, we kill_; and Wayne of Marsh smiled as his eyes fell on the device which he and his had ridden hither to disprove.

Red Ratcliffe caught the direction of his glance, and touched him lightly on the shoulder. "'Tis but an outworn saying, yond," he cried. "We neither strike nor kill, now that the dead has bequeathed us fairer days."

He beckoned toward the bier, and Wayne and all his folk drew round it in a ring, looking down upon the closed eyes and wax-white face of their old enemy. Until now they had doubted whether the Lean Man were really dead; but doubts vanished as they saw the still look of him and marked how death had lent its own nobility to the scarred weasel-face.

"His last prayer was for an end to our long feud," said Red Ratcliffe, smooth and grave.

"Ay, was it--and he wept that he had not lived to see us friends," cried one of his fellows.

Shameless Wayne kept his eyes on the dead man, for fear his scorn of all this honeyed speech should show too soon; and he thought, as Red Ratcliffe spoke, that a tremour like the first waking of a smile ran up from the cloth that bound the Lean Man's jaws. But he could not tell; the candle-flames were slanting now in the wind that rustled through the open door, and the fantastic shadows thrown by them across the bier might trick the keenest sight.

"'Twas wondrous how quiet an end he had--the old hate clean forgotten," went on Red Ratcliffe.

"May all his kinsfolk have as quiet an end," said Wayne, and sighed impatiently, wondering when the signal for the onset would free him from all this give-and-take of idle talk.

Yet he would not hurry to the goal; for if the Ratcliffes thought to lull him into security by delay, the self-same logic taught him likewise to be patient. For Shameless Wayne was cool to-night; his aim was not victory alone, and if one Ratcliffe of them all escaped, he would count himself a beaten man.

A silence followed. The Ratcliffes were glancing sideways at each other, as if asking, "When?"--and one of them, stooping to Red Ratcliffe's ear, whispered, "The door! We have forgot to cut off their retreat."

"The night blows shrewd, friends. Let's shut it out," cried Red Ratcliffe boisterously.

He stopped half toward the door, and fetched an oath, then laughed aloud; for there on the threshold stood little Mistress Wayne, shivering from head to foot.

"By the Mass, we entertain a gentle member of your house, friend Wayne," he said. "Enter, Mistress; there's no peace-cup rightly drunk, they say, unless a woman's lips have touched it."

Wayne frowned on her as she stepped timidly into the room and crossed to where he stood. "How com'st thou here?" he asked.

"I could not leave thee--oh, Ned, I could not leave thee," she whispered. "Dear, thou'lt win with me here to watch thee--and--for Our Lady's sake, get done with it, for I'm sick with doubts and fears."

Red Ratcliffe had already shut the door and slipped the bolts into their staples. And Shameless Wayne looked on and nodded; for he, too, was wishful for closed doors. He had taken advantage of the little woman's entry to draw off the Long Waynes of Cranshaw, the Waynes of Hill House, and his four brothers, from the bier;--they had masked themselves, as if by chance, a little apart from the red-headed host of Ratcliffes, and either side looked for awhile at the other, each hiding their sense of the wild humour of the scene.

Red Ratcliffe was smooth and merry as one who dances at a rout. "Od's life," he cried, "what with the wind, and surety that the dead man's ghost walks cold among us, we need strong liquor. Wayne of Marsh, a bumper with you."