Part 5

"Begow, there's summat agate, an' proper!" cried the big-faced woman, filling the doorway with her breadth. "He war that sharp wi' thee, Nanny, I niver could hev believed. What ailed him to gi'e the yond bit o' warning--an' thee nobbut a bit o' dirt under his feet at most times?"

Nanny eyed her visitor askance, distrusting her for a slattern, yet not sorry for a chance of gossip. "He hes heard tell, I fancy, how mony an' mony a year back I helped th' Waynes o' Marsh to slip fro' th' Ratcliffes' sword-points. An', an' there's more nor one of th' better sort that hes learned to fear Nanny's tongue, an' th' sharp een she has for seeing fox-tricks. Yond Ratcliffe is like as two peas to what th' Lean Man used to be i' his young days--red hair an' all."

"There's red hair an' there's red hair," put in the other, weightily. "Same as there's cheese an' cheese; but there's one sort o' red thatch that niver yet spelt owt but foxiness an' double-dealing."

"That's true, for I've noticed it myseln. Black hair for honest, says I, an' red for a man that'll do owt."

"Leet hair, thin blood--that's what I war telled. Ay, sure, ye can niver trust yond sort o' thatch; an' all th' Ratcliffes hev it, saving Mistress Janet."

"Mistress Janet's is black as sloes, an' she hes a staunch heart of her own to match," broke in Nanny, who rarely stopped to praise. "But then she might be a Wayne, an' I've allus wondered how she came to be born of a Ratcliffe stock. Eh, but I wonder aht yond chap is saying to Witherlee! My man hes getten a closish tongue, Lord be thanked, or he mud easy say summat that wod stick i' Ratcliffe's gizzard."

The Sexton had been pottering up and down the graveyard all this while. And now he had sat him down on the edge of a grave, and filled his pipe and fallen into one of the musing fits which were the chief joy of his life. He was out of place in the world of living men and women, was Witherlee, and he knew it; but here he was at home, and the folk underground were full in sympathy with the dour, clear-sighted philosophy which pick and spade had taught him.

"There's comfort i' a bit o' bacca--though, Lord knows, 'twill be all one, bacca or no bacca, by and by," he muttered, pulling out his tinder-box. "We brought nowt into th' world, an' we tak nowt out, as Parson says at buryings--no, not so mich as an old clay pipe to keep us warm under sod."

His pipe well going, he let his eyes rove through the thin trail of smoke until they rested on the vault of the Waynes of Marsh. A shadowy smile wrinkled his mouth; he was thinking of what had chanced here not twelve hours agone, and piecing the fight together, stroke by stroke, as he would have it be if it were to be fought out again.

"So thou'rt here, Witherlee! Peste, man, thou sittest so grey and still that I mistook thee for one of thy own gravestones," said Ratcliffe's voice at his elbow.

The Sexton came slowly out of his dreams. "Good-day to ye, Maister. Th' wind blows warm at after last neet's bluster," he said.

"It will blow cold again--after what was done here last night," answered Ratcliffe sourly. "Thou hast heard, I take it, that my brother was done to death here? I am come to bid thee dig a grave for him, the burying will be on Monday, likely."

"'Tis an ill-starred day for a burial, but dead men cannot be choosers. Oh, ay, I'll get th' grave digged reet enough."

"There'll be more work for thee before long," went on Ratcliffe, angered by the air of quiet aloofness which Witherlee assumed when he had scant liking for a man. "There's a saying that a Ratcliffe does not love to sleep alone, and we must find him a bedfellow."

"Well, there's room for a two or three--'specially i' th' Ratcliffe slice o' ground," said the Sexton, waving his hand toward the half-dilled space that underlay the Parsonage.

"Thy jests are dry, old Witherlee," snapped the other.

"Nay, I war none jesting. Cannot ye see that there's room and to spare? Oh, ay, I'll be fain to fill up my bit of a garden yonder--and thankee for th' custom."

Ratcliffe shifted from foot to foot, as if in doubt whether it were worth his while to pick a quarrel with the want-wit fellow; then, thinking better of it, he turned as if to leave.

"One spot is as good as another, I take it?" he said. "And haply thy work will lie nearer the yew-trees here, where the Wayne vault hugs tha causeway. By-the-bye, Sexton, when do they bury Wayne of Marsh?" he asked, with a sly carelessness that was not lost on Witherlee.

"To-morn."

"About noon, will it be?"

"About nooin," answered the Sexton. "Ye'll let th' burying go forrard peaceable-like?" he added, after a pause. His face looked dreamy as ever, nor could an onlooker have guessed that he was eyeing the other narrowly.

Ratcliffe started at the plain question, then laughed. "Of course. Are we wild beasts, thou fool, to stand between any man and decent burial? Look ye, Witherlee, thou hast a dreamer's privilege to ask odd questions, or I would have cracked thee on the mouth for that. What is't to thee whether we do this or that?"

"It's a deal to me," said Witherlee, an odd dignity stiffening his shrivelled body. "There's a place for everything, Maister Ratcliffe, an' all goes i' this world, not by what's done, but by th' place where it's done. If I meet ye on th' oppen high-road, I'll mebbe touch my hat to ye, an' axe no better; if I'm i' th' house, I'll tak a lot o' talk fro' th' wife an' say nowt, for a house is th' woman's, not th' man's; but here i' th' kirkyard I'm my own midden, i' a way o' speaking, and I'll stand interference fro' no man--no, not fro' Parson hisseln, for he's getten th' kirk, an' that's his place. So now ye know, Maister, why I axe if ye'll let th' burying get safely owered wi' afore ye fight--I couldn't thoyle to see outrageous doings amang my quiet folk here; they've addled their rest, poor soul and 'twould be no way seemly to disturb them."

"Thou'rt a thought witless, Sexton, as I've often heard folk say," laughed Ratcliffe.

"Well, I keep different company fro' most folk, and so am like to be a bit queer i' my ways. Have your joke, Maister, an' welcome, so long as ye'll let my work at th' vault here go peaceable to-morn."

"'Twas only thy daft fancy bade thee fear aught else. Put this coin in thy pocket, Witherlee, and let it remind thee there's a grave to be digged come Monday."

"Thankee, an' good-day. I'll none forget th' grave," said Witherlee, holding the coin gingerly between a thumb and forefinger.

"Have they a spare horse at the Bull, think'st thou? I'm going to the tavern now to take the body up to Wildwater, and dead men weigh over-heavy to be carried like maids across one's saddle-crupper."

"Ye'll borrow a horse off Jonas Feather; he bought a fresh one nobbut last week end, I called to mind," said Witherlee. "Lord save us," he added to himself, "to hear him talk so of a corpse that's kin to him! To laugh because his own brother weighs heavier for being dead--nay, they're a mucky breed, these Ratcliffes, an' that's as plain as the kirk-steeply."

The Sexton followed Red Ratcliffe with his eyes as he went down the pathway leading to the tavern; and then he glanced again at the coin in his palm.

"I dursn't say him noy, for fear he'd know how sour he turns me wi' yond weasel-face o' hisn," he went on; "but I don't like th' colour of his brass, for all that, and I'd liefer be without it. What mun I do wi' 't, for it'll fair burn a hole i' my pocket?" His face brightened, and he crossed the graveyard briskly. "I'll tak it to th' wife, that I will," he said; "mebbe she'll tell me what's best to do wi' it."

"Well, did Red Ratcliffe find thee?" asked Nanny, soon as the Sexton showed his face indoors.

"So he's been here, and all, has he?"

"Ay, he came seeking thee--and he threatened what he'd do if he catched me meddling wi' what no way concerned me. Well, happen there's more concerns me nor Red Ratcliffe has any notion of. Was it just about th' grave he wanted thee, or was there more behind it?"

"There war," said Witherlee, rubbing his hands together. "He came to see about th' grave right enough--but he came most of all to axe me when Wayne o' Marsh war to be buried. He puts his question careless-like, as if he didn't fash hisseln to know one way or t' other; so _I_ put a question to him i' my turn--daft-like, so he shouldn't guess th' why of--and I could tell by his way o' answering that they mean to swoop down on th' Waynes to-morn while they're agate wi' th' burying."

"That's so, is't?" said Nanny, with a quick glance at her husband. "I war minded to slip down to Marsh before, but now I shall let nowt stand i' th' gate. They're ower gentle, i' a proud way o' their own, is th' Waynes, and they'll niver think sich a thing could be as blows at burying-time."

"Ay," assented Witherlee, "these well-bred folk is like childer when they've getten foul tricks to deal wi', and they need one o' th' commoner sort to look after 'em."

"I should think they do!--Well, sit thee dahn, Witherlee, or tha'll get no dinner to-day, that tha willun't. Sakes! But I'm bothered still about yond little Mistress Wayne; hast heard owt of her?"

"Nowt. I talked to Hiram Hey as he went up to th' land this morn, but they'd seen nowt of her at Marsh. Porr bairn! I doubt she's come to harm." He wandered restlessly about the kitchen awhile; then, remembering the coin in his palm, he put it down on the extreme edge of the dresser. "I've getten a crown-piece, lass. What mun I do wi' 't?" he said.

"Do? Gi'e it to me, for sure, if tha's no use for't. Sakes, he talks as if a crown-piece was addled ivery day o' th' week."

"Ay, but it war Red Ratcliffe gav it me, an' tha knaws what ill money breeds."

Nanny made straight for the dresser, putting her goodman to one side with a firm hand. "I know what lack o' money breeds, Luke Witherlee," she said, as she dropped the coin in her apron pocket. "'Tis nawther right nor kindly to load a harmless bit o' silver ai' th' sins o' him that owned it, an' I've known good childer come fro' ill parents."

"Not oft," said Witherlee, and fell to on the oven-cake which Nanny had just set down before him.

*CHAPTER IV*

*ON BOG-HOLE BRINK*

The sun was wearing noonward as Shameless Wayne and his sister came out of the Marsh House gates and turned up the pasture-fields that led them to the moor. It was the same morning that had seen the mad woman steal out from Nanny's cottage in search of the rude welcome awaiting her at Wildwater; but to Nell Wayne it seemed that yesterday was pushed far back into the past. Her visit to the belfry, her lust for vengeance, the quick answer to her prayers that had been given, amid rain-murk and the crash of swords, upon the very stone that was to cover Wayne of Marsh--these seemed all far off to the girl this morning, as if another than she had lived through the tempest of last night's passion. Behind them, in the Marsh hall, lay her father, still as when she had left him before the fight; and something of the stillness of the end was in the girl's face, too, as she kept pace with her brother's slow-moving steps.

"There's no rest for me, Nell, indoors yonder," said the lad, turning troubled eyes to the old house.

"Nor for me, nor for any of us, so long as father lies there. Ned, 'tis cruel that we cannot bury our dead clean out of sight soon as the breath has left them. All afternoon our kinsfolk will come, and whisper and pray above the body, and go away--I can see the whole sad ceremony--and we must be there, Ned--and 'twill be bitter hard to remember that the Wayne pride bids neither man nor woman of us show a tearful front to death."

He laughed, bitterly a little and very sadly. "The Wayne pride, Nell! Did not that die with father, think'st thou? Or hast forgotten what thou said'st to me last night at the vault-side?"

The late stress of grief and fight, had left the girl soft of heart; and Ned had ever held a sure place in her love. "Let that go by, dear," she said. "I was distraught, and my tongue went wandering in my own despite."

"Yet thy tongue spoke truth, lass. I shall never be aught but Shameless Wayne henceforth, thou said'st."

"Nay, 'twas but a half truth," she said, eagerly. "There's life before thee, Ned, and swift deeds----"

He put a firm hand on her shoulder and forced her to look him in the face. "Nell, I was drinking in the Bull tavern while the bell tolled for father from the kirk-tower. Say, didst think I _knew_ what had chanced at Marsh?"

Again the old note of reproof sounded in Nell's voice. "I told Nanny Witherlee that thou didst not know, and I tried hard to think it, Ned--but how could it be? The gossips at the Bull must have told thee for whom the bell was ringing, for the news had long since spread through Marsh cotes."

"They did tell me," began Shameless Wayne.

"Ah, God!" murmured Nell, confessing how she had clung to the last shred of doubt.

"And I thought they lied. I thought, Nell--'twas the fool drink in me--that Jonas and his cronies were minded to have the laugh of me by this lame tale of how Wayne of Marsh had come by his end. Think, lass! When there was no feud, and naught to give colour to a Ratcliffe sword-stroke--how could a head three-parts gone in liquor believe it true?"

She, too, stopped and sought his eyes. "Ned, thou hast lived wild, but one thing I have never known thee do--thou dost not lie to save thy good repute. Wilt swear to me that thou knew'st naught of what had happened?"

"By the Dog, or by any oath that holds a man," he said, and she knew that he spoke plain truth.

"Why, then, 'twas thy ill fortune, dear, and we'll look clear ahead, thou and I."

"Yet the shame of it will cling, Nell. Wherever my name is spoken, there will some one throw mud at it. Whenever I see one man talking with his fellow, and mark how sudden a silence falls on them at my approach, I shall know that they were sneering at Shameless Wayne, who sat heels on table while his father's soul wailed up and down the moorside crying for vengeance. The Ratcliffes will taunt me with it by and by."

"And the taunt will stiffen thy arm, and blows will wipe out word," she cried, her voice clear and strong again.--"Dear, we have no smooth path to follow, but I give God thanks that 'twas drink, not thou, that played the renegade last night. It would have darkened all my love for thee, Ned, to know thee what I feared--ay, though I had fought it down with all my strength."

Again he laughed mirthlessly. "Art so sure that I shall live sober henceforth?" he said.

"Ay, am I! Dost think I've seen but the one side of thee through all these years? Thou wast alway better than thyself, Ned, and needed only a rough blow to bring thee to thy senses."

He interrupted her, impatiently. "We're growing womanish, and I had harder matters to talk of with thee. I'm four-and-twenty, Nell, and I have thee and four half-grown lads to fend for."

"What, then? Are the Marsh lands so poor that we need cry for every penny spent, like cottage-folk?" said Nell, her old pride peeping out.

"I had a wakeful night, lass, and things came home to me. A good farmer drives the work forward, and says little about it, and onlookers are apt to forget what fathering the land needs if 'tis to butter any bread."

"But there's Hiram Hey. He has worked at Marsh ever since I remember aught, and surely he will look to everything?"

"Ay, if he has a shrewd hand ever on his shoulder; but if the master plays at work, Hiram will play, too, with the best, soon as the old habit wears----"

Nell could not keep back a smile. "As well set beggars on horseback, Ned, as put thee to farming. Hadst never patience for it, nor liking."

"Liking? Good faith, I loathe the sight of tillage tools, and the greasy stench of sheep, and the slow rearing of crops for every storm to play the wanton with. But must is must, Nell, lass, and naught will alter it.--Look at Marshcotes kirk yonder?" he broke off, pointing over the moor as they gained the hill-crest. "It is broad day now, and 'tis hard to understand how lately there was fight beneath yond grey old tower."

Nell shuddered. "Was it a dream, think'st thou, after all? Just a dream, Ned, born of the moon-rays and the wildness of the night?"

"'Twas no dream, lass, for I carry the marks of it.--God's pity, what can have chanced to Mistress Wayne, I wonder? I left her on the vault last night, after pleading with her vainly to return with me to Marsh; and half toward home I turned again, shamed at the thought of leaving her in such a plight--and she was gone."

"Thou didst plead with her to come back to Marsh?" said Nell, her face hardening. "What place has she at Marsh?"

"The place that any homeless bairn might claim there; and, by the Heart, I'll find her if I can and give her shelter. Fool that I was to leave her there last night! She may have wandered to her death among the moors."

"And I for one would gladden to hear of it," cried the girl. "She brought father to where he is; she made our honour light through all the country-side; 'tis treachery to the dead to pity her."

"We'll not fall out, Nell, thou and I; there are quarrels enough to fight through as it is," said Wayne steadily. "Wilt come to Bog-hole brink with me? The last words ever I heard from father was about yond field; next after thee, I think he doted most on the lean fields he had rescued from the heather, and 'twould please him if we could whisper in his ear at home-going that the work was speeding."

His sister glanced curiously at him, scarce crediting the change that one night's agony had wrought in this careless lad, nor knowing whether his tenderness or his purposeful, quiet talk of ways and means were more to be wondered at. "Is't safe, Ned?" she asked. "The road to Wildwater crosses over beyond Bog-hole brink, and Nicholas Ratcliffe has a pair of hawk's eyes in his weasel face."

"'Twill be as safe now as ever it will; and who knows but a chance may come to square last night's account?"

She turned and walked beside him up the fields; and, after they had crossed the stile that opened on the moor, she broke silence for the first time. "Ned, what of Janet Ratcliffe?" she said suddenly.

Wayne flushed, and paled again; but his voice was quiet when he spoke. "I have thought that over, too--and--love sickens when it crosses kinship, Nell."

Overjoyed and sorry in a breath, she gave him one of those brief, half-ashamed caresses that rarely passed between them. "Art right, dear," she said--"but God knows what it has meant to thee."

"And I know, lass--and that is all we'll say about it. After all, 'twas hot and sweet enough--but father would have cursed me had he lived to know; and old Nicholas would liefer have drowned Janet in Wildwater Pool than see her wedded to a Wayne. Even thou, lass, didst rail on me when I told thee how it was between us; and thou'rt a woman.--See Bog-hole brink up yonder; that should be Hiram's figure stooping to the spade."

Hiram Hey, indeed, had been busy since early morning at the brink, as befitted the oldest farm-hand of the Waynes. Death might have put an end to the old man's activity, but it was no part of the Marshcotes creed that farming matters should be set aside for even a day because the owner of the land awaited burial. There was always a fresh master to take the old one's place, but the right season for a tillage-job, if once it was let slip by, did not return again. It was high time that this bit of field, intaken from the heather during the open days of winter, should be prepared for its seed-crop of black oats; and Hiram was working, with his wonted easiful swing of arm and downright leisurely tread, at the square heap of peat and lime that stood at the upper corner of the field. His spade, at each downward stroke showed the naked side of the heap, where the alternate layers of black bog-peat and white lime, each a twelve-inch deep or so, climbed one above the other to half a tall man's height; and peat and lime mingled in a grey-black dust as he swung spadeful after spadeful in the waiting cart.

"He'll noan be pleased, willun't th' Maister, 'at he's been called to a better world afore he's seen this field rear its first crop o' oats," muttered Hiram. "Nay, it do seem fair outrageous, like, to wark as he's done to break up a plaguey slice o' land, an' then to dee fair as all's getten ship-shape. A better world he's goan to? I'm hoping as mich--for it 'ud tak him all his time to find a war."

"What art laking at, Hiram?" came a voice from behind.

Hiram put a few more spades-full into his cart before troubling to turn round; then he planted his spade in the ground, firmly and with deliberation, and leaned on it; and last of all he lifted his eyes to the newcomer's face. "Oh, it's thee, is't, Jose? Well?" he said.

"Well?" answered Jose, the same shepherd who earlier in the morning had directed Mistress Wayne to Wildwater.

Neither broke the silence for awhile, for they were fast friends. "Been shepherding like?" ventured Hiram Hey at length.

"Ay. 'Twar a lamb-storm last neet, an' proper, an' I've lossen a two-three ewes through 't already, not to mention lambs. I doubt this lambkin 'ull niver thrive," answered Jose, leaning over the fence and holding a four-days' lamb toward Hiram.

"I doubt it willun't," responded the other, with a critical glance at the thin body and drooping hind-quarters.

"Its mother war carred by th' side on 't, dead as Job, when I gat up to th' Heights this morn, and th' little chap war bleating fair like ony babby. Well, I mun tak it to th' home-farm, an' they'll mebbe rear 't by th' hearthstun.--What's agate wi' thee, Hiram, lad? Tha looks as if tha'd dropped a crown-piece and picked up a ha' penny."

"I war thinking o' th' owd Maister, who ligs below yonder at Marsh. He war a grand un, an' proper. I warrant th' young un 'ull noan be a patch on him."

"That's as th' Lord sends," said the shepherd, shifting the lamb a little to ease his arms; "though why th' new should allus be war nor th' owd, beats me. Tha niver will see th' hopeful side of ony matter, Hiram--no, not if they paid thee for 't. I mind, an' all, that ye hed hard words to say o' him that's goan while he war wick an' aboon-ground."

"Well, that's nobbut right. If ye cannot speak gooid of a man when he's dead, an' noan liable to be puffed up wi' pride at hearing on 't, when can ye let a soft word out, says I?"

"There's a way o' looking at iverything, I allus did say; an' I've knawn a kindly word i' season do more for th' living nor all th' praise i' th' world can iver advantage th' dead."

"Nay," said Hiram, taking up his spade and resting both hands on the top, "nay, I war reared on hard words an' haver-bread, an' they both of 'em stiffen a chap, to my thinking. I doan't knaw that owt iver comed o' buttering your tongue."

"Tha doesn't knaw? Then that's why I'm telling ye. There's th' young Maister, now--him 'at they call Shameless, though I reckon he's cured o' that sin' last neet. He's a chap ye can no way drive, is't Shameless Wayne, but I've knawn him, even i' his owd wild days, go soft i' a minute if ye tried to lead i' stead o' driving him."

"I doubt th' chap. Whin-bushes carry no cherries, Jose."

"Well, tha wert allus hard on th' lad; but there's marrow i' him, ye mark my words. An' we shall see what he's made on, choose what, now he's getten th' farm on his hands.--Sakes, what is't, Hiram?" he broke off, as a slim figure of a woman, wild-eyed and mud-bedraggled, came down the moor and stood on the far side of the fence watching them in questioning fashion.

"Why, by th' Heart,'tis Mistress Wayne!" cried Hiram. "Begow, I thowt it war a boggart! What mud she be after, think'st 'a, Jose?"