Part 6

"Nay, I know not--save that she passed me many an hour agone, as I war looking after th' sheep, an' axed th' road to Wildwater. I thowt that she war fairy-kist, and now I'm sure on 't."

"Ay, she's fairy-kist, for sure; ye need only see her een to be sure o' that. Tak that lamb o' thine to her, Jose; I've known mony a sickness dumb and human, cured by a touch o' such poor bodies."

They glanced at Mistress Wayne, expecting speech from her; but she said naught--only stood idly watching them, as if she had some question in her mind and feared to ask it. Surprised he was, and awe-struck, by this second advent of a figure at once so eerie and so pitiful, the shepherd was not minded to lose so plain a chance of profit. The lamb was sick, and he knew as well as Hiram did what healing these mad folk carried in their touch. Eager to thrust his burden against the little woman's hand, he moved up toward the fence; but she took fright at his abruptness, and turned, and raced fleet-footed up the slope.

The shepherd watched her disappear among the furrows of the heath, then looked at Hiram. "What dost mak on 't', lad?" he asked.

"Nay, how should I tell?" said Hiram sourly. "'Twould seem yond skinful o' kiss-me-quick ways--who war niver fit, as I've said mony a time, to be wife to Wayne o' Marsh--has paid a bonnie price for her frolic wi' Dick Ratcliffe o' Wildwater-- Lord save us, though," he added, "I mun say no ill o' th' wench, now that she is as she is, for 'tis crixy work to cross sich, so they say."

"She's talked o' seeking her lover up at Wildwater," put in the other, in an awed voice. "Did she find him, I wonder? 'Tis fearful strange, lad Hiram, whichiver way a body looks at it."

"Tha's heard nowt, I'm thinking, of how this same Dick Ratcliffe, that she calls her lover, war killed last neet i' Marshcotes graveyard?"

"What, killed? Think o' that now! An' th' little body trapesing all up and down th' moor, seeking him and reckoning he war up yonder at Wildwater House. Where didst learn it, Hiram?"

Hiram took his spade in hand again and thrust it into the lime--with no immediate intention of resuming work, but as a signal that by and by he would have given his tongue as much work as was good for it. "Where should I learn it, save at Nanny Witherlee's? I war dahn at Marshcotes this morn, an' says I to myseln, 'Jose, lad,' says I, 'if there's owt fresh about this bad business o' th' Maister's, Nanny 'll know on 't.' An' I war right, for sure; there's niver a mousehole i' ony house but Nanny hes a peep through 't."

"Ay, she knows whether ye've getten feathers or flocks i' your bedding, does Nanny," Hiram agreed, as he patted the heap with the flat of his spade.

"She hed been ringing th' death-bell, seemingly, and when she came out into th' kirkyard-- Now, look yonder, Hiram! We're seeing a sect o' company up here this blessed day, for here's th' young Maister hisseln, an' Mistress Nell wi' him. Eh, but they've getten owd faces on young shoulders, hes th' pair on 'em. I'll be wending up to th' farm, lad, wi' this lambkin, for I war aye softish about meeting troubled faces--they do may my een watter so."

The shepherd made off hurriedly along the crest of the field, his eyes turned steadfastly from the path which Shameless Wayne and his sister were climbing; and Hiram watched him sourily.

"Tha'rt right, Jose, when tha names thyseln softish," he growled. "Sakes, if we're bahn to fret ourselns about iverybody's aches an' pains, where mun we stop? Lord be thanked 'at He's gi'en me a heart like a lump o' bog-oak--hard, an' knobby, an' well-soaked i' brine. So th' young Maister's coming i' gooid time, is he, to lord it ower his farm folk? Well, let him come, says I; he'll noan skift me by an inch, willun't th' lad."

Under other circumstances Hiram would have been at work again by now, nor would he have ceased the unhurried swing of leg and arm-muscle, that does so much in a Marshcotes working-day, until dinner or the advent of another gossip gave him fit excuse for resting. But with the young master close behind--come here, doubtless, to spy on him--the case was altered; and there was stubbornness writ plain in every outstanding knob of the old man's body as he fell into the most easiful attitude that long experience could suggest.

"Well, Hiram, how goes the work?" said Shameless Wayne, stopping at the fence.

Hiram glanced carelessly at the young master, then fell to lengthy contemplation of the sky. "Better nor like," he said at last, "seeing I've nobbut my own wits to guide me, now th' owd Maister is goan."

"The new master knows a sight less than the old one did, Hiram."

"Ye're right, I reckon."

"But he's willing to learn, and means to."

"Oh, ay? I've heard that ye can train a sapling, but not at after it's grown to a tree."

"The same old Hiram Hey! Bitter as a dried sloe," growled Shameless Wayne.

"Sloes is wholesome, choose what; an' I addle too little brass to keep me owt but dry--let alone that I'm no drinker by habit."

The master winced at this last home-thrust, then squared his jaw obstinately. "Hard words plough no fields, Hiram--no, nor lime them either, as is plain to be seen. Thou'rt a week behind with this field."

Hiram glanced edgeways at him, not understanding that two could use his own rough weapons. "A week behind, am I, Maister? An' how should ye come to know whether I'm forrard or behind wi' farm wark?"

Wayne's face softened for a moment. "Because the last word I heard from father was touching this same field--and by that token, Hiram, I'll see that thou gett'st it limed, and sown, and bearing its crop, all in good season, if I have to whip thee up and down the furrows."

His sister laid a hand on his sleeve. "Hush, Ned!" she whispered. "Thou'lt win scant labour from such as Hiram, unless thou bearest a kindlier tongue."

Yet Shameless Wayne, who was counted light of head and judgment, saw more sides to the matter than prudent Mistress Nell; the temper of the moor folk was an open book to him, and he knew that if he were to be master henceforth he must begin as such, or any after-kindness he might show would count for folly with Hiram and his kind.

Hiram Hey was looking steadily at the master now, a hard wonder tempering his obstinacy a little. And so they eyed each other, until the older man's glance faltered, and recovered and fell again to the white spots of lime that littered the peat-mould at his feet.

"Now," said Wayne, "thou hast got thy cart full, Hiram. Give yond chestnut of thine a taste of thy hand, and we'll see if thou hast learned yet to spread a field."

"Hev I learned to spread a field? Me that hes sarved at Marsh, man an' boy, these forty years!" cried Hiram, open-mouthed now.

"Thou hast done good service, too, for father gave his word to that; but whether thou canst spread limed peat--why, that is to be seen yet."

Not a word spoke Hiram, but gave the chestnut one resounding smack with the flat of his hand and fell to work as soberly, as leisurely, as if he had not just been given the hardest nut to crack that ever had come his way. All across the field, as he followed the cart and swung wide spades-full right and left, he was puzzling to find some explanation of this new humour of Shameless Wayne's; but he returned to the heap as wise as he left it, and began stolidly to refill the cart without once looking at the master.

"Nay, I'm beat wi' him," he muttered. "What it means is noan for me to say--but I warrant ony change i' Shameless Wayne is for th' war----"

"Put that sort of work into it, Hiram, and we shall see a good crop yet," called the master drily, and linked his arm through Nell's to help her down the slope.

They had not gone a score yards, and Hiram Hey was still wondering at his powerlessness to give Shameless Wayne "a piece of his mind," when a horseman passed at a foot-pace along the bridle-track above. Beside him walked another horse--a rough-coated bay, that carried a man's body swung across its back. Carelessly fastened the body was, and every now and then, as the nag slipped and stumbled up the rocky slope, the dead man's arms, his head and high-booted legs, made quick nods of protest, as if the journey liked him little.

"Christ guide us, what is this?" cried Nell, aghast at the drear spectacle. And then she looked closer at the on-coming rider, and lost her mawkishness upon the sudden. "'Tis one of the Ratcliffes of Wildwater," she said, with the same passionate tremour in her voice that Nanny Witherlee had heard last night up in the belfry-tower.

"Ay, by his red thatch," muttered Shameless Wayne--"and now he turns his face this way, 'tis he they call Red Ratcliffe--the meanest hound of them all, save him who lies across the saddle-crupper yonder."

"Why, canst see who 'tis?" Nell whispered.

"Ay--thou say'st him last with a sword-blade through his heart."

The horseman had reined in at a stone's-throw from them. "I carried news to Wildwater this morning," he said, glancing from Nell Wayne to her brother.

"Good news or bad, Red Ratcliffe?" answered Wayne in an even voice.

"Why, good. They clapped hands up yonder when I told them what Shameless Wayne was doing while his cousin fought for him."

The lad reddened, but he would show no other sign of hurt. "There are two chances come to every man in his lifetime," he said slowly, "and I have lost but one. Get off your horse, and we'll talk with a weapon that comes handier than the tongue."

Ratcliffe looked down the rough slope of the moor, thinking to ride in at his enemy and strike at vantage; but the ground was full of bog-holes and no horse could cross with safety. "Nay," he answered; "when I fight with you, Wayne of Marsh, there shall be no girl to come between the fight--nor a farm-hind to help thee with his spade."

"You need not fear them, sir," laughed Wayne--"though, now I think of it, old Hiram yonder would be a better match for such bravery as yours."

The other winced, but would not be goaded into fight; and there he showed himself a Ratcliffe--for his race was wont to measure pride by opportunity, and when they fought they did it with cool reckoning of the odds in favour of them.

"Wilt try the issue with my sister, then, if Hiram seems too good for thee?" mocked Wayne. "She can grip a sword-hilt on occasion, and----"

"She may have need to by and by," snapped Red Ratcliffe, pointing to the dead man with the hand which held the bridle of the second horse. "This morning I carried news to the Lean Man, and now I am bearing proof of it--and weighty proof, 'od rot me, as I found when lifting him to saddle. An eye for an eye, Wayne of Marsh--fare ye well, and remember that an old tree we know of will bear red blossoms by and by."

Wayne made a few steps up the slope, but the horseman was already rising to the trot and pursuit was useless. "Come, Nell," he said; "blows would come easiest, but it seems I've to learn patience all in one hard lesson."

Hiram Hey whetted his hands, soon as he was alone again, and began to fill his cart. And many a slow thought ripened as he worked, though he gave voice to none until Jose the shepherd returned from carrying his lamb to the home farm, and rested his arms as before on the fence, and gave Hiram the "Well?" which prefaced every interval of gossip.

"Begow, but I've learned summat, Jose, sin' tha wert here," said Hiram slowly.

"That's a lot for thee to say, lad. I've thowt, time an' time, 'at ye'd getten nowt left to learn," responded the other, with lazy irony.

"Well, 'tis a rum world, an' thick wi' surprises, for me as for ony other man. Who'd hev thowt, Jose, 'at th' young Maister 'ud up an' gi'e me a talking-to, fair as if he war his father, an' me set to liming a field for th' first time?--I tell thee, I war so capped I hedn't a blessed word to answer him wi'--though I've thowt of a dozen sin' he left."

"Didn't I tell thee?" cried the shepherd, cackling softly and stroking his shaven upper lip. "Didn't I tell thee, Hiram? Eh, lad, I haven't lived to three-score an' three without knowing a sour cherry fro' a sweet."

"Thou'rt ower fond o' th' young Maister; tha allus wert, Jose. What's he getten to show for hisseln?" grumbled Hiram.

"Measure him by his doings, an' he's nowt; but peep at th' innards o' th' lad, an' tha'll find summat different-like. He war a wick un fro' being a babby, war Shameless Wayne, an' wick tha'll find him, Hiram, if fancy leads him to meddle wi' th' farming."

"Theer, I niver reckoned mich o' thy head-piece, Jose; 'twar nobbut th' suddenness of it that capped me so, an' next time I warrant he'll sing to a different tune. He war right, though, about this field, an' 'tis owing to thee, Jose, 'at I'm late wi' 't, coming ivery half-hour as tha dost to break me off th' wark. 'Tis weel to be a shepherd, I allus did say."

"Well, then, I'll swop jobs; I'll tak thine, lad, if tha'll tak mine. Begow, but to say 'at I'm idle i' lambing-time-- Theer I'll be wending; 'twill noan do mich gooid to listen to such fly-by-sky talk of yond."

Hiram let him move a little away; then, "Didst see Red Ratcliffe go riding by to Wildwater a while back?" he called.

"Nay, I war off th' road. Hes he passed, like, while th' Maister war here?" said the shepherd, answering tamely to the lure and resuming his old easiful attitude against the fence.

"I should think he did. An' he stops, does Ratcliffe, an' mocks th' Maister; an' he up an' says, 'Come thee dahn and fight, lad,' says he, meaning th' Maister. But Ratcliffe war flayed--ay, he war flayed--I'm noan saying th' lad didn't show hisseln summat like a man."

The shepherd was silent for awhile. "I tell thee what it is, Hiram," he said presently; "them Ratcliffes hes been thrang this mony a week wi' their plots an' their mucky plans. There's niver a neet goes by now, when we meet at th' tavern, Wildwater hands an' Marsh, but they mak a joke o' Shameless Wayne--an' no rough honest jokes, mind ye, but sour uns----"

"I should like to hear 'em!" snapped Hiram. "I'm noan gi'en to liquor, Jose, as tha knaws; but I've a mind to look in at th' tavern this varry neet, th' first I hear oppen his mouth agen th' young Maister--" he stopped and looked once down the path that Shameless Wayne had taken. "We shall fratch, me an' ye, lad," he said, as he settled to his work again.

"Ay," chuckled Jose, turning away. "An' he'll best thee ivery time. So I'll say good-afternoon, Hiram, an' we'll pray there'll be no more lamb-storms this side o' th' summer."

"We shall fratch," repeated Hiram Hey, and shouted a "gee-yup," to the chestnut.

But the Master was thinking of weightier matters even than his fratching with Hiram Hey. Nell and he had stopped at the parting of the ways this side of Marsh House, and he had glanced queerly at her as he said farewell.

"Where art going, Ned?" she asked.

He paused awhile before replying; then, "I have a tryst to keep with Janet Ratcliffe," he said, in a tone that challenged opposition.

"A tryst to keep?" echoed Nell, lifting her brows. "How long is't, Ned, since thou told'st me that was over and done with once for all?"

"I told thee truth. The tryst was made when we were free to be lovers,--if we would--but now--dost think I'm minded to forget the blow that sent father where he is?"

"Break tryst, Ned?" she pleaded eagerly. "'Tis unsafe, I tell thee, and----"

"And thou fearest a pair of hazel eyes will cloud all else for me?" he finished. "Get home to Marsh, lass--and think something better of my manhood."

"She'll conquer him again," Nell muttered after he had left her. "He is mad to keep troth with any Ratcliffe. Well-away, why must Ned always run so close a race with dishonour?"

*CHAPTER V*

*A LOVE-TRYST*

After seeing Mistress Wayne safe into her road and after meeting Red Ratcliffe by the way, Janet made all speed back to Wildwater, lest her grandfather should miss her from the dinner-table. She turned once again as she reached the wicket-gate; and again she looked along the path by which Red Ratcliffe was crossing the moor to Marshcotes.

"Christ, how I hate him!" she repeated, and put a hand upon the latch, and went quickly up the garden-path.

A haunch of mutton, just taken from the turn-spit, was hissing on the kitchen table as she passed through, and she had scarce time to doff her cloak and smooth her hair a little where the wind had played the ruffler with it, before Nicholas Ratcliffe's voice came from the dining-hall.

"Where's Janet? Od's life, these wenches are always late for trencher-service," he cried.

"Nay, for I'm here with the meat, grandfather," said Janet slipping into the place at the old man's side which was hers more by favour than by right.

"Where hast been, girl?" he asked sharply.

"I wearied of spinning and went out into the fields in search of appetite."

"Well, have a care. The times are going to change soon, and 'twill be well for all Ratcliffe women-folk to keep close to home."

"For fear of Waynes?" cried a lad from the table-foot, mockingly. "I thought, sir, we knew that they were courteous to foolery with all women. Have you not told us as much a score times?"

"Besides, I could not hug the threshold from morn till night; I should die for lack of wind and weather," put in the girl, with a touch of wilfulness that never came amiss to old Nicholas from his favourite one.

"There's truth in that; and I should ill like to see thee go white of cheek, Janet, like yond fool-woman who came to talk with me just now. Have a care, is all I say--and if a Wayne say aight to thee at any time----"

"I do not fear any Wayne that steps," said she, her eyes on her plate, and her thoughts on a certain spot of the moors where she had promised to keep tryst with Shameless Wayne that very afternoon.

The Lean Man fell into moodiness presently. From time to time he glanced at Robert, his eldest-born, and nodded; and from time to time he gave a laugh that was half a snarl; and Janet, watching his humour narrowly, lost even the pretence of high spirits which she had brought to meat. Her grandfather was planning mischief, as surely as a hawk meant death when it hung motionless above a cowering wild fowl; and the mischief would aim at Shameless Wayne; and she would have more than a love-errand to take her to the moors this afternoon.

Dinner over, old Nicholas called for his horse and buckled his sword-belt on.

"Come, wish me God-speed," he laughed, threading his arm through Janet's.

Janet shrank from him a little, but he was too intent on the matter in hand to notice aight amiss with her. "Wish him God-speed," she thought. "On such an errand? Nay but I'll give God thanks that I made a tryst with Shameless Wayne--the Lean Man will scarce know where to look for him."

"Come, Janet, hast no word? See the black mare, how eager she is to be off. She winds the scent of chase, I doubt."

The girl was silent until her grandfather had gathered the reins into his hand. "Where--where do you ride, sir?" she stammered.

The big bay horse--lean as its master, and every whit as tough--was pawing the courtyard stones impatiently. Old Nicholas swung to saddle, and looked down grimly, at his granddaughter. "A-hunting, as I told thee," he said. "What meat shall I bring back to the Wildwater larder?"

"What you please, sir, so long as it be well come by," she answered, looking him hardily between the eyes.

"It shall be well come by, lass," said the Lean Man, and cantered over the hill-crest.

Not staying to fetch cloak and hood, Janet struck slant-wise across the moor soon as her grandfather was out of sight. Troubles were crowding thick on her. This morning there had been Red Ratcliffe's threats, now there were the Lean Man's. Both aimed against Shameless Wayne, she guessed, for of old their hate had been deeper against the Waynes of Marsh than against any other of their kin. Above the moor-edge a little cloud, no bigger than a man's hand, seemed to have come up--the cloud of feud, which one day, the girl knew, would grow to a red thunder-track that covered the whole sky. Yet her step grew freer, her eyes brightened, as she went out and out across the moor, over the gaunt, waste land of peat and bog and green marsh grasses; for the friendship of heath went with her, and each step further into the heart of the solitude was a step toward him. This morning she had been downcast, and even the moor had failed to give her its wonted cheer; but now that dangers thickened she braced herself to meet them, with a courage that was almost gaiety. What if the Lean Man had gone hunting Shameless Wayne? He would not find him, for he was coming to meet her on the moor here--he was at the tryst this moment, may be--and the road he would take from Marsh was contrary altogether from that followed by her grandfather.

The bog stretched wide before her now, and she had to skirt the nearer edge of it, stepping with cautious foot from tuft to tuft of ling. There was many a dead man lay among the stagnant ooze to left of her; but the cruelty of the heath had no terror for the girl--it was but one quality among the many which had endeared the heath to her. Men's cruelty was mean, with squalor in it, but the larger pitilessness of Nature was understandable to this child of the stormwinds and the rain.

Little by little, as she walked, her mind went over all that had passed between herself and Shameless Wayne since first he set a lover's eyes on her and blurted out his headstrong passion. That was a twelvemonth back, and ever since she had been half betrothed to him--not pledging herself outright, but gleaning a swift joy from meetings that would have brought the Lean Man's vengeance on her had he once surprised a tryst. Sometimes she had been tender with the lad, but oftener she had taunted him with his wild doings up and down the moorside; and all the while she had not guessed how close a hold he was taking of her, nor that his very wildness matched what the moor-storms taught her to look for in a man. It had needed a touch of peril, a sense that life for once was buffeting Careless Wayne, to rouse the woman in her; and now the peril was at hand, and the boy-and-girl love of yesterday showed vague and empty on the sudden.

For a moment she halted at the bog-verge and looked across the heath. The solitude was splendid from edge to edge of the blue-bellied sky--such solitude as dwarfed her pride and made her heart like a little child's for simpleness. Moor-birds were clamorous up above her head, and not a half-league off the black pile of Wynyates Kirk upreared itself, a temple in the wilderness. From marsh to kirk, from wind-ruffled heath to peewits wheeling white-and-black across the sun-rays, the girl's eyes wandered. Proud, she had been, shy with the fierceness of all untamed creatures, and liberty had seemed, till yesterday, a dearer thing than any fool-man's tenderness. But danger had come to Shameless Wayne, danger would sit at meat and walk abroad and sleep with him till he or the Lean Man went under sod; and, knowing this, she knew, too, that liberty had ceased to be a gift worth asking for.