Part 8

"This shall be thy room. Nay, there's naught to fear!" he said. "Peep into the drawers yonder by and by, and thou'lt find pretty clothes to wear; but thou'rt tired now, and must lie down on the bed. So! Now I'll cover thee snugly up, and bring thee meat. I doubt thou need'st it, bairn."

She was passive in his hands, and fell to crooning happily while he drew a great rug of badgerskin across her. "'Tis pleasant to have friends, and to be warm," she murmured.

"Unless I hasten, thou'lt be asleep before I bring thee supper!" he cried. "Rest quiet, and be sure I'll keep the boggarts from the door."

He went quietly down again, feeling his own troubles lighter for this fresh claim upon his sympathies; nor did he doubt the dead man's view of it, since there was scarce man or woman on the moor who did not hold that madness cancelled all back-reckonings.

"I will see what is to be found in the kitchen; haply the half of a moor-cock would tempt her appetite," he thought, as he turned down the passage.

He was met by his four brothers, just returned from hawking. Their faces were flushed and their sturdy bodies panting with the hard run home.

"We've had rare sport, Ned! Rare sport!" cried the eldest, a lad of sixteen. And then, remembering who lay not far away, cold forever to sport of hawk or hound, he dropped his head shamefacedly.

"It has taken you far, I warrant; for the sun has been down this half-hour past."

"Ay, for at the end of all we fell to flying at magpies down the hedgerows toward Heathley, and yond unbacked eyes of mine at which thou jestest trussed seven. Peep in the kitchen, Ned, and see what game we took. We carried the goshawk, too, and she struck a hare up by Wildwater----"

"What! Ye have been near Wildwater?" cried Shameless Wayne, his face darkening on the sudden.

"Ay, 'twas in one of the Lean Man's fields we struck the hare--and, Ned, we saw such a queer sight up yonder. Just as I was going to cast at a snipe, Ralph here whispered that the Lean Man himself was coming."

"So we hid in the heather," put in Ralph eagerly, "and he passed as close to us, Ned, as thou stand'st to me. He had a great cut across his cheek, and his hands were red, and we could hear him laughing to himself in a way that made us feared."

"When the Lean Man's hands are red, and his throat holds laughter, it means but the one thing," muttered Shameless Wayne. "He has killed his man--God pity one of our kin!--and the feud is out before we looked for it. They'll let the burying get done with--even a Ratcliffe never did less than that; and then 'twill be fast and merry."

"Tush! We were not feared," cried Griff, the eldest. "We could have caught him, Ned, the four of us, if we had had swords to our hands."

Shameless Wayne laughed quietly. "Ye will learn soon to buckle your sword-belts on whenever ye move abroad," he said. "Listen to me, lads. A house with a dead man in it is no healthy place, and so I bade you go out hawking this morning, and kept what I had to tell you until night. Ye've heard of the old feud of Wayne and Ratcliffe?"

"Ay, have we!" said Griff. "Such tales old Nanny Witherlee used to tell us of----"

"Well, 'twill be out again, belike, soon as your father is buried. The Ratcliffes will kill us whenever they get a chance, and we shall kill a Ratcliffe whenever he shows himself within sword-hail. And ye must take your share of it if ye wish to keep whole skins. Griff, thou canst play a shrewdish blade even now; and what ye lack, the four of you, I'll teach you by and by."

"Hawking will show tame after this," cried Griff, his eyes brightening. "Shall I meet the Lean Man one day, think'st thou, Ned?"

"If God spares thee, lad. But no more frolics yet awhile on the Lean Man's land. Ye must keep close to home, and I will teach you cut and thrust until your arms are stiffened."

"Was it a Ratcliffe who killed father?" asked Ralph suddenly. They had no understanding of death, as yet, these youngsters; its sorrow glanced off from them, too vague and dark to oust their lads' relish of a fight.

"Ay--and a Wayne who slew the murderer yesternight."

"Why, then, 'twas thou!" cried Griff. "Old Nanny told us that the eldest-born must always fight the father's enemy. Where didst thrust him, Ned?"

Shameless Wayne grew hot, and the blood flushed red to brow and cheeks. "Go seek your suppers, lads," he said, turning on his heel.

Going to the kitchen, still bent on finding some dainty that would tempt his step-mother, he found Nanny Witherlee, the Sexton's wife, talking hard and fast to one of the maids.

"Th' young Maister 'ull noan deny it me, I tell thee," Nanny was saying.

"Then ask him, Nanny, and he'll tell thee quickly whether or not he will deny thee," said Shameless Wayne from the doorway.

"Sakes, Maister! I war that thrang wi' spache--though 'tis noan a habit o' mine--that I niver heard your step. I've comed up fro' Marshcotes to axe a bit of a kindness, like."

"Thou'lt win it, likely, for I'm in a softish mood," said Wayne, half sneering at himself.

"'Tis that ye'll let me watch th' owd Maister th' neet-time through. I knawed him when he war a young un, an' I knawed him when he wedded th' first wife, an' I nursed ye all fro' babbies. 'Twould be kindly, like, to let me sit by him this last neet of all."

"That was to be my care, Nanny. Dost want me to let a second chance slip by of honouring father?"

"Now, doan't tak things so mich to heart--doan't, lad, there's a dearie--an' I axe your pardon for so miscalling ye, I'm sure, seeing ye've grown out o' nursing-clothes. Ye've getten a tidy handful o' wark afore ye, an' Witherlee says to me this varry afternooin, 'Nanny,' says he, 'them Ratcliffes is up an' astir like a hornet's nest; I'm hoping th' Waynes 'ull bring swords an' sharp e'en to th' burying, for we can noan on us tell what 'ull chance,' he says. That war what Witherlee said, just i' so many words; an' though he's like a three-legged stool about a house, allus tripping ye up wheniver ye stir, he can do part thinking time an' time, can Witherlee. I war coming to axe ye afore he spoke, for I war fain to see th' last o' th' owd Maister; but I war up i' a brace o' shakes at after he'd gi'en me that notion, for I could see 'at a man wodn't frame to fight varry weel on th' top of a long neet's wakefulness."

Nanny paused for breath, and the young Master took advantage of a break that might not come soon again. "The Ratcliffes will wait till after the burying. There's scant need for aught save wet eyes to-morrow, Nanny," he said.

"Well, that's as it mun be; an' what mun be nowt 'ull alter, so we willun't fash ourselns. But for owd love's sake, Maister, ye'll let me bide by thy father? 'Tis long since I axed owt, big or little, of ye Waynes, an' ye'll noan deny it me, now, will ye?"

Shameless Wayne, as he had said, was in a soft mood, and Nanny's sharp face was so full of entreaty that he saw it would be a bitter blow to her if he denied the boon. "Have it as thou wilt," he said. "Father was always kindly in his thoughts of thee, Nanny, and it may please him better than any watching of mine could do."

Rolf Wayne of Cranshaw, meanwhile, had ridden over to Marsh to see if there were aught that he could do; and Nell, meeting him as he came in at the hall door, gave him a warm welcome, for the late quarrel with her brother had left her sad, and the silence of the death-chamber fostered such sort of misery.

"Rolf, my step-mother has come back, and Ned has welcomed her," she said, after they had talked awhile of this and that in hushed voices.

"What! Mistress Wayne come back?"

"Yes, mad as a marshland hare, with all her old pleading ways so deepened that she has won Ned clean over to her side."

"Fairy-kist, is she?"

"Aye--though, to my thinking, she was always near to it."

"Then, lass, there's no room for anger. Let her be; 'tis ill-luck crossing such, and we have need----"

"An old tale, Rolf!" she broke in stormily. "Ned said as much awhile since--as though, God's pity, there could good luck come of harbouring such as her. There! I am distraught. Wilt watch the bier, Rolf, while I run out and cool my wits a little?"

"The night is over cold. Bide by a warm fireside, and talk thy troubles out to one who cares for thee."

"Nay, I must be alone. Let me go, dear! I tell thee, my head throbs and throbs, and I shall go the way of Mistress Wayne unless thou'lt humour me."

She slipped a cloak about her, checking Rolf's efforts to detain her, and went quietly out into the courtyard. There was a touch of winter in the air, and a touch of spring, and overhead the stars shone dewy. The girl shivered a little, but not for cold, as she crossed into Barguest lane and saw a red moon climbing up above Worm's Hill. Up and down she paced, up and down, thinking of Shameless Wayne, of her step-mother, of everything that vexed and harassed her. Nor did her brain grow cooler for the night's companionship; rather, the silence let stranger fancies in than she would have harboured at any other time or place.

"Ned has such need to be strong, and he has ever been weak as running water," she muttered, and stopped, and wondered that the breeze which blew from the moor-edge down Barguest lane had grown so chill upon the sudden.

Aware of some vague terror, yet acknowledging none, she held her breath and bent her ear toward the lane-top. A sound of pattering footsteps drifted down--they were close beside her now, as the wind brushed her cloak--and now again the footsteps were dying at the far end of the lane. And a whine that was half a growl crept downward in the wake of pattering feet and icy wind.

"'Tis Barguest!" muttered Nell, and raced down the road, and across the courtyard, and into the hall where Wayne of Cranshaw sat watching by the dead.

Her pride was gone now, and the last impulse of defiance. She waited no asking, but put her arms about Rolf's neck and bade him hold her close.

"I heard the Hound's voice in the lane just now," she whispered. "There's trouble coming on us, Rolf--more trouble--I never heard his step go pattering down the road so plain."

"Didst never hear the water try its new trick, thou mean'st. I was a fool to let thee go and nurse thy fancies in such a spot," said her lover roughly. But his eyes had another tale to tell, and across his brow a deep line of foreboding showed itself.

"Fancies go as soon as thought of, and naught comes of them--but when did I hear Barguest in an idle hour?" she said. "Dear, I am ashamed--but--thou canst not hold me close enough--hark. There's something at the door--a whining, Rolf, and the scrape of paws against the oak----"

"Ay, 'tis Barguest," said Nanny Witherlee, stepping soft across the polished boards and resting one hand on the bier.

"There's naught, save a wet wind sobbing through the firs," growled Wayne of Cranshaw.

"Is there not? What say ye to that, Mistress? Ye an' me know Barguest when we hear him, an' 'tis as I said to th' young Maister awhile back. There's sorrow brewing thick, an' th' Brown Dog hes come to bid ye look to pistol-primings an' th' like. He knaws, poor beast, an' he's scratting at th' door this minute to ease his mind by telling ye."

"Get to bed, Nell," said Wayne of Cranshaw quietly; "when Nanny falls to boggart-talk, and the maid who listens is half mad with sorrow----"

"Tales is tales, Maister Wayne," broke in Nanny, "an' I wod scare no poor less wi' lies at sich a time--but Barguest is more nor a tale, an' I should know, seeing th' years I've bided here at Marsh. I mind th' neet when Mistress Nell's mother war ta'en, ten year agone, it war just th' same--th' Brown Dog came pattering right up to th' door-stun, an'----"

"God rest thee for the daftest fool in Marshcotes," cried Wayne of Cranshaw, as he saw Nell go ashen-grey and all but fall. And then he led the girl out, and helped her to the stair-top.

"There'll be one to watch the bier till dawn?" she asked wearily, as he bade her good-night.

"Trust me to see to that. Never heed old wives' tales, Nell, and keep up heart as best thou canst," he answered, and went down again into the hall.

Nanny was fingering the shroud softly, and scarce glanced up as Wayne approached. "Gooid linen, ivery yard on 't," she muttered, "though I says it as shouldn't. Ay, an' bonnily hemmed a' all. Wayne o' Marsh may lig proud, that he may, an' I war allus sartin sure 'at a man gets a likelier welcome up aboon if he's buried i' gooid linen.--Begow, but his face is none so quiet as I should hev liked to see it; there's summat wick i' th' set on 't, as if he wod right weel like to be up an' cracking Ratcliffe skulls."

"Where is the Master, Nanny?" asked Wayne of Cranshaw, cutting short her musings.

"He war dahnstairs a while back, for I met him as I war coming in here. But mad Mistress Wayne began to call out his name, an' he thinks nowt too mich to do for her nowadays. He'll be gi'eing her another bite an' sup, belike."

"Then who will watch? I was for riding back to Cranshaw, but if there's need of me----"

"Who'll wake? Why, who should wake save Nanny Witherlee? Th' Maister promised I should, for I axed him a while back; so ye needn't fash yourseln about that, Maister."

"Then good-night to thee, Nanny--and--have a care of Mistress Nell, for she is in strange mood to-night. Barguest is well enough for a fireside gossip, nurse, but such talk comes ill when a maid's spirits are low."

Nanny laughed softly, and pointed a lean finger at him as he stood halting near the door. "Ye do weel to mock at Guytrash, Maister, an' ye do weel to give advice to one that's known more sorrow nor ye--but why doan't ye cross th' threshold?"

Wayne of Cranshaw was ashamed to feel the sweat-drops trickling down his face; but he could not kill the fear that brought them there.

"They say a Cranshaw Wayne fears nowt, man nor devil," went on the Sexton's wife--"but there's one thing 'at maks his heart beat like th' clapper of a bell--an' ye dursn't cross what ligs on th' door-stun."

He put his hand on the door and flung it wide; and the incoming wind drove the flames of the death-candles slant-wise toward the further wall. The moonlight lay quiet and empty on the threshold, and overhead the firs were plaining fitfully. "There's naught lies there," said he with a chill laugh, and went to fetch his horse from stable.

But Nanny's eyes were fixed on the door long after Wayne of Cranshaw had pulled it to behind him--long after she had heard his horse trot up the road--and she seemed to see there more than the candle-light sufficed to show.

"Is there aught I can get thee, Nanny, before I wend to bed?" said Shameless Wayne, entering a half-hour later.

"Nowt, an' thank ye. I've getten company, an' they'll keep me wake, I warrant."

"_They_, say'st thou? God's truth, Nanny, but thy eyes are fain of the doorway yonder!"

"Ay, I've getten th' owd Maister, an' I've getten Barguest. Get ye to bed, Maister, for I tell ye there'll be need o' ye to-morn. Ye're ower late as 'tis."

"Mistress Wayne would have me go and sit by her; she could no way sleep, poor bairn, and it seemed to comfort her to have me at the bedside and to hold my hand. She's sleeping now." He bent over the dead, and whispered something; and when he lifted his face it showed deep lines of purpose clean-chiselled in the youthful features. "Good-night, nurse. God rest thee, and all of us," he said, with unwonted piety.

The candles were guttering in their sockets, and Nanny replaced them soon as the lad's foot had ceased to creak on the stair. All were abed now, save Nanny Witherlee--save Nanny, and the rats behind the wainscoting, and something that scraped restlessly at the stout door of oak.

"Why are they feared o' Barguest?" muttered the Sexton's wife. "He niver yet did hurt to a Wayne or ony friends o' th' Waynes; nay, he's that jealous for their safety 'at he can no way bide still when mischief's brewing. Whisht, lad, whisht! Owd Nanny hearkens, an' she'll mind 'at th' Waynes go armed to th' burial to-morn."

It might be twelve o'clock of that night, while Nanny sat still as the body she watched by, that Shameless Wayne, trying to win sleep from a hard pillow, heard a horseman ride up to the hall door. There were three strokes, as of a hammer on a nail, and then, before he had well leaped from bed, a voice came from the moonlight under his window.

"Ride hard to Cranshaw Rigg. There's somebody waits thee there, Wayne the Shameless." It was Nicholas Ratcliffe's voice, hard and thin and high-pitched.

Shameless Wayne snatched a pistol from the bed-head, and flung the casement wide, and saw the Lean Man riding hard up Barguest lane. He took a quick aim and pulled the trigger; but old Nicholas rode on, and the moonlight showed him stark on the hilltop as he turned once for a backward look at Marsh.

"So the hunt is up already," said Shameless Wayne, banging to the casement and getting to bed again. "What has the lean rogue left on the door down yonder?--well, we shall see to-morrow," he muttered presently, turning over on his side. "There's naught gained by losing sleep--if only sleep would come."

But sleep did not come yet awhile, and his thoughts wandered to Janet Ratcliffe--Janet, whom he had met to-day upon the moor--Janet, the daughter of that same Lean Man on whom he had just now turned a pistol-muzzle.

Nanny Witherlee, too, had heard the three taps on the door, and the Lean Man's high-pitched voice. "I know weel enough what he's put on th' door," she said, not stirring from her stool at the bier-foot. "Th' owd feud began i' th' same way, an' I mind to this day how th' Maister, who cars so quiet yonder, looked when he came down i' th' morning an' fund th' token that war left nailed to th' oak." Her eyes lit up on the sudden, and a sombre mirth lengthened the thin line of her mouth. "But one thing Nicholas Ratcliffe didn't know, I warrant--that Barguest war ligged on th' door-stun! He crossed th' Brown Dog as he set nail to door, an' a babby could tell what that spells. Sleep ye quiet, Shameless Wayne, for ye'll turn th' spindle that's to weave th' Lean Man's winding-sheet."

*CHAPTER VII*

*THE LEAN MAN'S TOKEN*

At dawn of the next day Shameless Wayne awoke from a troubled sleep, with Nicholas Ratcliffe's visit fresh in his mind and a drear foreboding at his heart. He could rest no longer, but hurried into his clothes and went down to the shadowy hall, where the candles still burned and the Sexton's wife still watched the dead.

"Didst hear Nicholas Ratcliffe's voice yesternight?" he said, coming close to Nanny's elbow.

"For sure I did."

"And the tapping on the door? What was he at, think'st thou, Nanny?"

"Oppen th' door, Maister, an' ye'll see. But doan't look to find owt bonnie."

She watched him as he pulled down the latch and stepped into the rainy April dawn. The sun was red above Worm's Hill and its light fell straight upon a man's hand fixed to the upper cross-bar of the door. A broken stone, lying beside the lintel, showed how the Lean Man had driven his nail into the wood. Shameless Wayne fell back a pace or two, his eyes on the grisly token, while Nanny hobbled to the door.

"Ay, I guessed as mich," she said, looking once at the hand and thence to the young Master's face. "Twenty year gone by it war th' same, an' I've heard tell that, long afore I war born or thowt on, th' Lean Man's grandfather rade down to Marsh one neet an' fixed a Wayne's hand to th' door. Do ye mind th' tale, Maister? I telled it when ye war no higher nor my knee."

"I had forgotten it, nurse. Yond is the badge of feud, then? So be it. There'll be sword-play, Nanny, soon as father is well laid to rest."

"Afore, I warrant," said Nanny sharply. "Willun't ye hearken to me, lad, when I tell ye that a devil sits snug behind ivery Ratcliffe muzzle?"

"Save Mistress Janet's," muttered the other, absently.

"Oh, th' wind blows that road, does it? I've thowt as mich, time an' time. Maister, I war aye fond o' ye, an' that ye knaw--gi'e no heed to th' lass, for all her bonnie ways. Ye cannot grow taties i' mucky soil, anor father a right sort o' love on a Ratcliffe."

"Hold thy peace, Nanny! who said I cared for Mistress Ratcliffe?"

"Your face, lad, said it. Theer! I've angered ye, an' ye've enough as 'tis to put up wi'.--I war saying, Maister, that ye'll niver bottom th' meanness of a Ratcliffe, as I can do; an' when ye think 'at they'll respect a dead man ony more nor a wick un, ye're sore mista'en."

"Nay, they're an ill lot--but even the Lean Man would scruple to set on mourners at a grave-side."

"Trust an owd head, Maister. Witherlee put a plain question to Red Ratcliffe yestermorn; he axed him fair an' square if they meant to let th' burying go by i' peace; an' he telled by th' look o' th' chap 'at they meant to do no sich thing.--Lad, I'll not axe ye to believe, for ye've getten your father's trick o' thinking th' best of ony mon save yourseln; but I will axe ye to humour an owd body's fancy, and to send as quick as may be to your kin at Hillus, an' Cranshaw to bid 'em buckle their sword on afore they come to Marsh."

"When did Marshcotes ever see armed mourners at a graveside?" he said, eyeing her doubtfully. "'Twill wear a queer look, Nanny, if no attack is made."

"It 'ull wear a queerer, my sakes, if they come an' cut ye all i' little pieces. For owd sake's sake, Maister, promise me ye'll do it. Yond's Simeon stirring at th' back o' th' house; I should know his step by now, for he walks as if one foot war flaired-like to follow t' other. Bid Simeon get hisseln to horseback----"

"I doubt it still, nurse. What if the Lean Man has nailed his token to the door? There's time and to spare, by the Heart, for what will follow."

"Fiddle o' that tale!" cried the Sexton's wife briskly. "If ye choose to lig cold i'stead o' warm, I've ta'en trouble enough wi' ye i' times past, that I hev, to warrant my stepping betwixt ye an' ony sich-like foolishness. An' if ye doan't send Simeon, I'll walk myseln both to Hillus an' to Cranshaw--ay, that I will--Maister, do ye knaw 'at th' Lean Man crossed Barguest last neet as iver war?"

Shameless Wayne shook his head, smiling a little at the old woman's fancy. "How should that be, nurse?" he said.

"Barguest war carred on th' door-stun, fair as if he'd been ony mortal dog; an' while th' Lean Man war agate wi' hammering his nail in, I heard th' hound whimper fit to mak ye cry for pity of him. But Nicholas Ratcliffe niver heard th' poor beast, not he; an' I hugged myseln to think 'at ivery stroke on th' nail-head war a stroke to his own coffin. Ye've getten your chance, Maister, an' I willun't let ye loss it for a lack of a bit o' forethowt."

Insensibly Wayne yielded to the old beliefs; reason might chide him, but he knew in his heart, from that time forward, that he would be even with the Lean Man before the end. What tales had Nanny not told him in childhood, of Barguest and his ways? What musty traditions were not grafted on his growing manhood, of the certain disaster that waited any foeman of the Waynes who crossed the Spectre Hound? Ay, he believed, and his eyes shone clear with the first light of hope that had touched them since he returned two nights ago to the Bull tavern, a sobered and heart-stricken man.

"There's Nell!" cried Wayne on the sudden, pushing Nanny roughly into the house. "For God's sake keep her within-doors, nurse, till I have plucked down yonder trophy."

"Sorrow's a rare un to get folk up betimes; how oft is Mistress Nell astir wi' th' dawn, I wonder?" muttered Nanny, as she returned to the hall, closing the door behind her.

"Good-morrow, nurse," said the girl, crossing the hall and laying her two cold hands in Nanny's. "Art weary, belike, with the long watch?"