SHAMELESS WAYNE (continued 2)

"The road lies straight to Marshcotes," she said, stopping and pointing down the highway.

"Will you not come all the way with me?" pleaded Mistress Wayne, nestling closer to the girl's side.

"I cannot, Mistress. Grandfather may have lacked me as 'tis, and I dare not overstay the dinner-hour, lest he should guess what errand has brought me out of doors."

"No," said the other, simply, "he would not like thee to go gathering red-eyed daisies from the stone— Why, now, I know my way," she broke off, a light of recognition stealing into her empty face. "Yonder is Withens on the hill, and over there is Marshcotes; and there's a field-path, is there not, that takes me out of the high-road down to Marsh—an odd little path, all full of rounded pebbles, that creeps down the hill so craftily because it fears the steepness? Oh, yes, I know the way to Marsh."

"Fare ye well," said Janet, softly, with the tears close behind her voice. "Go home to Marsh, Mistress, and God give you friends there."

She watched the little figure move down the road, stopping here and there to pluck a spray of rusted heather or a half-opened wild flower from the banks on either hand, until the shoulder of the peat-rise hid her. Fierce in hatred or in love was Janet, like all her folk, and her pity for Mistress Wayne had grown already to a sort of hard defiance of those who could wrong so frail a creature.

"'Tis such as Red Ratcliffe who think it sport to mock the weaklings," she said, turning sharp about for Wildwater. "He would be very brave, I doubt, were he to meet yond little body on the moor—had she no men folk with her."

But Red Ratcliffe came too late to cross Mistress Wayne's path, though he was riding out of the Wildwater gates at the moment, bent on seeing to the disposal of the body which lay in the Marshcotes tavern. As Janet was half toward home, he passed her at the gallop, but an ugly smile was all his greeting and he went by without once slackening pace. The girl misliked his silence; it was his way to bluster with her at each new opportunity, and a score of shapeless fears went with her as she hurried back to bear her grandfather company at dinner. What was old Nicholas planning when he had sent her out of hall this morning? Bloodshed and unrest were in the air; the whole wide moor seemed throbbing with an undernote of tumult, and Shameless Wayne had but the one life to lose. But the one life to lose—the thought maddened her. Real danger, danger that stood before her in the road and spoke its purpose plainly, she could meet unflinchingly; but the perils that waited on Wayne's steps were formless and unnumbered. She would not think of them, and to ease her mind she turned again to thoughts of Red Ratcliffe, his mad passion, his cruelty and unruliness.

"Christ, how I hate him—how I hate him!" she cried between set teeth, as she passed through the Wildwater gates.

Red Ratcliffe, meanwhile, was riding hot and fast. His cousin's scorn, of which he had had full measure earlier in the day, flicked him on the raw all down the road to Marshcotes; and his thoughts dwelt less on the brother for whom he was going to order a grave than on the fierce, quick-witted lass whom he had sworn to wed. He was in no good mood, accordingly, when he reached Marshcotes and drew rein at the Sexton's door.

The Sexton's wife, hearing the sound of horse-hoofs on the road without, hobbled to the window and thrust her face between the plants that lined the sill. Her eyes went hard and her mouth turned downward as she saw who was her visitor. She was in no better mood, indeed, than Red Ratcliffe himself; for she had been up betimes after her long ringing of the death-bell, and the hundred-and-one bits of housework she had got through had not been lightened by the discovery of Mistress Wayne's flight. It was no welcome hospitality that she had given to Wayne's faithless wife; but it was hospitality for all that, and it troubled the old woman no little that her guest should have wandered, none knew whither. So tart her mood was, indeed, that the Sexton had long since been driven forth of doors by the goodwife's tongue, and had taken refuge in the graveyard which was working-ground and home in one to the gentle man of dreams.

"Is Witherlee in the house?" cried Ratcliffe, catching sight of Nanny's face between the window-plants.

The little old woman came to the door and stood there, arms akimbo. "He isn't," she answered, looking steadfastly at the horse's ears.

"Then where is he? I must have a word with him before I go back to Wildwater."

"Where is he? Where ony honest man is like to be—following his trade." Nanny misliked all Ratcliffes, and she never troubled to hide her feelings from gentle or simple.

"By the Mass, thou'rt shorter of tongue than any woman I've set eyes on yet. Drop thy fooling, woman, for there has news come to Wildwater which sets a keen edge on my temper."

"Ay, marry? Then try th' edge on me—for I'm reckoned hard, and hev blunted more men's tempers nor ye can count years. Witherlee's i' th' kirkyard, if that's what ye're axing. Mebbe ye've met th' Brown Dog on your way across th' moor, an' he's warned ye to be beforehand, like, wi' ordering your grave?"

Ratcliffe scowled as he turned his horse's head. "Recall now that the Sexton's wife is friendly to the Waynes, and makes a boast of it," he said, glancing sharply at her.

A quick retort came to Nanny's tongue, and she hungered to out with it; but, being a prudent body even where the most unruly of her members was in case, answered quietly, "When gentlefolks come to blows," she said, "sich as me an' Witherlee are quiet, an' tak our pickings, an' if we choose sides at all, we lean toward them as gi'es us th' most butter to our bread."

"Stick to that creed, Nanny," said the other, with a rough laugh over his shoulder. "For 'tis apt to go hard at times with friends of the Waynes, and if we caught thee crossing the scent after the hunt was well up—well, thou hast heard of our kind ways with enemies."

Red Ratcliffe had no sooner disappeared among the graves that stood at the far side of the road, after hitching his horse's bridle to the wicket, than Nanny's neighbour ran in from next door—a big-faced, big-boned woman, who went through life with a keen regard for everybody's business but her own.

"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?"

"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.

Scarce understanding yet, she turned from the bog-side with a sigh that was half-impatient, and crossed to the kirk which was land-mark and trysting-place in one. They counted the square-towered church at Marshcotes old; yet it was young compared with this rounded pile of stones which was sacred to the oldest-born of all religions. Hither the hill-lassies came on Mickaelmas Eve to ask if they would be wedded before the year was out, and to glean from the silent stone an answer prompted of desire; here, too, sweethearts half confessed found wit to tell each other what many a summer's field-walk after milking had failed to render clear, and grown men, who had come in jest, had stayed to wonder at the power the old place had to stir a laggard tongue. This Wynyates Kirk, at which Pagan mothers had once worshipped lustily, seemed still to have its message for the moor folk; and the way of a man with a maid, which it had watched for generations out of mind, showed constantly the same.

The compulsion of the past was strong on Janet, as she stood under shadow of the rounded stone and strained her eyes toward the track which should be leading Shameless Wayne to her. She had lived with the wind for comrade and the voices of the heath for bed-fellows; there had been none to keep her mind from Nature's lesson to its children, and here, with the ghosts of long-dead love vows plaining from the heather that hugged the kirk-stone foot, her heart went out once and for all to Shameless Wayne. The spirit of the place quickened in her, telling her that neither kinship nor any reek of feud could come between herself and Wayne; for love was real up here, while pride of family went fluttering like a thistle-seed down the rude pathway of the wind.

"He's a laggard—a laggard!" she cried. "Ah, if he knew what I am keeping from him——"

She stopped, and the wind grew colder, so it seemed. How if the Lean Man had changed his path? How if he had met Wayne by the way and given him that which would render him a laggard till the Trump of Doom? Again she strained her eyes across the peat, and far down the moor she saw a sturdy, loose-limbed figure stride up toward her.

Nearer and nearer the figure came, and the girl laughed low to herself. Standing with one arm on the stone, she looked down at Shameless Wayne and waited. And many a dark matter came clear to her in that moment, as she marked the lines of trouble in his face; nor could she tell which was the stronger—the shyness that knowledge of her self-surrender brought, or the fierce, protective impulse that bade her fight his troubles for him.

"So you've kept tryst, Janet? I scarce looked for it," he said gravely.

"Is it my wont, Ned, to break tryst?" she answered.

"Nay, but last night has changed all—for you and me."

His coldness jarred on her, after her late eagerness toward him.

"Art chill as this rainy sky, Ned," she said. "Is't because I have looked askance at thee of late that thou giv'st me you for the old thou of friendship?"

"Nay, but because the friendship is frost-nipped, Janet."

She was silent for a while, fighting the maidish battle of pride with tenderness. "That need not be," she said at last. "Was I not like to hold off, Ned, when thou wast so sure of me that thou could'st play the wilding up and down the country-side? So sure of me that, thrice out of four times, a wine-flagon showed more tempting company than I? But thou'rt altered, Ned—I saw it in thy face as thou camest up the moor—and——"

"Hold, lass!" he cried, gripping her arm. "I'll trick no secrets from thee now. Know'st thou I let another fight for me in Marshcotes kirkyard?"

"I heard as much a while back. And what said I to my heart about it, think'st thou?"

"That it matched well with Shameless Wayne."

"That it matched ill with what I would have the man I love to be—Ned, Ned, 'tis I am shameless, for I cannot see thy trouble and keep confession back. It was well enough to flout thee in old days, when thou hadst little need of me—but now—hast never a use for me, dear?"

The world had rolled back from Janet. Her folk were straw in the balance, the brewing quarrel was naught. They were alone, Shameless Wayne and she, with only the quiet, far-reaching moor to watch them; and love was a greater thing by far to her woman's eyes, than any hate of feud could be. Wayne reeled for a moment under a like impulse: he had come here to say farewell to Janet, expecting a little sorrow from her and no more, and she had met him with every tender wildness, of voice and eyes and roundly-moving bosom, that ever set a lad's hot pulses beating. Life was to be an uphill fight henceforth for Shameless Wayne; but here by the kirk-stone, with the peewits shrilling overhead and the low wind whistling in the heather, he was facing the hardest fight of all. Slowly the colour deepened in the girl's face as the moments passed, and still he made no answer and a touch of anger was in her shame, as she sought vainly for the meaning of his mood.

"Lass, why could'st not hold it back? Why could'st not?" he cried hoarsely. "Listen, Janet, there has that chanced at Marsh since yestermorn which has set the Pit of Hell 'twixt thee and me."

"What chanced at Marsh was none of thy doing, nor of mine," she broke in, and would have said more, but the look of Wayne's face, with the tragic lines set deep about his brow and under his eyes, daunted her.

"One of thy folk killed my father in cold blood," he went on, after a silence, "and in hot blood I swore never to ease my fingers of the sword-hilt until the reckoning was paid. Can we lie soft in wedlock, girl, when every dawn will rouse me to the feud? Can we lock arms and kiss, when slain men come from their graves to curse the treachery?"

"Thou art thou, Ned, and I am I. Can kinship alter that?"

"Ay, can it," he cried bitterly, for her stubbornness angered him when he looked for help from her at this hottest of the fight. "The one part of me is sick for thee, Mistress Janet, while the other loathes thee—ay, loathes thee—because thou art a Ratcliffe.—There, child, forgive me! 'Tis no fault of thine, God knows, and my tongue slips into unmeant cruelties——"

She turned her back on him and leaned her forehead against the stone that had brought many a maid to her undoing or her happiness. Back and forth went her thought; she would not acknowledge how real his struggle was, but told herself that he had flouted her for sake of an idle fancy, that she could never win back what she had given him just now. She looked up at last, and glanced at Shameless Wayne.

"Hast not left me yet?" she said. "'Tis scarce seemly, is't, to pry upon my shame?"

Anger he could have met, but not this tearless sorrow. If Janet could cast kinship to the winds, was he to show himself a laggard? He sprang toward her; and she, seeing his sternness gone, waited and held her breath, not knowing what she feared or what she hoped. And then he stopped, suddenly, as if a hand had clutched at him to hold him back; and without a word he turned and left her.

She watched him go, her arms clasped tight about the stone; and for awhile her heart went empty of all feeling. So quiet the moor was that she could hear the rustle of an eagle, sweeping far overhead toward Conie Crag Ravine, with a lamb in its talons plucked from some outlying upland field. A moor-fowl splashed through the reeds that fringed the marsh to left of her. The peewits wheeled everlastingly in dropping circles, showing white breasts to the sunlight at every backward turn. There was a vague, wandering sound that threaded through all the others—the gnome-like cries and gurgles of water running underground through straitened channels.

She thought of the frail figure which she had lately seen go up the brink-fields, and she asked herself, was she less lonely than mad-witted Mistress Wayne? A storm of passionate self-pity swept over her at the thought; and after that the calm of hopelessness.

Slowly as her passion waned, the girl understood that there was more than an idle lad's caprice underlying all that Shameless Wayne had said. It was no lover's quarrel, this, to be righted at the next tryst. Her folk were the aggressors in this new-born feud; but they were still her folk, and feelings that she scarce realised as yet could cloud her love, she knew, as already they had clouded Wayne's. She glanced at the kirk-stone again and shivered; it had spoken her false when it bade her count all things less than love, and the folk who had whispered soft secrets here—man to maid, and maid to man—were they not dead and buried long since, and their love along with them?

Her pride weakened, too, and she remembered that she had come here to warn Ned of the danger with which the Lean Man's malice threatened him. Full of pity for herself she had been; but now the pity was all his, as she looked down the winding sheep-track, and told herself that though he humbled her afresh, she would seek speech of him once more and tell him of the Lean Man's purpose. But Wayne was already out of sight and hearing, and she knew that to follow him was useless.

Scarce knowing where she went, she set off wearily across the heath. The moor's harshness was friendly to her mood, and she wandered on and on until, by the time she reached the Wildwater gates again, the sun was sinking into gloaming mist.

Her grandfather was standing by the well-spring in the courtyard as she entered. His back was toward her, and he failed to mark her light step on the flagstones. A vague foreboding seized the girl; creeping closer, she saw the Lean Man stoop to rinse his hands in the clear stream, and a low cry escaped her as she saw that the water reddened as it ran between his fingers.

Nicholas swung round with a frown, and clapped a hand to the breast of his tightly-buttoned coat.

"What art doing here, lass?" he said roughly.

"I—I have been walking——"

"What, so soon after I bade thee keep so close to home?" said Nicholas, wiping his hands furtively on the lappel of his coat.

She answered nothing for awhile. Then, "How went the hunting?" she asked, with a sudden glance at him.

"Bonnily. I've brought home better flesh, Janet, than Wildwater has seen this score years."

Her forboding took clear shape. Had he met Shameless Wayne on his way home from the kirk-stone? What was it that the Lean Man guarded so carefully at his breast? At all costs she must learn if Ned were safe.

"Where did you kill the quarry?" she whispered, and longed to take back the question for fear of the answer she might get.

"Where? Why, on Cranshaw Rigg—'tis on the Long Wayne's land, thou'lt call to mind," chuckled the Lean Man.

"Then—then 'twas not Wayne of Marsh?"

He glanced at her curiously; but it was plain that he shared none of Red Ratcliffe's suspicion touching her tenderness for Wayne.

"Nay, it was not Wayne of Marsh—for the reason that, seek as I would, I could not find the lad," he answered, as he turned to go indoors.

"'Tis not Ned after all," murmured Janet. "Thank God he kept the tryst with me."

CHAPTER VI

THE BROWN DOG'S STEP

Marsh House lay lower than Wildwater, and it had a softer look with it, though built much after the same pattern so far as roominess and stout building went. The trees grew big about it and a pleasant orchard ran from the garden to the chattering stream; yet was it ghostly, in a quiet fashion of its own, and not all its trees and sheltered garden-nooks could rob it of a certain eeriness, scarce felt but not to be gainsaid. On either hand the gateway two balls of stone had lately topped the uprights; but one of these had fallen and lay unheeded in the courtyard—a quiet and moss-grown mourner, so it seemed, for the lost pride of the Waynes of Marsh. Behind the house, leading up to the sloping shoulder of the moor, ran a narrow, grass-grown way, scarce wide enough to let a horseman through and lined on either hand by grassy banks and lichened walls of sandstone; they called it Barguest lane, and the Spectre Hound who was at once the terror of the moorside and the guardian spirit of the Waynes, was said to roam up and down between the moor and Marsh House whenever trouble was blowing in the wind.

And true it was that at certain times—oftenest when the air was still, and dusk of late evening or dark of night brooded quiet over house and garden—a wild music would sweep down the lane, not crisp and sharp-defined, but softened like the echo of a hound's baying far away. The hardier folk were wont to laugh at Barguest, with a backward turn of the head to make sure he was not close behind them, and these vowed that the Brown Dog of Marsh was no more than the voice of the stream which ran in a straitened channel underneath the road; water had strange tricks of mimicry, they said, when it swept through hollow places, and the deep elfin note that haunted Barguest lane was own brother to many a bubbling cry and groan that they had hearkened to amongst the stream-ways of the moor. And this son of talk was well enough when treacle posset was simmering on some tap-room hearth; but abroad, and especially if gloaming-tide surprised them within hail of old Marsh House, they found no logic apt enough to meet their terror of the Spectre Hound. As for the Waynes, there were some among them who pretended to disclaim their guardian Dog; yet there was not one who would oust tradition from his veins—not one who failed to loosen his sword-blade in the scabbard if any told him that Barguest had lately given tongue.

The spirit of the homestead was strong on Shameless Wayne to-night, as he sat alone in the hall, watching the dead and thinking his own remorseful thoughts. All that was left of his father rested, gaunt and still, on the bier in the centre of the hall, where it was laid out in state with candles burning low at head and feet. Mistress Nell and the serving-wenches were all in the back part of the house; the lads had not returned from hawking in the lowland pastures; the last of the day's visitors had bidden the corpse farewell and had gone home again, leaving the new master of Marsh House to watch the closed eyes of his forerunner.

A ray of fading sunlight crept across the hall and rested on the dead man's face, which showed white as the cere-cloth that bound his jaws.

"Father, father!" he cried, laying one hand on the waxen cheek. "Do you know what chanced yesternight? Do you know that I, who should have carried the quarrel, sat drinking your honour and my own away?—God, I could see each Wayne of them all look askance at me to-day, as they came and stood beside you here. And each man was saying to himself, 'There is none of the old breed left at Marsh.' They were right, father—and sometimes, when the candle-shadows play about your face, I seem to see you laughing at thought of Shameless Wayne—laughing to know him for your son."

The sunlight moved from the bier, and up the oak-panelled walls and backward along the ceiling-beams until it vanished outright. Dusk came filtering through the lattices. A low stir of bees sounded from the garden, where corydalis and white arabis had newly opened to the spring. And still Wayne sat on, listening to the thousand voiceless rumours that creep up and down an empty house.

"I cannot wipe out the stain, father," he went on, in a quieter voice; "but I will do all that is left to me—I'll pluck Janet out of my heart—and there shall none say, for all my shamelessness, that I let the land go backward, though in old days you'll remember there was no love spilt 'twixt me and farming matters. But the Wayne lands were always better-tilled than any in the moorside, and 'twould hurt you, father, if I let them grow foul and poor of crop.—Yet, for all that, 'tis easier to swear to hunt out every Ratcliffe from this to Lancashire," he added, with a whimsical straightforwardness which showed that a sense of fellowship with the dead had come to him through long watching by the bier.

And then he let his thoughts drift idly and was near to falling into a doze when he was called to his feet by a tapping at the window. He crossed the floor and the light scarce sufficed to show him his step-mother's face pressed close against the glass.

"Open to me, Ned, open to me," she was crying.

He went to the narrow door that led into the garden and opened it; and Mistress Wayne clung tight to him while he took her to the hearth—keeping her fast in talk the while, lest she should see what lay in the middle of the hall.

"You are cold, little bairn," he said, using the same half-tender, half-scornful name he had given her at the vault-stone yesternight.

"Yes, cold and weary, Ned—so weary! All night I wandered up and down the moor, seeking somebody—but I never found him—and the wind came, and the rain—and all about the moor were prying eyes—and strange birds called out of the darkness, and strange beasts answered them——"

"Well, never heed them. Haply 'twas Shameless Wayne you sought, and he will see that none does you hurt."

She put her face close to his and looked at him fixedly in the deepening gloom. A shaft of flame struck out at her from the hearth and showed a would-be alertness in the babyish eyes. "Yes, yes," she whispered. "I thought it was a lover I was seeking, a lover who had strong arms and tender words—but I was wrong—'twas thee I sought, Ned, all through the weary night—and I want nothing now that I have found thee—and—Ned, wilt keep the ghosties off?"

"Every one, little bairn.—Now, see how stained your gown is with—with rain. I shall not love you at all if you do not run and change it before you come with me to supper."

"Not love me!" she repeated, with a look of doubt.—"Why, then, I'll change my gown thrice every day, because you are kind to me. No one else is kind to me, Ned. The wind buffets me, and rude men turn me forth of doors whenever I cross a threshold—save Sexton Witherlee, who was wondrous kind to me last night. All afternoon, Ned, I wandered about Marsh before I dared come in—I feared you would scowl at me, like the redmen of Wildwater." She turned, and in a moment she was clapping her hands for glee. "Look, look, Ned! Pretty candles—see'st thou how the shadows go playing hide-and-find-me up the walls?"

"They're bad shadows; have naught to do with them," said Shameless Wayne, turning her face to the hearth again and wondering to find what care he had for this frail woman's malady.

But she slipped from his hands, and ran forward to the bier, and was reaching out for one of the candles when its light showed her the pale face of Wayne of Marsh. The sight did not frighten her at all; but she stood mute and still, as if she were trying to understand in dim fashion that once this man had been her husband.

"Would he answer if I spoke to him? No, I think he would not; he looks too stern," Wayne heard her murmur. "I've seen that face—in dreams, long, long ago, it must have been. Perhaps he was my lover—strange that I should seek him all about the moor, when he was lying so quietly here."

"Come away, little bairn. He has no word for you," said her step-son, wearily.

Mistress Wayne halted a moment, then stooped and kissed the dead man's lips. And then she laughed daintily and rubbed her mouth with one forefinger. "Why does he not care!" she lisped. "His lips are cold as a beggar's welcome, Ned—we'll none of him, will we, thou and I?"

The door behind them opened and Nell Wayne came slowly across the floor until she stood within arm's reach of her step-mother. Scorn was in the girl's face, and a hatred not to be appeased.

"What brings this woman here?" she asked.

Mistress Wayne crept close to her protector. "All are cruel except thou, Ned. Keep her from me—she will turn me out into the cold again."

"Ay, Mistress—to starve of cold and want, if I had my way," said Nell.

Shameless Wayne put one arm about the pleading woman and turned upon his sister hotly. "Canst not see how it is with her?" he cried. "They say that men are hard, but God knows ye women make us seem soft-hearted by the contrast."

"The dead cannot speak, or father yonder would up and cry shame on her," the girl answered, covering the pair of them with a disdainful glance.

"Nay, thou'rt wronging him. Had she been whole of mind, he might have done—but 'twas never father's way to double any blow that fell upon a woman."

"She shall not stay here! 'Tis pollution," cried Nell.

"And I say the poor bairn shall bide here so long as she lacks a home; and I am master here, not thou."

His sister stared open-eyed at him. Since last night he had been contrite to the verge of womanishness; but now he showed a sterner glimpse of the Wayne temper than she had looked for in him. She felt wronged and baffled, and for her life could not keep back the stinging answer.

"Ay, thou art master," she said slowly, "and thou beginnest well—first to let another fight for thee, and then to welcome the betrayer with open arms. Small wonder that they call thee Shameless Wayne."

For a breathing-space she thought he would have struck her. But this lad, who until yesterday had never seen need to check his lightest whim, was learning a hard lesson well. He struggled with his pride awhile, and crushed it; and when he spoke his voice was quiet and sad.

"Nell," he said, "'tis no fit place for brawling, and thou art right in what thou say'st of me. But Mistress Wayne shall bide, and not if all our kin cry out on me, will I go back on what I promised."

"I am cold again, and very hungry. Send yond girl away," wailed the little woman.

"Does naught soften thee, lass?" said Wayne, glancing from his sister to the shrinking figure that held so closely fast to him.

"Naught," Nell answered, hard and cold. "The years will pass, and sorrows age, may be—but I shall never lose my hate of her."

"Yet think," he went on patiently. "She cleaves to me, Nell, and thou know'st how the fairy-kist bring luck to those they favour. 'Tis a good omen for the long fight that's coming."

"If pity does not move me, will a country proverb, think'st thou? Have thy way, Ned, since there's none to stay thee—but at the least take thy new friend from the death-room. Thou'lt see father turn and writhe if she stay longer by him, and 'tis my turn to watch the bier."

"Let's begone, little bairn. Haply thou'lt know here to find thy wearing-stuff if I take thee to the old room above," said Shameless Wayne, leading his step-mother to the door.

But Nell was fevered, and would not brook such prompt obedience to her wish. "Where are the lads?" she asked. "Frolicking, belike, when sober sitting within-doors would better have fitted the occasion."

Shameless Wayne turned on the threshold. "I sent them hawking," he answered, the new firmness gaining in his voice. "There's one claim of the dead, lass, and another of the living; and 'tis better they should brace their muscle for the days to come than sit moping over what is past."

"He grows masterful already. The shame has slipped clean off from him," murmured Nell, as she took a pair of snuffers from the mantel and trimmed the death-candles.

Yet Ned had not killed his shame. He was but battling with it, and the effort to show something like a man, in his own eyes at least, rendered his mood at once strangely tender and strangely savage. But he could find naught save tenderness for Mistress Wayne, as they climbed the wide stairway hand-in-hand and went in at the door of what had been his father's bed-chamber—his father's and that of the little woman by his side. She was no longer an unfaithful wife; she was a child, bewildered in the midst of enemies, and she had no friend but him.

Mistress Wayne stood in the middle of the room, fearful a little and asking a mute question of her step-son.

"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."