SHAMELESS WAYNE (continued 3)

"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?"

The Sexton's wife looked at Nell's white face and red-rimmed eyes, and she could find no heart to answer; she just took the lass in her arms, and kissed her, and comforted her with such little wordless tendernesses as she had used when Nell had been frightened as a bairn.

While they stood thus, still with no speech between them, a horse pulled up at the door, and they could hear the rider's voice strike, deadened a little but clear, through the stout oaken planks.

"The feud is up, lad! When I rode home last night they had slain one of my folk on Cranshaw Rigg."

"Ay, and the body lacked"—came the voice of Shameless Wayne.

"God's pity! Wrench it down. 'Tis my brother's hand, Ned," broke in the first speaker.

"What is't?" cried Nell, freeing herself from Nanny's arms and turning sharply. "That was Rolf's voice—and Ned is with him—what are they doing, nurse?"

"Niver heed 'em, bairn—they're nobbut——"

"Ay, but thou canst not blind me, Nanny! I know! I dreamed of it the night through—'tis the old token father told me of so oft—'tis a Wayne's hand, nurse! Did I not tell thee Barguest went pad-footed down the lane beside me?"

"Now, whisht ye, mistress! Your sweetheart's safe, as ye can hear, an' he'll be in by an' by—he's coming now, an' ye'll noan want me, dearie, when he's by to comfort ye. I'll waken th' wenches, an' then I mun lig me down awhile, for there's a lot needs seeing to this day."

Nell stood there idly until the old woman's steps were lost among the restless echoes of the house. On a sudden the main door was thrown open, and Shameless Wayne came in alone.

"Why did not Rolf stay?" asked Nell.

"Because I gave him a message for his folk at Cranshaw. Nay, I cannot tell thee what it was; 'twould only scare thee. —Come, Nell! I, too, have to get to saddle, and I fear to leave thee with such misery in thy face. Where are the lads?"

"Abed yet—wearied with their hunting."

"They must not come to the kirkyard. Bid them keep close to home till we return."

"But, Ned, why should they keep away?" the girl began.

He stopped her, with the quiet, forceful air that she was learning to obey. "Because I bid them," he said, and kissed her lightly on the cheek, and went out to the stables.

Nell crossed to the bier, where her father lay heedless of the storm and fret that his death had brought to old Marsh House. She sat her down, and put her face between her hands, and let her thoughts go drifting down the pathway of the years. From time to time the maids came in and busied themselves with setting out the table for the feast that would follow the old master's burial in a few hours' time; but the master's daughter seemed to heed them as little as himself. She thought of her brother, wondering at the change in him, yet doubting that the old wildness would return soon as the first keen smart of shame was softened; she thought of Mistress Wayne, who was a guest here in the house which she had dishonoured in all men's eyes; and then again she remembered what had chanced in Marshcotes kirkyard, and told herself that surely a twelvemonth had hurried by since she went up to the belfry-tower with a knife close hidden under her cloak.

Not two days ago she had watched the life ebb fast and red from the wound in her father's back, while his murderer looked on and laughed; and now he was ready for the grave; and in between there had seemed no rest from the hurry of events. Dick Ratcliffe had paid his price; one of the Cranshaw Waynes had fallen at the Lean Man's hand; the old feud-token had been nailed over the Marsh doorway; and under all the present misery—the grief and fret and long-drawn-out restlessness that wait on burial—was the overshadowing sense of tragedy to come. To-day they would lay their dead to rest; and then the smouldering embers of the feud would leap to flame; and after that no man nor woman of them all could count a day safe won through till it was done, and men's lives and women's honour would be no more than straws upon the fast-racing stream of chance.

All this went back and forth in the girl's mind, and the feud took on a hundred different shapes each time she thought of it. It was the feud she had heard of since earliest childhood, the feud whose memory was grafted in by many a far-back legend and nearer tale of fight. Often and often in the happier years she had wondered, as a girl will, how the way of it would be if the quarrel broke out afresh: there had been deeds of high courage and glamour of sword-thrust to make her almost love the feud and count it noble; but now that it was on them, now that it hugged the very threshold, naked, terrible and brutish, she understood the reality and lost her dream-visions of the splendour and the majesty of fight. Fight meant gaping wounds, and blood upon the floor, and men going into the shadowy places when they were at the topmost of their strength. God knew that, if the choice were hers, she would cry peace once and for all and let the dead past rest.

Yet her mood changed like the gusty wind that whistled now and then across the chimney-stacks. No sooner had she let that eager prayer for peace escape her, than her hands clenched themselves, and her eyes brightened, and the old vengeance-cry of her people rose hot to her lips. Let bloodshed come, and slaughter—and she would take new heart as one by one the Ratcliffes fell. Never in all the years that they had been together had the likeness between the dead man and his daughter shown more plain than now, as she laid her hand on his and counted his wrongs afresh. The pride of her race, its pitiless sternness when wronged, seemed gathered from the long-dead generations who had fought the Wayne and Ratcliffe fight aforetime; and the hate of the fathers woke again to splendour and to savagery in the slender-supple body of this last daughter of the line.

She could sit still no longer, but got to her feet and crossed to the garden-door. The house-air stifled her; men fought under the open sky, and for that cause there was friendship in wind and sun and drifting clouds. Something like a prayer—a masterful prayer, and a bitter—rose to the girl's lips as she stood and felt the keen wind in her face.

"Keep warm my hate, Lord God!" she cried.

A light footstep sounded from the hall behind her. She turned and saw little Mistress Wayne bending over her father's body, with the same questioning, roguish air that she had worn last night.

"Wake, wake!" Mistress Wayne was lisping in the dead man's ear. "'Tis my wedding-morn, I tell thee, and all at Marsh must come to see it."

Not touched at all was Nell by the piteousness of the scene. She remembered only what this woman had done, and forgot how hard a penance she was undergoing.

"Get ye gone," she said, clutching her step-mother fiercely by the arm. "Is't not enough that you have killed him, but you must mock him after death?"

Mistress Wayne shrank backward from her touch. "I did but try to wake him, Nell. He would be angered if he missed my bridal-morn."

Nell made no answer, but turned her back on the little woman; and Mistress Wayne crept, softly as she had come, out of the chamber whose guest perplexed her so.

"Her bridal-morn!" cried Nell, as though her father could hear that she was speaking to him. "Is it for malice that she gowns herself in white on such a day, and prates of weddings? Father, why didst go to the Low Country for a wife? She has brought disaster on disaster since the first day she set foot in Marsh."

A new thought came to her, adding its own load to the burden that was already over-heavy for her. Would Ned win free of his passion for Janet Ratcliffe, or would his marriage, too, be ill-fated as his father's? To wed from the Low Country was folly, but marriage between a Ratcliffe and a Wayne would be a crime on which the country-side would up and cry out shame.

And then, in a moment, all the girl's fierceness, her resolution and tearless pride, were lost. God had made her a woman, and like a woman she fell prone across the bier, and wept, and thought neither of vengeance nor of hatred, but of the love that had grown through twenty years of comradeship between the dead man and herself. It was not her father's strength, his sweeping recklessness in fight, that she remembered now; but she recalled his gentleness toward her, his clean and upright courtesy, his generosity to rich and poor among his neighbours.

Marsh House was full of the unrest that goes before a burial, the fruitless wandering to-and-fro which seems to ease the sorrow of the living. The menservants were idling in the courtyard with a subdued sort of noisiness; the maids were still passing and re-passing from the kitchen; and Nanny Witherlee, unable to snatch more than the briefest spell of sleep, came hobbling by and by into the hall.

The old woman stopped on seeing Nell stretched across the bier, and half advanced toward her; then shook her head. "I'll let her be; happen 'twill be best for her to cry her een out," she muttered, and turned down the passage to the kitchen.

Nanny showed different altogether this morning from the quivering, ghost-ridden watcher who had kept so long a vigil with only the dead and strange voices in the wind for company. Then there had been no work to be done, no household cares to rouse the old instincts in her; but now that preparations for the burial feast were going busily forward she slipped naturally into the place which had been hers at Marsh aforetime. Brisk as though she had had a full night's sleep, she fell to doing this and that, rating the maids the while with a keenness that robbed the day of half its sadness for her.

"Now then, ye idle wenches!" she cried, soon as she had crossed the kitchen threshold. "Do ye think gaping at a mutton-pasty 'ull mak it walk to th' dining board? Martha, tha'rt allus mooning ower thy work like a goose wi' a nicked head. An' look at Mary yonder! Standing arms under apron when th' house 'ull soon be full o' hungry folk. An' th' Waynes allus had good appetites, sorrow or no sorrow."

Nanny was setting parsley-sprigs round a dish of neat's tongue all this time; and when this was done she climbed onto the settle and reached down piece after piece of haver-bread that was drying on the creel. The same instinct that had bidden her test the quality of Wayne's winding sheet, while yet she was deep in sorrow for him, was with her now, and her mind was set on leaving no unremembered detail, of wine or meat or ripe October ale, to mar the burial-feast.

"It's weel to do nowt, same as some folk!" she cried, stopping to glance sourly at the progress of the maids. "I don't know what wenches are made on nowadays, that I don't."

"Do nowt, my sakes! When my knees is dibble-double-ways wi' weariness," cried Martha.

"Hoity-toity! I've done as mich before breakfast ivery day o' th' week when I war a lass.—Mary, wilt gi'e me a hand wi' this cheese, or mun I let it fall to th' floor-stuns?"

The maids, run off their feet already, without any help from outside, grew wild with the natter-natter of the Sexton's wife; but awe of her kept any but the briefest snaps of anger from their tongues, and it was a relief to both when the door opened slowly and they saw Hiram Hey standing on the threshold. Clean-shaven and spruce of body was Hiram, and a certain melancholy drooping of the mouth-corners could not quench his sober gaiety of mien.

"'Tis a sad day, this, for us at Marsh," he said, thrusting his head forward and sniffing the air with unctuous wonder that the women could think of victuals at all at such a time.

Nanny turned quickly. "It willun't be ony brighter for thy coming, Hiram Hey. We want no men-folk here," she cried.

The maids looked from Nanny to the farm-man, and then at each other. There was a stiff breeze always when these two met, and Nanny was apt to find her match at such times.

"Well, now, are ye winning forrard-like?" said Hiram, leaning against the doorway in his idlest attitude.

"Ay, an' no thanks to thee," snapped the Sexton's wife.

"It beats me to know how folk can eat an' drink, an' drink an' eat, when there's a burying. It seems a mockery o' th' dead, that it does—as mich as to say, 'See what it is to be wick, lad; tha'll niver put victuals down thy throat again, same as I'm doing now.' Ay, I've oft thowt it's enough to mak a corpse turn round an' scowl at ye."

"I've seen thee at a burying, Hiram," said the Sexton's wife, quietly, "an' tha can do thy share, I've noticed. It's all talk, an' nowt but, wi' sich as ye. Tha cannot see we're thrang, mebbe?"

His only answer was to shift his shoulder to a more easiful position against the doorway, and Nanny left him to it. At another time she would have had a sharper tongue for Hiram Hey, nor would his own responses have lacked their sting; but the old Master's influence had never been so strong as it was now, and a sense of seemliness—a fear, perhaps, of waking the last sleep of him who lay so near to them—held even the rough tongues of these upland folk in check.

Hiram glanced at Martha, soon as the little old woman had hobbled out to lay fresh dishes in the hall; and Martha answered his glance in a way that showed there was an understanding between them—as indeed there was like to be, seeing that Hiram Hey had been wooing her off and on these two years past.

"Hast been to th' fields this morn?" asked Martha.

"Ay, iver sin' th' sun war up, lass."

"Tha'll be dry, then, Hiram, at after thy morning's work."

"Dry, now? Well, I wodn't say just dry—but that way on a bit. I niver war a drinker myseln, as I telled shepherd Jose nobbut yesterday; but there's a time for iverything, an' if I war to see a quart, say, of October frothing ower th' lip o' th' mug——"

"Tha'd find a mouth to fit it? Well, an' shall, says I," cried Martha.

Hiram stretched his limbs more lengthily before the peats, as a soothing gurgle from the pantry told him that Martha was already filling him a measure. She was back again by and by, with a brim-full pewter in her hands.

"Drink, lad Hiram; what wi' work an' sadness, there's need for strong liquor here at Marsh," she said.

The firelight struck with a ruddy, softened sheen on the pewter as Hiram lifted it. He drank slowly, and his face was full of unwonted cheerfulness until he had set down the empty mug beside him.

"Theer! It war gooid, Martha," he murmured sorrowfully, "but I doubt there's nowt mich in it when all's said. Drink is all varry weel, but there's one ower i' th' hall yonder who'll niver warm to liquor again this side o' Judgment. Nay, I'm fair shamed o' myseln to be supping ale while th' owd Maister ligs so cold."

He stopped and eyed the empty pewter; and Martha, reaching across the settle-back, picked up the mug again.

"Tha's getten too soft a heart, Hiram," she said. "Sup while ye can, an' mak th' most on't."

"Nay, nay, I'm no drinker. Plain watter is nigh th' same to me as ale, an' there's no call for thee to fill afresh—leastways, I wodn't say a full quart, tha knows."

But Martha was back again before he had well finished with his protests. "Get done wi' 't, Hiram, afore Nanny comes back," she whispered. "She carries an ill tongue, does Nanny, when she finds life going too easy wi' a body."

"There's queer things bahn to happen," said Hiram presently.

"By th' Heart, I thowt there'd been queer happenings enough of late!"

"The shepherds telled me this morn that th' Ratcliffes is all a-buzz, an' folk are shaking their heads all up an' dahn th' moorsides. Besides, th' owd house here fair rustles, like, as I've known it do afore when trouble war i' store. I tell thee, I can hear th' boggarts creeping wick as scropels fro' roof to cellar."

"Hod thy whisht—do, now, for goodness sake. Tha flairs me," cried Martha, glancing behind her. And then she clutched the farm-man by the arm with sudden terror. "Look yonder, Hiram! Look yonder!" she cried.

Hiram looked and started to his feet. "Begow, I thowt 'twar a right boggart this time," he muttered. "What ails th' little body to move so quiet about a house?"

Mistress Wayne, dressed all in white, with celandines at her breast and fair hair rippling to her waist, had come in from the garden and stood at the open kitchen-door; and she was smiling, carelessly and trustfully, on the frightened maids and on old Hiram.

"'Tis my wedding-morn," she said, "and I've been to talk with the fairies, Martha. They say 'tis well to get the wee folks' blessing for the bairns to come."

Hiram gave her a long glance, then looked away; and an unwonted pity stirred him. "Nay, I've no sorrow to waste. She's made herself a nettle-bed, an' she mun lig on't," he muttered.

"Come in, Mistress, come in, an' warm yourseln a bit; ye're looking cold and wan, like," cried Martha, recovering from her fright.

"Oh, no, that is not true. I peeped at myself in the well out there just now, and I thought that I had never seen a happier face. Hiram, thou must come to my wedding, too; wilt thou?"

"Ay, Mistress—ay, I'll come, choose what."

She smiled again, and waved her hand, and slipped away into the sunshine that shimmered over the wet flagstones of the yard. And neither Martha nor the farm-men found aught to say to one another for awhile.

"What dost mak of it?" said Hiram Hey at last.

"Nay, I can mak nowt of it. But 'tis a drear start for a burial. Hiram, lad, Marsh is no healthy place just now, an' I for one could wish to be weel out on't. It isn't th' blood-shed I fear, an' it isn't th' dead man yonder—but it's th' ghosts! Tha'rt right when tha says they fair creep fro' floor to garret."

A thought crossed Hiram's mind—no new thought, either, but one that showed livelier than its wont now Martha was in such trouble.

"Tha'd be fain to change dwellings, like?" he ventured, putting a hand on her shoulder and half drawing her toward him.

Martha yielded to his touch, and a puzzled look came over Hiram's face; he had pondered over this last step for four-and-twenty months, and needed a twelvemonth longer in which to make sure of its wisdom. His doubts were settled, however, by the intrusion of the Sexton's wife, who stopped on seeing what was afoot and glanced from Hiram to the empty mug.

"So that's what's browt thee here, Hiram Hey?" she cried. "Tha'rt a bonnie un to come talking o' what's seemly i' a house o' death! First, to drink thyseln dizzy-crazy, an' then to go prettying wi' a wench that mud weel by thy own grandchild. Nay, I've no patience wi' thee; tha'rt owd enough to be thinking o' thy own latter end i'stead o' fly-by-skying wi' lasses, an'——"

Hiram for once could find no answer, but stood ruffling the frill of hair under his clean-shaven chin and shifting his feet from side to side.

"I have talked with my cousin, Nanny," came the Master's voice from the door.

Nanny turned and saw Shameless Wayne standing there, pale and quiet, with the straight downward rent between his brows which seemed to have been fixed there two nights ago for good and all.

"About th' burying, Maister?" she queried eagerly.

"Aye. We are to go armed; the word has been sent round."

"Now God be praised! Ye're wise to list to what Barguest hes to tell," said the Sexton's wife, and forgot to rate the maids, forgot the fifty little household cares that claimed attention.

CHAPTER VIII

A STORMY BURIAL

The Wayne vault lay open to the April sky, and throstles were singing in the stunted trees, as Sexton Witherlee, infirm of step and dreamy of eye, moved softly over the graveyard stones. He stopped when he reached the vault, set down the ladder he was carrying and stood looking at the clean-swept room below.

"'Tis a sweet place, a vault, to my thinking," he muttered. "So trim and peaceable the folk lie, each on his appointed shelf, with never a wrong word betwixt 'em th' twelvemonth through. Ay, 'tis quiet ligging, an' th' storms pass overhead, an' ivery now an' again there's what ye mud call a stir among 'em when a new shelf is filled an' a new neighbour earned. Well, I've seen life a bittock, but I wod swop beds wi' ony o' these, that I wod."

A robin came and perched on the top rung of the ladder, and eyed Sexton Witherlee sideways with a friendliness which long following after the spade had bred.

"What, laddie, dost think I'm delving?" said the Sexton, chuckling feebly. "Nay, there's to be a better burying this morn nor raw earth gives a man. 'Tis bricks an' mortar, robin, an' a leaded coffin for sich as Wayne o' Marsh.—Well, then, bide a bit till I've straightened all up down here, an' then I'll scrat thee up a worm or two for thy dinner."

He reached down one stiffened leg, twisted the ladder from side to side to make sure that it was safe, and began his slow descent into the vault. He passed his hand lightly over the stone doors that hid the shelves—lightly, and as if he loved each separate entry in this Book of Death. And all the while he talked to himself, soft and slow.

"There's old Tom Wayne put to bed there—he war a rum 'un an' proper, they say, though he war dead a hundred year afore my time—an' yond's Ralph Wayne's spot—well, he lived hot an' he lived fast, did Ralph Wayne, an' he died at two-score, an' so saved a mort o' sweating an' unthankfulness. An' now there's th' Maister come to join 'em; I mind burying his wife ten years agone—ten years!—an' him to hev lived wi' all his troubles until now. It 'ull by my turn next, I'm thinking—th' young 'uns come an' they go, an' it doan't hold to reason that Sexton Witherlee should be spared to bury 'em for iver."

A broom stood in one corner of the vault, fashioned of heather-fagots bound to a stout handle of ash. Witherlee took the broom in his hands, and began to sweep up the rubble that lay about the floor.

"Moiling an' toiling, that's all a man addles by keeping th' life quick i' him. I'm faired shamed o' living when I come among so many decent, quiet bodies—ay, fair shamed," murmured the Sexton, and rested on his broom, and looked up to find a broad face and a sturdy pair of shoulders hanging over the edge of the vault.

"How's trade, Sexton?" said the newcomer.

"Brisk, Jonas, brisk."

"Well, what's one man's meat is another man's poison, i' a manner o' speaking. 'Tis how ye look at things, I reckon, an' there's heads an' tails on ivery good piece o' money. So trade's middling, is't?"

"Oh, ay. Other trades grow slack, but ye cannot do without Sexton Witherlee i' Marshcotes parish. That's what I says to Parson a week come yestermorn. 'Parson,' says I, 'me an' thee hev getten likely trades. Folk allus need prayers, an' they allus need burying. Crops fail time an' time,' I says, 'an' sickness follows at after famine; an' that's money i' a Sexton's breeches pockets,' says I."

"Mebbe tha'rt right, Sexton; but I'd liefer live by putting sound liquor down folk's throats nor be shovelling earth a-top of 'em when they've getten past meat an' drink. But we munnot fratch, for we're near neighbours—me at th' Bull, an' thee i' th' kirkyard hard by, an' each to his own trade, says I, choose who hears me say 't.—'Tis a drear business, this o' th' Maister o' Marsh. Th' burying is fixed for twelve o' th' clock, they tell me."

"Ay, sure; he'll be ligged i' bed here all ship-shape, will th' owd Maister, come a half hour after nooin."

"He's nobbut been laid out two days an' less, hes he? How should that come about, like? 'Tis nobbut decent I allus did say, to give a corpse its full time on th' bier—'specially a gentle-born corpse, that looks for so mich more attention or a common un."

"Nay, I've a fancy that they thowt they mud as weel get th' burying done wi' afore th' Ratcliffes war up to ony o' their tricks. Leastways that war what Nanny telled me, an' she war watching th' body all last neet at Marsh. I've been fettling up a bit, an' pondering a bit, an' going ower th' owd days. Eh, Jonas, but we shall see what we war meant to see afore th' winter comes again."

"What—fighting, dost think?"

"Ay, we shall that. I've getten a tidy-parcel o' Waynes down here, an' I can reckon five o' th' Marsh lot, let alone t' others, that fell by Ratcliffe swords an' Ratcliffe pistols, an' there's few knows as I do what a power o' hate ligs 'twixt Wildwater an' Marsh. I tell thee, lad, it maks my owd blood warm to think o' th' brave times coming back."

"I can niver stop wondering at thee, Sexton," said Jonas Feather, settling his arms more easifully on his stick. "Tha'rt a little, snipperty chap, as full o' dreaminess as a tummit is full o' waiter; tha's getten th' rheumatiz i' legs an' shoulder-blades, an' ivery winter brings thee browntitus, sure as Christmas. Yet here tha stands, an' I can see thy een fair blaze again when tha talks o' fighting. Hast iver seen owt o' th' sort, or is't just fancy, like?"

The Sexton laughed, a dry and feeble laugh. "I've seen part blood-letting, Jonas; an' ivery neet as I sit i' th' settle after th' day's moil is owered wi', I go backard i' my thowts. Small wonder that I'm gay, like, to think that soon there'll be a fight to butter my bread at ivery meal-time."

"Well, 'tis best for plain chaps like thee an' me, Sexton, to let 'em settle it among theirselns. Poor folk mun live, I allus did say, an' if tha addles a bit by burying, I willun't grudge it thee.—Will th' burying go forrard peaceable-like, dost think?"

"Nay, I couldn't tell thee. Like as not there'll be a fight on th' way fro' Marsh to th' kirkyard here.—Now, Jonas, hod th' stee-top while I clamber up," broke off the Sexton, throwing up his broom and setting one foot on the bottom rung of the ladder. "There's this an' there's that to be looked to, an' it's gone eleven a'ready."

"Sakes, tha doesn't mean it! An' here I stand cracking wi' thee i'stead o' smartening up th' sarving-wenches down at th' Bull yonder.—I'm noan for saying it doan't breed custom, mind ye, Witherlee, this senseless sort o' fratching 'twixt th' gentlefolk. They'll be coming fro' far an' wide to see th' last o' th' owd man, for all th' moorside war varry friendly to him; an' 'tis nobbut fitting 'at them as comes to mourn should be warmed a bit i' th' innards at after th' job is done wi'."

"Well, there's part folk hereabouts who care nowt whether they've getten warm drink or cold or none at all; an' that, mind ye, shows a sight more sense nor us poor shammocky chaps above ground hev to show for ourselns," said Witherlee, as he picked up his broom and cast a lingering glance of affection on his "tidy bits o' graves."

"Shameless Wayne is sobered by this time, I'm thinking," dropped Jonas, walking pace for pace with the Sexton down the path that led to the tool-house.

"He's getten a gooidish heart, hes th' lad, an' this may weel be th' making of him."

"Ay, he left me drunk t' other neet, an' he came back i' a two-three minutes after sober; an' when a man gets skifted out o' liquor so speedy like, he gets a sort o' hatred on 't. Leastways, that's what I've noticed more nor once, an' I reckon it hods gooid at most times."

The Sexton's robin, seeing the chance of dinner going by in spite of all its shy attempts to claim attention, hopped boldly on to Witherlee's arm.

"Now look at that, Jonas!" he cried, "I thowt I niver forgot a promise, an' here hev I been so thrang wi' talking o' what's past an' what's to come that I war all but going off without gi'eing robin redbreast his bit o' meat. Look at th' little chap! He fair speaks wi' yond wick een o' hisn, an' his feathers is all piked out to show 'at his belly is cold for hunger. Well, it taks all sorts to mak a world, an' I niver did see 'at redbreasts war ony way less to be thowt on nor us bigger folk; both sorts go on two legs, an' both turn their legs toes-uppermost one day, choose how th' wind blows."

"Ay, there isn't much to choose when it comes to th' latter end."

"Well, I'll be bidding thee good-day, Jonas," said the Sexton, turning down to the shed. "I mun put th' broom away, for I doan't like to see more tools about a kirkyard nor need be; an' then I'll turn up a two-three worms for th' robin. He allus looks on at a burying, does redbreast, an' I like to think he'll be well lined i' th' innards—it makes a burying more pleasurable, like."

Jonas, after nodding a farewell to the Sexton, sauntered down to his tavern, his hands in his pockets, as if there were ample time for everything in this world; and, though he would bestir the maids presently with a rough hand and a rougher tongue, he saw no cause to hurry.

"Hast been to hev a look at th' vault, Jonas?" said a farmer from over Wildwater way, who was just going in for a mug of ale as the landlord entered.

"Ay. All's ship-shape, an' as neat as a basket of eggs. We shall see a big stir, I reckon."

"A bigger stir nor ye think for, mebbe," said the other. "What dost mean, lad?"

"Nay, I can't rightly say—only that when I war crossing th' moor ower by Wildwater a while back, I see'd a band o' Ryecollar Ratcliffes come riding up to th' Lean Man's door. Their sword-belts were noan empty, awther, an' they war laughing."

"Laughing, war they? There's a saying that when a Ratcliffe laughs, there'll be wark for th' Sexton. How mony strong wod they be, like?"

"Six or seven, so far as I could reckon 'em up."

"Ay, it looks bad—it looks bad, an' I'm noan for denying it. Owd Witherlee war cracking o' summat o' th' sort, too, not mony minutes sin'. Well, there's none i' th' moorside but what wishes well to th' Waynes, if it come to a tussle—though I wodn't hev th' Lean Man hear me say 't."

The folk were gathering meanwhile in the graveyard. Some came in by the gate at the village end, others by the wicket that opened on the moor. All wore the air of sober merriment which a burying never fails to bring to the faces of the moor-folk; all clustered about the vault, and chattered like so many magpies, and turned to ask Sexton Witherlee, when he came from feeding his robin, a hundred silly questions as to the disposal of the coffins. These were holiday times for the moorside, and their real sorrow for the sturdy, upright master of Marsh House served only to add a more subtle edge to their enjoyment.

They were festivals for Witherlee likewise; and, though the Sexton held that pride became no man, seeing what he must come to in the end, he always bore himself more youthfully at a burial and looked his fellow-men more squarely in the face. This was his workshop, and it pleased him that his lustier fellows, who were proud of their skill at farming or joinering or the like, should see that he, too, man of dreams as he was, could show a deft hand at his trade.

Gossip grew rife as the knot of sight-seers increased. One would tell a tale of the old days when Waynes and Ratcliffes fought at every cross-road, and another would cap the narrative with one more fearsome. The women talked of the good deeds that Wayne of Marsh had done, of the tidy bit o' brass his coffin had cost, of the mad pranks that Shameless Wayne had played in times past. The children played hide-and-seek among the graves, or crept to the vault-edge and peered down in awed expectation, awaiting they knew not what of such terrors as their mothers had taught them to associate with the dead. The grown lasses came with lavender in their aprons, and sprinkled the vault-floor with the lovesome herb, and sent up a prayer to the unknown and dreadful God who dwelt amid the peat-wastes and the bogs—a prayer that they might escape this last close prison until wedlock had given them bairns, lest the curse of the women who were buried with empty breasts should light on them.

"Th' corpse is coming!" some one cried on the sudden.

The chatter ceased, and all eyes sought the yew-shadowed turning of the pathway. Shameless Wayne, his cousin Rolf and two others carried the coffin at shoulder height. In front walked the Parson, his white hair ruffled by the breeze; behind them followed a score of kinsmen, the Long Waynes of Cranshaw over-topping all the others by a head; and behind these again walked a line of farm-men and of women-servants.

"Good sakes, they've getten swords an' pistols!" muttered one of the onlookers, as the crowd made a clear lane to the kirk-porch.

"By th' Heart, who iver heard tell o' folk coming armed to a burying!" cried another. "There mun be summat more going forrard nor we've ony notion on. Look at Shameless Wayne! God keep me an' mine fro' seeing sich mortal anguish i' a lad's face again! He looks fair mad wi' grief."

"He's getten cause. Hast noan heard that he war droughen while Nanny Witherlee war ringing for his father? Nay, he's a slow-to-blush un, an' proper, an' I wonder he's getten grace enough to come sober to th' grave.—Stand back, childer! Willun't ye be telled? Or mun ye bide i' th' gate till they bury ye wi' th' coffin?"

The children shrank back, curiosity killed by fright, and the bearers moved slowly up the path until the grey church hid them. Tongues were loosened again, and Jonas Feather, coming up with the information he had gleaned from the farmer from Wildwater way, was beset by a clamorous knot of folk.

"Ay, I war sure there war summat out o' th' ordinary—see'd th Ryecollar Ratcliffes crossing th' moor, tha says, Jonas?—Well, I mind th' owd days, but there war nowt so outrageous as this shows like to be—theer, hod thy whisht! They're coming fro' th' kirk."

Again a lane was formed, from the porch to the vault where Sexton Witherlee was waiting with his ropes. The wind was at peace, and its soft stir among the budding leaves mingled with song of redbreast and love-pipe of the throstles. A faint odour of lavender crept upward from the vault, suggesting quiet and fragrant hopes for better days to come. Yet the hush that settled over the watching crowd had little rest in it, and it was plain by their laboured breathing, as the coffin was lowered by the creaking ropes, that none looked for a peaceful end to a burial that counted sword and pistol as mourners.

Amongst his kin, grouped thirty strong about the vault with set faces and hands on sword-hilts, Shameless Wayne stood noticeable; for his head was bent and the tears streamed down his cheeks unheeded. Not until now had the lad reckoned the full total of his past misdoings, nor known how shame can eat the manhood out of bravery.

"Dust to dust, ashes to ashes," said the Parson, in the ringing voice that seemed a challenge to grim Death himself.

But another than Death took up the challenge. Swift out of the moor a cry of "Ratcliffe, Ratcliffe!" answered him, and the crowd gave back on the sudden, leaving the thirty-and-one Waynes to turn face about, whipping their swords free of the scabbards. Down through the wicket-gate trooped a score of Ratcliffes, yelling their name-cry as they came. A moment they halted, for they had looked to find the Waynes unarmed; but the Lean Man cursed them forward.

Shameless Wayne looked up at the first cry; his pale face went ruddy, his eyes lit up. It was a welcome intrusion, this, on the sour trend of his thoughts, and he, who had shown most womanish among them, was now the leader of them all.

"A Wayne! In at them, lads! A Wayne, a Wayne!" he called, and leaped at the Lean Man, and sliced his left ear level with the cheek.

Old Nicholas groaned with pain, then forced a laugh and lifted his big two-handled sword above the head of Wayne of Marsh. But the Waynes came pushing upward from behind, and their leader was thrust against a gravestone on the left hand of the path, while a kinsman took the Lean Man's blow on his own uplifted blade. And after that Wayne mixed with Ratcliffe, and Ratcliffe closed with Wayne, all up and down between the graves, till there was no grass-green footway 'twixt the headstones but was rubbed black under the shifting feet of swordsmen. The crowd fell back for fear, or moved a few steps forward for awe according as the fight swept toward them or away. One against one, or one against two, it was, from the church porch to the field-wall, from the moor-wicket to the Bull; there was no space for a massed fight, and each man sought his special foe and followed him in and out until church-wall, or upreared cross, or spiked hedge of thorn, stopped pursuer and pursued and left no issue but the sword.

Sexton Witherlee found his youth again as he stood just under shelter of the porch, and watched, and rubbed his shrivelled hands together. The old stuff worked in him, and he, who had seen Wayne fight with Ratcliffe more than once, thanked God that the sweetest moil of all had been kept to lighten his last steps to the grave. His eyes went from group to group, from thrust to nimble parry, until the kirkyard held naught for him save the dancing shimmer of grey steel. The cries redoubled, and "Ratcliffe" went in the teeth of "Wayne" all down the pathway of the breeze; yet the Sexton knew, from the snarl that underlay each Ratcliffe voice, from the crisp fury of the Wayne-cry, that the Wildwater folk were going down like windle-straws before their foes. The Ratcliffes took to their pistols then, and hid behind gravestones, and sent red streaks of flame across the mist of whirling steel; but they had no time to reload, and hurry steered their bullets for the most part amiss, and the Waynes, disdaining powder at all times, hunted them from their cover like rats from out a barley-mow. Above all shouts, of onset or of mortal anguish, a lad's voice struck clear into the blue belly of the sky.

"No quarter, Waynes! In at them, and rip from heel to crown!"

Sexton Witherlee moved forward from his porch. "Yond war Shameless Wayne's voice. God, but he's getten th' fighting-fever as hot as iver I see'd a man tak it. Th' Lean Man 'ull carry a sore head back to Wildwater, I'm thinking—if he's spared.—There th' lad is! Sakes, but he's getten his hands as full as they'll hod, an' no mistak!" he broke off, straining his eyes toward the half-filled strip of graveyard beneath the Parsonage which he was wont to call his "bit o' garden." But Nicholas Ratcliffe was ever prudent in his hottest fury, and he saw that the fight was all against his folk. The long night of anguish was over for Wayne's son of Marsh, and the rebound from it had filled his veins with something more like the light fires that played across the boglands than with slow-moving blood; his pace was the wind's pace, and the fury of his onset put life into the sword-arms of each Wayne that heard his lusty battle-cry. Back and further back the Ratcliffes shrank, till the Lean Man's voice was heard, bidding them retreat fighting to the moor-gate and then escape as best they could.

"No quarter!" came Shameless Wayne's trumpet-note, as he chased them to the nearest wicket.

But pursuit could go no further, for the pursuers were all on foot and a moment saw the Ratcliffes mounted on the horses which they had tethered to the graveyard hedge. Shameless Wayne plucked out his pistol then, and laughed as a yell from one of the retreating redheads followed his quick pulling of the trigger. Then he turned back sharply, for the sound of running feet came up the path; re-entering by the wicket, he was met full by three Ratcliffes, left behind by their fellows in the wild rush for safety.

Wayne never halted, but drove down on them, his sword uplifted; and they, three to one, fell back in panic almost on to the points of the upcoming Waynes.

"Hold off! They're mine," cried Shameless Wayne, waving his folk aside.

Up and down he chased them, and up and down they ran, doubling behind gravestones or running hare-footed across open ground; for this lad, whom they had laughed at as a drunkard and a fool, seemed godlike in his fury. The Waynes held every outlet, and all watched the grim chase silently. And then Shameless Wayne's opportunity came; the three were running altogether now, and one tripped up the other, and Wayne was scarce a sword's length from them.

"I have them—" he began, and lifted his right arm.

But the open vault yawned under them before their brute terror showed where this second danger lay. They reeled at the edge and half recovered, then dropped to the paved floor beneath, where the coffin lay where Witherlee had dropped it at the first onset.

Shameless Wayne, mad with the swift onset and the crash of blows, stood laughing at the edge and beckoned to two of his folk. "Roof them over, and let them rot there," he cried, kicking the ringed vault-stone with his foot.

The crowd shrank back, and even his own people were affrighted by the wild command. None knew—none guessed, save Sexton Witherlee, watching from the porch—what fury of despair, and shame, and bitterness, had gone to the making of this brute mood of the lad's. Nor was he in case to wonder at himself; for the one moment he wished naught in heaven or earth save to see the flat stone ring down on those who would have done honest men to death by treachery.

"Why do ye draw back, ye fools?" he cried. "Is it a time for maidishness, or do ye want——"

"Stay, lad! Thou'lt think better of it in a while," said Rolf Wayne of Cranshaw, touching him on the shoulder.

While he halted, glowering from his folk to the stone, and from the stone to the Ratcliffes who lay, maimed and dumb with terror, over his father's coffin, a frail little body, robed all in white, stepped quietly to his side.

"'Tis my wedding-day, Ned," she said piteously, "and all the folk have come to mock at me, pretending 'tis a burial. What art doing here? Surely thou'lt come to church and help me find my lover there. Thou hast ever been kind to me when others mocked."

Shameless Wayne was silent for a space; and then, he knew not why, his mood swung round, and grief rushed thick to eyes and throat. He took the shivering woman by the hand, and turned, and led her down the path. "Come home, little bairn; 'tis over late to see thee wed to-day, but by and by we'll see to it," he said.

She went with him quietly, her face brightening as she clung close to his arm. And all the folk crossed themselves, and held their peace, and watched the strange pair go out at the churchyard gate.

"What's to be done with these?" said Wayne of Cranshaw, after a long silence, pointing to the vault.

"They shall not foul a Wayne vault, at any rate," said a kinsman. "Poor hounds! See how they tremble—they're scarce worth the killing. Up with them, lads, and if they can stand at all, we'll set them free to cross to Wildwater."

"Ay, I warrant ye will," murmured Sexton Witherlee, who had moved to the grave-side. "But would the Ratcliffes have done the like to ye in such a case?—Well—pity comes wi' gooid breeding, I reckon, an' 'tis noan for us poorer sort to teach ye better—but these three may live to plague ye yet."

All were gone at last—all save Parson and Sexton, who stood and looked, one at the other first, and afterward across the kirkyard. The sun was silver under grey rain-clouds now; a wet drift of mist came with the westward wind; no throstle sang, but the peewits came wheeling, wheeling, crying, crying, from across the moor, and far up above a sentinel vulture flapped wings and watched the unburied dead who lay with their faces to the rain.

The Sexton had been round the graveyard once again. His battle-glee had left him, and a soft light was in his face as he leaned against a headstone and watched the Parson, who stood as he had left him, his head bent in prayer.

"'Tis a drear day's work, Witherlee," said the Parson, lifting his eyes at last.

"A drear day's wark, Parson—but sweet as honey while it lasted. Praise God there's nobbut one Wayne killed—one o' th' Hill House lot, he is, an' he ligs up by th' wicket yonder. An' praise God, says I, 'at there'll three Ratcliffes niver trouble Marshcotes wi' their tricks again; one of 'em is stretched at th' wall-side there, an' another under th' Parsonage.—I see'd th' stroke that cleft yond last—cleft him fair like a hazel-nut."

The Parson eyed his Sexton gravely, and would have spoken; but Witherlee's soft-moving voice crossed his own before the first word was well out.

"Now, Parson, I can see by th' face on ye that ye wod liefer I read a sarmon nor a frolic i' all this; an' so I do, when I can frame to gi'e my mind to 't. 'Tis noan th' bloodshed itseln 'at pleasures me—for I'm soft wi' pity when I come to see 'em lying cold—but th' blows, Parson! Th' swing o' well-fed thews, an' th' dancing flicker o' live steel, an' a man standing up to death wi' belly-deep laughter i' his throat! I may be wrang, mind ye—there's few as isn't time an' time—but I wod gi'e five years o' life to watch this moil all ower again, and to see Shameless Wayne show how the old breed strikes."

"Vanity, Witherlee—all is vanity, save prayer, and chastening of man's pride. Hast pity for the dead, thou say'st? Ay, but that should sober thy zest in what went before."

"Yet th' pity is war nor t' other, being foolish altogether," said the Sexton reflectively, "for I allus did say 'at there's greener grass, an' sweeter, grows ower a dead man's grave nor under his living feet. But there's a winding-sheet for all, so we munnot complain."

"Soften thy heart, for God's mercy's sake, before the end overtakes thee. Art hard, Witherlee, hard, with never a hope beyond the grave."

"We'll noan' fratch, Parson," said Witherlee slowly. "Ye've learned all fro' Heaven and Hell; but I've learned fro' gooid, strong soil—what me an' ye came fro', an' what we mun go back to i' th' end. It sticks, does kneaded earth, an' when ye've lived husband-to-wife wi' 't i' a manner o' speaking, ye get to look no forrarder."

The Parson sighed. It was but an old argument with a drear new setting. "Earth holds earth—but it cannot hold the soul," he said, wearily a little, and as if foredoomed to plead in vain.

"That's as may be," said Witherlee, in the low, even voice that had likewise been taught him by his trade. "I niver hed no dealings, so to say, wi' th' soul; I've knawn buryings but no risings—save when th' ghosties stir up an' down among th' graves, as they will do time an' time. An' th' ghosts 'ud seem to hev won no further off nor Marshcotes kirkyard."

"Art full of vain superstition, Witherlee. The soul thou doubtest; but ghosts, in which no God-fearing man need believe——"

"Theer!" said Witherlee patiently. "I allus said there niver wod be any sort of argreement 'twixt me an' ye, though we jog on together. Ye live nigh th' kirkyard, Parson, but ye doan't live in it, as I've done—ye hevn't learned th' feel of a graveyard, or ye'd niver say nay to th' soft-footed ghosties. Why, only last back-end, I mind, I see'd——"

The Parson shivered. "I am sick, Witherlee, with all that has chanced, and my knees are weak under me. I will bid thee good-day, and wish thee a softer heart," he said, moving up the pathway.

"Good-day to ye, Parson. I fear I'm ower owd to mend—but I trust ye'll be no war for this day's moil."

The Sexton watched him go, a weak and bent old figure, until the Parsonage gate closed behind him. Then he sat him down, and filled a pipe, and forgot to feel for his tinder-box as the memories of the day came back to him. The rain was dropping, and the wind was gathering chill.

"Begow, 'tis still an' lonesome, at after all th' racket," he murmured. "Poor Parson! He wodn't gladden a pulse-beat, I'll warrant, if all th' lads i' Marshcotes fell to fighting. Well, there's men like that, just as there's men 'at cannot stomach honest liquor—an' Lord help both sorts, say I.—Well, I mun mak th' most o' th' quiet, for they'll come for yond bodies by an' by.—By th' Heart, how Shameless Wayne cut an' hacked! He'll be a long thorn an' a sharp i' Nicholas Ratcliffe's side, will th' lad. Eh' how he clipped th' Lean Man's ear! God rest him!"

CHAPTER IX

A MOORSIDE COURTSHIP

The last week of March had seen rain, snow and hail; had felt the wind shift from brisk North to snarling Southeast, and from warm, rain-weighted South to an Easterly gale such as nipped the veins in a man's body and daunted the over-hasty green of elderberry and lifted the wet from ploughed fields as speedily as if a July sun had scorched them. From day to day—nay from hour to hour—the farm men had not known whether they would shiver at the hardest work or sweat with the easiest; the moist, untimely heat of one day would plant rheumatism snugly in their joints, and the bitter coldness of the next would weld it in. Nature was dead at heart, it seemed, and whether she showed a dry eye or a tearful, her face wore the dull greyness of despair, as if her thews were too stiffened and too lean with age to rouse themselves for the old labour of bringing buds to leaf, and kine to calving.

And now on a sudden all was changed. The wind blew honest from the West, and even in shadowed corners it kept no knife in waiting for man and beast. The sun shone splendid out of a white-flecked, pearly sky. In the lower lands, blackbird and thrush, starling and wren and linnet, broke into one mighty chorus; and on the moors the grouse called less complainingly one to the other, the larks were boisterous, the eagles showed braver plumage to the sun, the very moor-tits added a twittering sort of gaiety to the day. A lusty, upstanding, joyous day, which brought old folk to their doors, to ask each other if there were not some churlish sport of March hid under all this bravery—which set the youngsters thinking of their sweethearts, and brought the sheep to lambing in many an upland pasture scarce free'd of winter snow.

But the Lean Man had no eye for the beauty of the day, as he rode through Marshcotes street with Robert, his eldest-born, on the bridle-hand of him. For old Nicholas was thinking how Shameless Wayne, the lad whom he had laughed at and despised, had lately driven the Ratcliffes to hopeless flight. Both horsemen were fully armed, with swords on thigh and pistols in their holsters; and, as they rode, they kept a sharp regard to right and left, lest any of the Waynes should be hidden in ambush. Time and time the Lean Man clapped a hand to his left ear, as if by habit, and his face was no good sight to see as he felt the rounded lump which marked where Wayne's sword-cut—a fortnight old by now—was healing tardily.

"Could we but meet the lad alone in Marshcotes street here," he muttered to his eldest-born.

"Ay, but fortune is no friend to us just now," growled Robert; "and there are those who say he'd match the two of us."

"There are those who say that hawks breed cuckoos. Art thou weakening, Robert, too, because he has won the first poor skirmish?"

"Not I. If I find him in the road, I'll have at him—but meanwhile I am free to think my own thoughts."

"Well, and what are thy thoughts, sirrah?"

"That there's witchery in his sword-arm. I saw him fight in the graveyard, and he was something 'twixt man and devil; ay, he fought as if he had the cursed Dog of Marsh to back him."

The Lean Man gave a laugh—a laugh with little surety in it. "Thou'rt a maid, Robert, to fall soft at such a baby-tale as that," he sneered.

"Yet you have heard of the Dog, sir, and now and then you own to a half belief in him," said Robert, meeting the other's glance fairly. "We have had proof of it aforetime, and—see the woman yonder," he broke off, "moving at us from the corner of the lane. What ails her?"

They had passed the Bull tavern and were nearing the spot where the lane that led to Witherlee's cottage ran into the Ling Crag highway. The Lean Man turning his head impatiently as Robert spoke and following the direction of his finger, saw that the Sexton's wife was standing at the roadside. Nanny was looking through and through him, and the smile on her dry old lips was scarcely one of welcome. At another time Nicholas would have paid no heed to her; but to-day a small thing had power to touch his spleen, and he pulled up sharp in the middle of the roadway.

"I'm called Nicholas Ratcliffe, woman, as perchance thou hast forgotten," he said, leaning toward her and half lifting his hairy fist; "and when I see folk mocking me, I am prone to ask them why."

"When I mock ye, Maister, ye're free to strike me, an' not afore," answered Nanny. Her tone was quiet almost to contemptuousness; and the smile that had lately rested on her lips was hiding now behind her shrewd black eyes.

Nicholas looked at her, a touch of approval in his glance; accustomed as he was to browbeat all who met him, this dried-up little body's unconcern in face of threats half tickled and half angered him.

"Hark to her, Robert!" he cried. "Free to strike her, am I? Gad, yes, and with no permission asked, I warrant!"

"An' as for mocking ye," went on Nanny, disregarding his interruption, "what need hev I to step 'twixt ye an' Barguest?"

The Lean Man was accounted hardier than most; yet he started at Nanny's mention of the Dog, following so abruptly on Robert's talk of a moment ago. "Barguest. What has he to do with me?" he cried.

"What hed he to do wi' your folk i' times past? Enough an' to spare, I should reckon. Do ye forget, Nicholas Ratcliffe, how one o' your breed crossed Barguest once on t' threshold of Marsh House? Do ye mind what chanced to him at after?"

Nanny's quiet assurance had in it a quality that daunted the Lean Man. Had she grown fiery in denunciation of his sins toward the Waynes—as in her hotter moments she was wont to do—had she drawn wild pictures of the doom awaiting those who crossed the Dog, Nicholas would have knocked her to the roadway and passed on. But her faith was unwavering; she had no doubt at all that the Lean Man had compassed his own end, and voice and gesture both were such as to convince a man against his will.

He stared at her, a growing terror in his face. "'Tis an old tale, woman, and one we scarce credit nowadays," he stammered.—"Robert, tell her she's a fool—a rank, stark-witted fool—and I a bigger fool to hearken to her."

But Robert was in no case to bolster up his father's dreads. He turned to Nanny sharply. "Where does all this carry us?" he said. "Dost thou mean that one of us has lately crossed the Dog?"

"Ay, marry. What else should I mean?" said the little old woman.

"'Tis a child's tale—a child's tale, I say," broke in Nicholas.

"Well, ye shall try the truth of it by an' by—for ye crossed th' Dog, Nicholas Ratcliffe, when ye came down to nail your token to th' Marsh doorway. I war watching by th' dead man, an' I heard Barguest come whimper-whimper down th' lane; an' then he scratted like a wild thing at th' panels; an' after that he ligged him down on the door-stun."

Nanny paused a moment, watching how the Lean Man took it.

"Ay, and then?" said Nicholas. He would fain have sounded merry, but his voice came dry and harsh.

"Then a man came riding up o' horseback, an' leaped to ground, an' reached ower th' Brown Dog to nail a man's hand to th' door. An' ye war th' horseman, Nicholas Ratcliffe."

Once only the Lean Man glanced at her; then set spurs to his great bay horse and clattered up the street, his son following close behind. At the end of half-a-mile they slackened pace, as if by joint consent; but neither sought the other's eyes.

"What ails thee, fool?" said Nicholas to his eldest-born.

"Naught, sir—'twas not I who fled from a crook-backed beldame," sneered the other.

The Lean Man turned on him, glad of an excuse for bluster. "Thou dar'st to say I fled?" he cried. "Thou, who wast sucking at the breast while I grew old in fight?—There, lad! 'Twas a madness in the blood that fell on us just now. What's Barguest that he should spoil a bonnie plan? Are we not sending Wayne to his last home to-night?"

"We have planned as much," said Robert slowly, "but——"

"Ay, but—and 'but' again in thy teeth. We have him, I tell thee—Red Ratcliffe should be somewhere hereabouts by now, learning what I have sent him out to learn."

"We can learn all that, and yet not use the knowledge right," said Robert sullenly. Even yet he could see Nanny's face, could hear her voice, and he was angered by the fear they bred in him.

"That's as may be," said Nicholas grimly—"but if he brings the news I think he will the devil keep young Wayne of Marsh, for he'll need some such sort of aid.—Who is yond lubberly farm-hind, climbing up the wall this side the road? His slouch is woundily familiar." Like his son, the Lean Man had felt the sting of Nanny's words, though he was minded to make light of it; and no better proof of his humour was needed than the quick ill-tempered eye he had for trifles.

"It looks like Hiram Hey—one of Wayne's folk, and a pesty fellow with his tongue. We've found him more than once cutting peats from the Wildwater land, and more than once we've fallen foul of him."

"Have ye?" said Nicholas quietly. "Well, he did us a service there, may be; and the more peats they coane at Marsh, the better 'twill be for us to-night.—Come, lad; 'tis gallop now, and a truce to that old wife's foolery."

Hiram Hey, meanwhile, was going his leisurely way, glancing curiously at the Lean Man as he went by, but not guessing that he was furnishing him with food for talk. He slouched along the pasture-fields stopping at every other step to watch the sport of heifers, to note a broken piece of walling, or to berate some luckless farm-lad whom he found at play.

"I wodn't call it a fair day, for we've not done wi' 't yet," he murmured. "Nay, I wodn't call it a fair day, an' that's Gospel, till I see how it behaves itseln. We mud varry weel hev snow afore it wears to neet, or else thunner—or both, likely."

He leaned over a three-barred gate and eyed the long furrows climbing to the hill-crest—sleek furrows, with dust lying grey on the sun-side of the upturned sods. And while he lazied there, a milking-song came clear and crisp from over the wall that hid the High meadow from him.

"That's Martha," he cried, brightening on the sudden. "She sings like ony bird, does th' lass. What should she be doing, I wonder, so far fro' Marsh on a working-day?"

His step had an unwonted briskness in it, his carriage was almost jaunty, as he moved along the wall-side to the stile at the corner. A milk-pail was showing now above the top step of the stile, with a cherry-ripe face and trim, short skirted figure under it. Martha halted on seeing Hiram Hey, and set two round, brown arms to the pail, and lifted it down to the wall; then leaned with one hand on it while she dropped a saucy curtsey.

"It's warm," ventured Hiram, picking up a stone from the grass and throwing it aside.

"Warm? I should reckon it is. Tha'd say so if tha'd carried this pail a-top o' thy head for a mile an' better.—But, Lord, we munnot complain, for 'tis a day i' five-score, this, an' warm as midsummer."

"Thee bide a bittock, as I telled young Maister this morn. 'Spring's come again, Hiram,' says he to me. 'Mebbe,' says I, 'but when a man's lived to my years he learns to believe owt o' th' weather—save gooid sense.' That's what I said, for sure."

"Tha'rt not so thrang as or'nary, seemingly?" said Martha, after a pause.

Hiram glanced at her, as if suspecting mockery. "Nay, I'm allus thrang," he answered, shaking his head in mournful fashion. "I've heard folk say I do nowt just because they've seen me hands-i'-pocket time an' time; but when ye're maister-hand at a farm, there's head-work to be done as weel as body-work."

"To be sure—an' 'tis fearful hard, is head-work."

"Ay, I oft say to shepherd Jose that th' humbler your station i' this life, th' fewer frets ye hev."

"I feel fair pitiful for thee, Hiram," said Martha, glancing softly at him across the pail, "when I see what worries tha hes to put up wi'."

Hiram came a step nearer. "Tha mud weel pity me, lass. 'Tis grand to be sich chaps as Jose—all body, i' a way o' speaking, an' no head-piece worth naming to come 'twixt victuals an' their appetites.—Martha, lass, I've oft wondered how tha came to be born a wench."

"Would'st hev hed me born a lad?"

"Nay, begow! but tha's getten so mich sense; that's what I mean. It fair caps me—as if I'd fund apples growing on a thistle-top."

Martha had a keen answer on her tongue-tip, but she held it back; for the lads were beginning to pass her by, and it was time she had a goodman. "It's a lot for thee to say, Hiram, is that," she murmured, dropping her eyes. "I iver thowt there war maid i' Marshcotes could come nigh to what tha looks for i' a wench."

"Nor I nawther," said Hiram gravely. "I've said to myseln time an' agen that if I war to keep good company till th' end o' my days, I'd hev to live wi' myseln."

"It wod take a good un to be mate to thee."

Hiram half lifted his foot to the bottom step of the stile, then withdrew it. "Go slow, lad," he murmured. "If tha taks it at this flairsome speed, where wilt be by to-morn?"

"I wod tak a varry good un," repeated Martha.

But Hiram had taken fright on the sudden. "I seed th' Lean Man go through Marshcotes a while back," he said, with would-be carelessness.

"Oh, ay? Th' Ratcliffes seem to be up an' about this morn, for I passed Red Ratcliffe i' th' meadow not five minites sin'. Sakes, but he's an ill-favoured un, is Red Ratcliffe! He war for gi'eing me a kiss an' a hug just now, but I let him feel th' wrong side o' my hand i'stead.—An' what did th' Lean Man look like, Hiram, after his fighting o' t' other day?"

"Nay, I niver stopped to axe; but I noticed he looked queerish where he took yond sword-cut a two-week come yesterday. I'm none for praising th' young Maister, not I, seeing he's shameless by name an' shameless by natur—but I take it kindly of him that he sliced th' Lean Man's ear off clean as a tummit-top. There's none i' th' moorside but wishes his head had followed."

"Now whisht, Hiram!" cried Martha. "It's a two-week come yesterday sin' they fought i' th' kirkyard, but I'm sick yet wheniver I call to mind how they came home to Marsh that morn. Th' burial-board war all spread, an' I war agate wi' drawing a jug of October when Nanny Witherlee comes running into th' pantry, as white as a hailstone, an' 'Martha,' say she, 'there'll be a sorry mess on th' hall-floor—an' us to have spent so mich beeswax on't,' says she. 'Why, what's agate?' I says. 'Th' Waynes is back for th' burying-feast,' says Nanny, 'an' they've brought some gaping wounds, my sakes, to sit at meat wi' 'em.'"

"I warrant they did," assented Hiram, "for I see'd 'em myseln."

"Well, I runs a-tip-toe then to th' hall door, an' I screamed out to see th' Waynes standing there. A score or so there mud be, all drinking as if they'd sweated like brocks at grasscutting; an' there war a queer silence among 'em; an' some war binding arms an' legs, an' th' floor, I tell thee, war more slippy under a body's feet nor ony beeswax warranted."

"Th' Maister went through it without a scratch, for all that, though they say he fought twice for ivery one o' t' others. Ay, his father war like that when th' owd quarrel war agate—allus i' th' front, yet niver taking so mich as a skin-prick till th' time came for him to dee."

"How long ago war that, Hiram? I've heard tell o' th' owd feud, but it mun hev been a long while back."

"Longer nor ye can call to mind, lass. 'Twas a sight o' years back, afore tha wert born or thought of."

Another soft glance from Martha. "I shouldn't hev thought tha'd hev remembered it so weel, Hiram," she murmured. "Tha talks as if tha wert owd enough to be a girt-grandfather to sich a little un as me."

Hiram saw his error. "Nay, I'm youngish still, Martha," he put in hastily, with a tell-tale pulling of his hat over the widening patch of forehead that showed beneath the brim. "'Tis hard thinking that thins a body's thatch, an' when I call to mind what a power o' sense I've learned sin' being a lad, I wonder I'm not as bald as a moor-tit's egg. Well, tha mud find younger men nor me, but——"

"I set no store by youngness, Hiram. I allus did say a wise head war th' best thing a man could hev."

"Begow, but tha'rt a shrewd un, Martha, as weel as a bonnie un!" cried Hiram, and checked himself. "Yond's a tidy slice o' land," he said, nodding at the dusty furrows in front of them.

But Martha knew her own mind. "I'd liefer talk about thee, Hiram, that I wod," she said. "Land's theer ony day we want to look at it!"

"Well, now, there's summat i' that," he answered, with a shade of uneasiness in his voice. "Where hast been, like, for th' milk, lass? 'Tisn't every day I find thee stirring so far fro' Marsh."

"I've been to th' High Farm, for sure. What wi' milk for th' new-weaned calves, an' for churning, an' what not, we shouldn't hev hed a sup i' th' house down at Marsh if I hadn't come a-borrowing."

"There's waste somewhere, I'm thinking," said Hiram sadly. "Th' roan cow war niver fuller i' milk nor now, an' yond little dappled beast I bought off Tom o' Dick's o' Windytop is yielding grandly. Nay, nay, there's waste at Marsh! I said how 'twould be when young Maister took hod o' th' reins."

"Waste, is there? I'd like thee to hev a week or two at managing, Hiram; tha'd see how far a score quarts o' milk 'ull go, wi' four growing lads an' th' Maister, an' all ye lubbering farm-folk to feed. But theer! Men niver can thoyle to see owt go i' housekeeping; an' I'll be bidding thee good-day, Hiram, as tha's getten no likelier sort o' talk nor that."

She made pretence to lift her pail from the top of the stile, and Hiram so far forgot his caution as to put a hand on her dimpled arm.

"Sakes, lass, I wodn't hev thee go!" he cried.

"Then don't thee talk about waste and sich-like foolishness; I thowt tha'd more sense, Hiram, that I did. Nawther is young Maister what tha thinks him, let me tell thee; he's stiffening like a good un an' there's them as says he's getten th' whip-hand o' Hiram Hey already."

"Stiffening, is he?" cried Hiram, whom the jibe stung more keenly because he could not but admit the truth of it. "Well, there's room an' to spare, for he hes as slack a back as iver I clapped een on. But if tha thinks he can best Hiram Hey, Sunday or week-day——"

He stopped and shaded his eyes with both hands as he looked more keenly up the fields. Two figures had topped the crest—one a girl's, the other a man's, loose-built and of a swinging carriage.

"Nay, I niver said I thowt as mich," said Martha demurely, not heeding the direction of Hiram's glance. "'Twas shepherd Jose said it yestereen when he stepped down to th' house wi' th' week's lamb."

"What, Jose!" cried the other, with an angry cackle. "He niver had a mind aboon sheep, hedn't Jose, an' sheep is poor wastrels when all's said. So tha lets an owd chap like yond come whispering i' thy ear, dost 'a, Martha?"

"An' who's to say nay to me, I should like to know?" Her voice was combative, but she leaned a little toward Hiram as she spoke, and he all but took the last dire step of all.

Very foolish showed Hiram, as he stood looking at the maid, with caution in one eye and in the other a frank admiration of the comeliness which showed so wholesome and so fresh amid the greenery of field and hedgerow. And all the while he was murmuring, "Go slow, lad, go slow, I tell thee," and his lips were moving shiftlessly to the refrain.

"Thou'rt tongue-tied, Hiram. Who's to say nay to me, I axed thee?" laughed Martha.

Hiram rocked the milk pail gently with one hand, and stared up the new-ploughed furrows of the field ahead of him. "Thy own good sense, lass, should say thee nay," he answered guardedly. "Them as tends sheep, an' nowt but sheep, gets witless as an owd bell-wether; an' if I war a lass I'd as lief wed a turnip on a besom-stick as shepherd Jose."

"If tha wert a lass, Hiram, tha'd die i' spinsterhood, I'm thinking."

Martha's attack was spirited, but she sighed a little as she noted Hiram's far-away regard; his thoughts were with the land, she fancied, when she fain would have brought them nearer home. Yet, as it chanced Hiram Hey was not thinking of farm-matters at the moment; Martha had her back to the ploughed field, and she could not see that the two figures which had lately topped the rise were coming down the field-side toward the stile. And it was plain now to Hiram that one was Janet Ratcliffe, the other Wayne of Marsh.

"It's queer, is th' way o' things," said Martha presently, loth to go her ways, yet too impatient and too womanly to stand there with no word spoken.

"Oh, ay? Well, things war niver owt but queer," answered Hiram, startled out of his abstraction.

"I war thinking o' th' bloody fight i' th' kirkyard. No more nor a two-week back it war, Hiram, an' here we all are, cooking an' weshing an' churning i' th' owd way, when we'd looked for fearsome doings all up an' down th' moorside."

"A wench would look for 'em; but I could hev telled thee different if tha'd axed me," said Hiram complacently. "Look at yond puffs o' dust that come ivery two-three minutes over th' furrows—dost think even Shameless Wayne could let a seed-time sich as this go by, while he war agate wi' fighting? Nay, nor th' Ratcliffes nawther. We mun all live by th' land, gentle an' simple, an' afore awther Wayne or Ratcliffes can afford to marlake, they'll hev to addle belly-timber."

"There'll nowt o' more come on 't then? Th' Lean Man has been fearful quiet of late, an' there's them as thinks th' fight i' th' graveyard has daunted him for good an' all."

"Daunted him, has it?" rejoined Hiram grimly. "Thee bide till th' oats is sown, an' th' hay won in, an' then tha'll see summat. Th' Lean Man is quiet like, tha says? Well, I've known him quiet afore, an' I've known him busy—an' of th' two I'd liefer see him thrang."

"Tha'r a good un to flair folk, Hiram! Why would'st liefer see him thrang?"

"Why? Because when a Ratcliffe says nowt to nobody, but wends abroad wi' a smug face an' watchful een, same as I've seen 'em do lately, ye may be varry sure he's fashioning slier devil's tricks nor iver.—Red Ratcliffe met thee just now, did he, Martha?"

"I telled thee as mich—he warn't so slow as some folk, Hiram, for he'd no sooner clapped een on me nor he had an arm about my waist."

Again Hiram wavered, and again whispered caution to himself. "He showed some mak o' sense there, Martha—but that's not what I war axing thee. What war he doing, like, when tha first comed up wi' him?"

"Nowt, nobbut mooning up an' down, as if i' search o' somebody."

"Well, he war on Wayne land to start wi', an' that wears a queerish look."

"Sakes, young Maister is nowhere near, I'm hoping!" cried Martha. "Red Ratcliffe carried his pistols, an' a shot from behind a wall wod suit him better nor a stand-up fight."

She still had her back to the ploughed field, and Hiram smiled in sour fashion to think how very near the master was, and what company he was keeping at the moment.

"Thou'rt fearful jealous for th' young Maister," he said. "I'm thinking there's truth i' what they say i' Marshcotes—that Shameless Wayne allus gets th' soft side of a maid."

"An' should do, seeing he's what he is!"

"Well, I wodn't be a bit surprised if he war i' th' fields this morn. He's farmed for a week, hes th' Maister, an' he knows so mich about it now that he mun be here, theer an' iverywhere, watching that us younger hands do matters right."

"Tha can mock as tha likes, Hiram Hey, but he'll teach thee summat afore he's done wi' thee. Poor lad, though, I'm fair pitiful for him! He niver rests save when he's abed, an' not oft then, for I can hear him stirring mony a neet at after he'd earned his sleep."

"Thinking of his sins, I reckon," growled Hiram.

"Well, there's some I know that hasn't mouse-pluck enough for sinning. Besides, that's owered wi'. He's stiffening right enough—yet mony's the time I wish him back to th' owd careless days. He niver hes a gay word for us wenches now, an' to see him wi' his brothers ye mud weel think he war a score year older nor he's ony call to be."

Hiram had waited for this moment, chuckling at the overthrow in store for Martha's championship of the master. "Stiffening, is he?" he said, pointing up the field and drawing his lips into a thin curve. "He may be—but he's framing badly for a start."

Martha, turning sharp about, saw the two figures come slowly down the wall-side toward the stile. Wayne's head was bent low to Mistress Janet's, as if he were pleading some urgent cause, and neither seemed to guess that they were watched.

"Well?" said Martha defiantly. "There's nowt wrong i' that, is there? I've known he war soft on Mistress Ratcliffe iver sin' last spring."

Hiram stared at her, aghast that she could look so lightly on a grievous matter; and when he spoke there was honest anger in his voice, distinct from his usual carping tone.

"Nowt wrong?" he said slowly. "What, when a Wayne goes courting a Ratcliffe? I can't picture owt wronger, ony way, seeing what has come between 'em lately an' aforetime."

"Hoity-toity! That's been Mistress Nell's way o' looking at it—but 'tisn't mine. Look at 'em, Hiram, an' say if they don't mak a bonnie couple."

"What's bonniness to do wi' 't? They're a bad stock, root an' branch, is th' Ratcliffes, an' it 'ull be a sore day for Marsh when th' Maister brings sich as yond to th' owd house. Besides, he has sworn to kill her folk."

"Well, ye cannot cut young hearts i' two wi' kinship, an' that's what I'm telling thee. Mistress Ratcliffe hes nawther father nor brother living, an' them she dwells wi' up at Wildwater are nowt so near to her but what a good lad's love is nearer."

"Hod thy whisht, lass!" cried Hiram on the sudden. "Th' Maister is looking this way at last. Begow, but he mun hev had summat deep to say to her, or he'd have seen us afore this."