SHAMELESS WAYNE (continued 5)

"Art strangely free with Wayne's name," he sneered. "A man, to look at thee, would think the past night's work had pleased thee well."

"It pleases me at all times to hear of one man fighting three, and daunting them. Wilt ever give me that sort of pleasure, think'st thou?"

Red Ratcliffe was silent for awhile; then, "What dost find to say, Janet, when thou meet'st Shameless Wayne by stealth?" he asked, with a sudden glance at her.

She coloured hotly, and paled again. If he knew what she had thought to be a secret from all at Wildwater, her chance of helping Wayne of Marsh was slight.

"It wears an ugly look," he went on. "Come, I am kin to thee, and have a right to guard thy honour. Wilt tell me what has passed between this rake-the-moon and thee, or must I whisper in the Lean Man's ear how his darling wantons up and down the country-side?"

She would not stoop to plead with him, in whatever jeopardy she might be. "Thou canst tell as much as pleases thee," she flashed, "and I will amend thy story afterward; and if ever thou darest to block my way again——"

Red Ratcliffe had unhooded his hawk too soon, and he made a clumsy effort to atone for the false cast. "Stay, girl! I did not mean to say aught to anger thee. Promise to wed me before the corn is ripe, and I'll keep a still tongue."

"Promise to wed thee?" said Janet, turning her back on him. "I've promised it already, when thou canst prove thyself a better man than Shameless Wayne. But before the corn is ripe? Nay, I think 'twill be later in the year."

He watched her move a pace or two away. "I'll ask thee once more, when we get back to Wildwater," he said surlily; "and by that time, I fancy, thou'lt have given thought to what the Lean Man's anger is."

He was falling into step beside her, but she would none of him. "Go over the rise yonder," she said, "and it may be thou wilt find something there to give thee food for thought."

"I had liefer walk beside thee, sweet, than follow any All-Fool's chase."

"It is no fool's errand, I tell thee. Thou know'st the boundary-stone this side Ling Crag? I passed it just now, and saw a present waiting for thee on the top of it."

He stopped, glancing first at Janet, then down the bridle-track. "A present?" he cried. "What sort of gift should any one leave for the first passer-by to steal?"

"'Tis a curious gift, and one not likely to be stolen," she said. "What is it? Nay, but a gift grows less if one tells of it beforehand and I'll spoil no pleasure for thee."

A sudden fear, the echo of his late panic, touched Red Ratcliffe. "Is—is it Wayne of Marsh who waits there with the present?" he asked, and bit his lips soon as the tell-tale thought was out.

"When Wayne of Marsh wants thee, he will not wait," she said. "Go, sir, and have no fear at all of him whom thou hast sworn to kill before the corn is ripe."

CHAPTER XIII

APRIL SNOW

After a fortnight's softness, with mist winds and child-like trustfulness of breaking apple-blossom, the season had swung back to winter. North to Northwest the wind blew, and its touch was like a stab. The sun, shining day-long out of blue skies, seemed rather a mocking comrade of the wind, for his warmth in shaded corners served only to set a keener edge to the blast that lay in waiting at the next turn. Fields and roads were parched once more, and the dust lay thick as June.

Even Bet Earnshaw, the idle-bones and by-word of Marshcotes village, had been moved to do a spell of work this morning, by way of driving some sort of warmth into her veins; but habit had proved too strong for her, and toward noon she slipped into the Sexton's cottage next door to learn the current gossip from Nanny Witherlee. The wind was at its coldest up the narrow lane that ran between the graveyard and the cottages, and Bet was fain to throw her brown cotton apron over her head as she ran across the few yards that separated door from door. She found Nanny standing at the table, her sleeves rolled up to her elbow and a delf bowl in front of her.

"Well, Nanny, making dumplings?" she said, lifting a corner of her apron and showing a true slattern's face, big, red and empty of the least line of care.

Nanny looked up, still moving her hands briskly among the contents of the bowl. "Ay, we're allus making summat, us mortals—awther food for our bellies or food for th' daisies ower yonder. Step in, Bet, an' for th' Lord's sake shut yond door to."

"Nay, I'm noan for stopping. There's a lot to be done i' a house, but I war that perished I thowt I'd run across, like, an' see if I could find onybody else as cowd as myseln; there's comfort i' that, I've found. Begow, Nanny, 'tis a wonder we're all alive."

"I reckon it is. That's one o' God's miracles, I says, seeing we're tossed fro' winter to summer an' back again, all while th' clock is striking twelve. They tell me there war th' keenest frost last neet we've hed for a twelvemonth."

"'Tis cruel, cruel," said Bet, moving with her usual zigzag shiftlessness toward the settle and spreading her hands out to the fire. "I war fair capped to see thy man Witherlee crossing to the kirkyard a while back. He's too bone-thin, is Witherlee, to stand up agen a wind like this."

"Ay, he's getten a peffing cough that ye could hear fro' this to Lancashire, but he willun't be telled. He like as he cannot bide still onywhere out o' touch wi' his graves.—How's yond bairn o' thine, Bet?"

"She's nobbut poorly. Th' wind hes nipped her fair as if it hed set finger an' thumb to her innards. Eh, but I fear for th' little un, that I do!"

"What does th' leech say, like?"

"What does leeches say? She mud get weel again, an' she mud dee. As if I couldn't hev telled him as mich myseln. I allus did say there war no brass so easy addled as what them leeches put i' their breeches pockets."

Nanny turned from her baking-bowl. "Leeches is nobbut mortal, same as me an' thee. How should they be ony mak o' use? But there's healing goes wi' them as is fairy-kist, and axe Mistress Wayne to come an touch th' bairn—she'll do more nor all th' leeches 'at iver swopped big words for brass."

"Well, I've thowt on 't mony a time sin' yesterday; but I feared she'd tak it amiss, like, if I axed her. I war aye chary a' th' gentlefolk whether they've getten full wits or none at all."

"I've no call to speak a gooid word for Mistress Wayne, seeing what she did to th' owd Maister; but I will say this, Bet—she's getten no mucky pride about her now. She's that friendly wi' Witherlee they mud hev shared th' same porridge-bowl sin' being babbies, an' I warrant she'll heal that bairn o' thine as sooin as axe her."

"I'll tak thy word for 't, Nanny, that I will; an' th' first chance I get, I'll slip me dahn to Marsh."

"That's like thee!" cried the other sharply. "Th' first chance tha gets! Niver thinking th' little un may dee while tha'rt standing havy-cavy 'twixt will an' willun't.—There's somebody coming up th' loin. Now who mud it be, I wonder?"

Nanny's table stood just underneath the window, lest she should miss any detail of the life that passed her door. She craned her neck forward as the rumble of a cart came up the lane, and Bet the slattern ran to peep behind her shoulder.

"Why, if there isn't Hiram Hey!" cried the Sexton's wife, as the cart pulled up at the door and Hiram's knobby face, pinched now and tightened by the cold, peered in through the dusty glass.

"By th' Heart, his face looks foul enough to break th' window-panes. Eh, eh, he's a rum un, is Hiram. They say i' Marshcotes there's nobbut one can match thee, Nanny, an' that's Hiram Hey."

"They'll say owt i' Marshcotes. What should he be stopping here for, think'st 'a, Bet?"

Hiram ceased peering in at the window and opened the door as guardedly as if he feared an ambush.

"I've brought thee some peats fro' Marsh," he said, letting a stream of cold air in with him.

"Ay, an' tha's brought a mort o' cold air, an' all," cried Nanny.

"Well, th' peats 'ull cure that, willun't they?" retorted Hiram.

Nanny went to the cart and turned over the topmost sods; for in Marshcotes they always looked a gift horse in the mouth. "I allus did say th' young Maister war more thowtful-like nor ony lad I've happened on afore. I war dahn at Marsh yestreen, an' I chanced to say summat about being short o' peats——"

"If nobbut shows his want o' sense," growled Hiram. "We shall be short afore we've done wi' this mucky weather. Just like th' Maister, just! Th' Ratcliffes came a two-week sin', an' wasted th' fuel summat fearful by piling it agen th' doors; an' so, thinks th' Maister, when th' shed is nigh empty he cannot find a better time to go scattering peats all up an' dahn th' moorside."

"They say it war Hiram Hey hisseln that telled Red Ratcliffe where to find th' peats," put in the Sexton's wife.

"Begow, who telled thee, Nanny? I thowt I'd kept a close mouth on 't."

"Well, news goes wi' th' wind, as they say, an' it's all ower th' parish by now how wise Hiram war fooled by a Ratcliffe."

Hiram moved to the door. "Dang it, I wish folk hed as mich to do as me, an' then they'd hev no time for gossip," he growled.—"Where mun I stack thy peats, Nanny?"

"I' th' cellar-hole, for sure. Where else?—But tha'd mebbe like a sup o' home-brewed, Hiram, afore tha unloads 'em?"

"I doan't care so mich if I do. I'm nowt at drinking myseln, but there's a time for all things, an' 'tis a body's plain duty to keep th' cowd out on a day like this. Gi'e us hod o' them tatie-sacks, Nanny; it'll be th' death o' yond owd hoss if he's left wi' niver a coat to his back."

Hiram was never gentle save with horses; but he covered the thick thewed beast as carefully as if it were an ailing good-wife.

"Tha daft owd fooil!" he muttered with rough tenderness. "'Twould niver do to let thee catch Browntitus, wod it, now?"

"'Tis nowt whether we catch th' 'Titus, seemingly," cried Nanny from within. "I'll get thee thy sup of ale this minute, lad, if tha'll nobbut shut th' door to."

Hiram did as he was bidden, and came and leaned over the lang-settle while he watched Nanny draw the ale from the barrel standing against the dresser. "If this fine spring weather 'ull nobbut skift afore, say th' back-end o' July," he went on, "we may hev crops enough to keep us wick. But I doubt it—ay, I doubt it."

And then, having shot his bolt at the old enemy, he settled himself placidly enough to his mug of home-brewed.

"Well, tha'll be well fund i' peats, Nanny," said Bet the slattern presently.

"It's varry thowtful, like, o' th' Maister," repeated the Sexton's wife, with another glance at the waiting cart.

"Ay, he's thowtful," put in Hiram grimly. "What dost think he did last week? I war so pinched wi' th' cowd, an' th' rheumatiz hed getten hod o' me so, what wi' sweating i' th' sun an' shivering at after i' th' wind, 'at I left a bit o' ploughing i' one o' th' high-fields. But, hoity-toity, that wodn't do for this keen young Maister, that didn't knaw oats fro' wheat a six-month sin'. I war up an' about th' next day; an' when I gets to th' field, thinking I'd look round a bit afore fetching th' plough, what should I find but th' Maister hisseln ploughing——"

"My sakes!" cried Nanny, lifting her floury hands. "They mud weel say i' Marshcotes that summat hes come to th' lad. Did he drive a straight furrow, like?"

"Well, he did," Hiram admitted grudgingly. "Eh, but I war mad! He nobbut looked at me once, an' he said niver a word, but went up an' dahn th' furrows, up an' dahn, till I could hev clouted him i' th' lugs. That's his way lately; he willun't rate me, or say 'at he wants this doing or wants that—he just taks hod hisseln, an' shames me into doing twice th' wark I did for his father."

"Where did he learn it all? He studied nowt save th' inside of a pewter-pot afore th' trouble began," said Betsy.

"That's what worrits me. I mind that as a lad he war all about th' fields, doing a bit here an' a bit there for sport when th' fancy took him; but he mun be a wick un to frame as he does at jobs nowadays. That's where 'tis; I think nowt on him, I allus hev said, an' he's no business to go farming like an owd hand."

"He's sticking at Marsh, seemingly, spite of all I've dinned at him to go to Cranshaw, where his cousins wod be glad to gi'e him shelter," said Nanny.

Hiram chuckled. "Well, if he stood up agen thy nattering, he mun be a staunch un. An' I will say this for th' lad—he's showing th' right sperrit there. There's none at Marsh but wod hev thowt less on him if he'd turned tail, choose what's to come."

"There's none at Marsh wi' a feather-weight o' wit, then," returned Nanny briskly. "Warn't it enough 'at they nigh burned th' house dahn——"

"A miss is as gooid as a mile. Ye may tak my word for 't, we'll see th' Waynes come a-top when th' moil is sattled. Th' young uns, Maister Griff an' t' others, is stiffening fine, an' all."

"I've heard as mich," said Bet. "They like as they saved th' owd place t' other neet, so I war telled."

"Eh, it war worth a load o' clover to hear how yond lad picked up one o' th' gate-stuns an' skifted th' Lean Man wi' 't. I war i' th' courtyard next morn, an' Shameless Wayne taks th' ball i' his hands an' turns it ower; an' I never see'd ony chap look so pleased-like an' proud as he looks at me. 'Hiram,' says he, ''tis a tidy weight to lift, this. I warrant yond lad couldn't do it again in a cool moment.' ''Tis a pity he hedn't a bit more strength,' says I, 'an' then he'd hev bruk th' Lean Man his backbone,' I says.—Well, tis a two-week sin' an' better, an' we've heard nowt no more fro' Wildwater. They got a bellyful that neet, I'm thinking."

"Ye can think too sooin, as th' saying is," put in Nanny. "Th' Lean Man is like them crawly hundred-legs 'at ye find i' th' walls—th' more bits ye cut him into, th' more bits there is to wriggle—each wi' bits o' legs of its own, an' all, to carry it into mischief."

"Ay, but they say he wears a daunted look," put in the slattern, stirring the peats with her foot. "Jonas Feather at th' Bull see'd him riding through Marshcotes awhile back, an' he niver stayed for a wet-your-whistle—just rode wi' slouched shoulders, an' a sort o' looseness i' his knees, an' ivery now an' then a speedy backard look ower his shoulders, as if——"

Nanny turned suddenly, a queer smile pinching her thin old face. "As if th' Dog war after him," she finished. "I knew how 'twould be—ay, I knew."

"Well, I niver see'd Barguest myseln, an' I doan't fancy I iver shall," said Hiram drily. "But there's a change come to th' Lean Man, for sure, an' iverybody is beginning to tak notice o' 't. Sometimes he's his old self, an' sometimes he fair dithers—an' by that token he's i' Marshcotes this morn, for I catched a sight of his back as I cam up th' hill."

"I may hev my own opinion o' th' Lean Man," broke in Bet Earnshaw, "but my man Earnshaw hes part work fro' Wildwater this winter, an' there'll mebbe be another spell i' store for him, now 'at there's so mich walling to be done on th' new intaken land."

"Earnshaw get work? Why, whativer would he do wi' 't, if he got it?" cried Hiram, with well-feigned amazement. "He'd drop it, I'm thinking, same as if 'twere a ferret, for fear it 'ud bite him."

"Now, Hiram—" began Bet.

But Hiram looked at her with large and fatherly contempt over the edge of his pewter, and his low deep voice vanquished the other's thinner note. "Well, th' young Maister is weel out o' what chanced to-neet at Marsh," he went on. "Yond bother all came of his marlaking wi' a Ratcliffe wench, an' I said to myseln afore iver th' Ratcliffes come. 'There'll be a judgment follow on sich light ways,' I says."

"A bonnie un tha art to talk," said Nanny. "What's this about thee an' Martha?"

Hiram fidgetted from one foot to the other. "What should there be?" he said.

"Nay, that's for thee to say. It's all ower Marshcotes 'at tha'rt looking after her; an' some says she willun't hev thee, being keen set on shepherd Jose."

"Owd fooil! She's niver looked twice his way—no, nor will do while Hiram Hey stands i' th' forefront of her een."

"Oh, so there's summat in 't, then?" said Nanny sharply.

Hiram, driven to bay, scratched his thinning crown and muttered that he was "allus backard i' coming forrard."

"Begow, there's little Mistress Wayne!" cried Nanny on the sudden as her busy eyes caught sight of a cloaked figure going past her window to the graveyard. "What a day for th' likes o' her to be out o' doors. There's snow coming up wi' th' wind, an' fond as she is to hev her bit of a crack wi' Witherlee, she mud better hev stopped i' th' house to-day. It'll save thee going to Marsh, howsiver, Bet; tha can axe her what tha wants, an' nowt no more about it."

"Tha'rt right, Nanny. I'll watch for her coming back—she willun't be long, I warrant, on sich a day as this. They say she spends a lot o' time i' th' kirkyard, poor soul."

"Ay, Witherlee an' her is birds of a feather—fuller o' dreams nor life, an' i' touch, so to say, wi' th' ghosties. He tells her tales by th' hour together o' what he's seen i' th' kirkyard; an' she listens like a bairn, saying a word now an' then, but mostly sitting dumb-like wi' her een fixed on his face."

Hiram went to the door and watched Mistress Wayne go through the graveyard wicket; then shook his head soberly. "A man has little left to believe in when he gets to my years," he said, "an' ghosts an' sich like is nowt i' my way; but 'tis gooid for th' young Maister 'at yond poor soul cleaves like a lapdog to him—they bring luck, there's no denying it, to them as they tak a fancy to."

"They bring luck, an' they bring healing," said the Sexton's wife with a glance at her neighbour.

"Now, Nanny," cried the farm-man, setting down his mug. "Dost think I've getten all th' morning to waste on thee an' thy peats? There's nowt like wenches for hindering wark; an' time's like milk—tha cannot pick it up again when 'tis spilled."

"Well, tha canst win forrard," said the Sexton's wife. "There's nobody hindering thee, is there?"

While Hiram settled to the work of unloading the peats and storing them in the roomy cellar that underlay Nanny's cottage, Mistress Wayne was wandering up and down the churchyard in search of Sexton Witherlee. The Sexton came out of his tool-house presently, and his eyes were exceedingly friendly as they fell on the little figure moving through the snowflakes.

"What, Mistress!" he cried. "Ye're noan flaired o' wind an' weather, seemingly."

"Good-morrow, Sexton. I've brought thee the first of the primroses," said Mistress Wayne, drawing a tiny bunch of half-opened buds from under her cloak.

"Now, that's varry kindly o' ye, Mistress, varry kindly," murmured Witherlee, laying the flowers in his open palm. "By th' Heart, but 'tis a queer world these little chaps hes oppened on to; thowt it war spring, they did, wi' winds as soft as butter—an' then, just as they've getten nicely unwrapped, like, th' winter is dahn on 'em again wi' a snarl. Ay, ay, th winter is allus carred behind some corner, like a cat wi' a mouse, ready to pounce on sich frail things as these." He glanced from the primroses to Mistress Wayne, as if she and they came under the one head of frailty.

"They were better gathered, Sexton; I found them in a sheltered nook of the Marsh garden—but oh, 'twas cold even there—they were better gathered, were they not?"

"To be sure, to be sure. We're all better gathered nor standing on our stems, as these quiet bodies under sod could tell ye if they'd getten tongues.—Theer, Mistress! Ye're shaking like a reed. Come ye wi' me under th' Parsonage yonder, if ye mun bide a bit; 'tis out o' th' wind."

"Oh, yes, 'tis warmer here—much warmer," she said, seating herself on a flat tombstone that stood against the wall and making a pretty motion to the Sexton that he should sit beside her.

The snow fell sparsely out of the blue, and the sun was bright; but overhead the peewits wheeled in narrowing circles, and prophecy of storm was in their cries.

"Tell me," began Mistress Wayne, after a long silence. "The folk sleeping here—if they had tongues, thou said'st, Sexton; have they not, then? I thought—" she stopped, and lifted two puzzled eyes to his.

The Sexton's face grew wrapt, and his voice came dreamily. "Ye thowt—nay, ye knew—that they could frame to talk as weel as me an' ye? An' so they can, Mistress. Hark to th' peewits up aboon us! There's a dead maid's sperrit wakes i' each o' yon drear birds. White breasts they've getten, for maidenhood, an' black cloaks i' sign o' sorrow niver-ending."

The little woman shivered and put her hand more closely into his. "The dead are rested, Sexton? Is't not so?" she whispered.

"Well, men sleep sound, body an' sperrit, i' a general way, an' so do wedded women: 'tis the lassies who died afore wedlock, wanting it that cannot rest; ay, poor bairns, they like as they hunger an' thirst for what they lacked, an' nowt 'ull do for 'em. See ye, Mistress! How th' teewits wheel an' wheel, niver resting. An' hark ye! There's Mary Mother's own wild sorrow i' their screams."

Mistress Wayne watched the birds glance white and black across the sun-rays. A score of them there might be, but each followed its own path, lonely, untiring, inconsolable. A strange light came into the little woman's eyes, and after it a cloud of tears; like the voice of fellow-captives, in life's prison-house, the plover's cry struck home to her, disentangling memory from phantasy. Still as the graveyard stones she sat, and the Sexton, stealing a glance at her, knew that this woman stood, like himself, on the thin edge of life, seeing both worlds yet finding a resting-place in neither.

"Will they never find peace, those white-breasted ghosts up yonder?" she whispered. "Is there no God to take pity on them? Sexton, is there no God in Heaven?"

"I've heard tell on Him," said Witherlee slowly, "but I niver hed speech nor sign fro' Him. Th' slim ghosts I knaw, an' th' solid look o' grave-planking I knaw—but I'm dim, Mistress, dim, when ye axe me of owt else. Nay, I've heard th' teewits fret iver sin' I war out o' th' cradle, an' they're fretting still; an' when there comes a fresh Sexton to Marshcotes—I'll be th' first to mak him sweat at grave-digging, likely—why, there'll be teewits wheeling still aboon his head."

Her eyes were lifted piteously to his. "'Tis that keeps them sleeping—to die before wedlock, and never to feel a bairn's mouth soft against their own. I shall be one of them soon, Sexton—very soon; it was to have been my wedding-day—" she passed a hand across her forehead, striving to pick up the thread that seemed for ever slipping from her grasp.

"Happen—happen there's a God hid somewhere," said Witherlee, in the tone of one who tells a fairy-story to a child. "I reckon, if there be, He'll look thy way, Mistress, afore so long. Tak heart, an'—"

The clue was coming nearer to her. "Nay, there's no God up there, Sexton," she broke in. "I left Him—years ago, surely—down in the sweet valley-lands. There were woods, and streams, and kine knee-deep among the swaying grasses; and the winds were warm, Sexton, and God was very kind. I was happy then, I think—but some one came and took me away—nay, it has gone again!" She paused and looked wistfully across the hills.

"I've heard o' th' Low Country," murmured Witherlee. "They say there's more warmth an' ease dahn there, but th' fowk is nobbut frail-like wi' it all, I fancy. Ay, an' I war telled, by one 'at hed been i' them furrin parts an' come back to Marshcotes, that th' meadow-grass there, for all it grows so thick, is rank an' noan so sweet as our hard-won crops up here. Well, well, there's some mun live lower nor Marshcotes, just as there's some mun carry weakly bodies their lives through."

Mistress Wayne did not hear him. Her eyes were still on the field climbing far-off to the sky, with their black walls and the white lines of snow that lay on the windward side of them. "It was like that, Sexton, when first I came here," she went on presently, pointing with her finger. "Naught but black walls, and white drifts of snow, and drear houses that seemed to scowl at you each time you crossed the threshold. And the people were all so rough and hard, and fierce—they frightened me—Sexton, shall I never again get down to the meadows and the nightingales and the sweetbriar hedges under which the violets grow?"

"To be sure ye will, sooin as th' weather 'ull let ye travel," said Witherlee kindly.—"An' now ye've stayed still long enough, Mistress, an' th' snaw is coming dahn i' earnest this time. Mebbe ye'll step inside wi' me till it's owered wi', an' Nanny shall mak ye a sup o' summat warm."

Hiram Hey, meanwhile, had just finished stacking Nanny's peats for her, and was beginning to back his horse down the narrow lane, when there came such a fury of wind and snow together that he was fain to shelter in the doorway.

"Look out o' window, Nanny," he cried, "for ye'll noan see th' like again for a week o' years. Sun an' wind—an' th' dust so thick among th' snowflakes 'at it turns 'em grey. By th' Heart, I nobbut once see'd dust an' snaw so thick together, an' that war a score year back, on th' varry day when th' Ratcliffes first set on th' Waynes as they war riding back fro' Saxilton market. Ay, 'tis a sign as sure as I stand here wi' th' wind cutting me to th' bone."

"April snow," muttered Bet the slattern. "They say it means drear happenings."

"'Tis a fearsome sight, whativer it bodes," said Nanny, peeping from under Hiram's arm.—"Here's Witherlee been driven home by it, an' it taks a lot to skift him, I tell ye. What, an' he's bringing th' little fairy-kist un, an' all? Well, she's paid a stiffish price, poor bairn, an' it's noan for me to grudge her shelter."

Hiram, after a curt nod to Witherlee, went to his horse's head. "There'll be enough to fill Nanny's kitchen without me, I'm thinking," he muttered; "an' I niver could bide so many women all dickering together—nay, begow, I'd liefer hev snow an' dust an' all th' winds i' th' sky."

A horseman came trotting round the bend of the street, and shouted to Hiram to cease backing his horse and leave him room to pass. But the farm-man could be as deaf as a stone when it suited his purpose; he had seen the rust-grey head and lean body of the horseman, and he kept on his way, backing the cart more slowly than was needful until he gained the open high-road.

The Lean Man was holding his big bay horse on the curb and scarce could keep him in. "Art deaf, fellow?" he snapped, swinging the butt of his riding whip toward the other's head.

Hiram went quietly to the other side of his horse and looked across at the Lean Man of Wildwater. "My hearing is noan what it war, Maister. War it ye shouting to me up th' loin?"

"Ay, was it. Dost think I'm minded on such a day as this, to stand shivering at the lane-end while thou block'st the way?—So, 'tis thou, is it?" he broke off, with a sharper glance at Hiram. "I thought that slouch of thine was woundily familiar. Art minded to boast of the great store of peats ye have at Marsh, as thou didst not long since to my grandson?"

Hiram winced, for it was bitter to him still to think how easily Red Ratcliffe had outwitted him, and Nanny's late banter had rubbed an old wound raw. "We've fewer peats, Maister," he said slowly—"but th' owd house stands, I've noticed. Ay, 'tis proof agen fire an' sword, they say."

Old Nicholas could make nothing of the farm-man's stolid front. "Cherish that belief, and teach it to thy Master," he said.

"Nay, he needs no teaching. He knaws, weel as I can tell him, that a Brown Dog ligs on th' threshold, an'——"

The Lean Man loosed the curb on a sudden and rode into the snowstorm that blew dusty up the lane.

"I thowt he wodn't stay to hear no more," said Hiram to his horse. "Get on, old lad, an' if we find Shameless Wayne at Marsh, we'll tell him what we said to Nicholas Weasel-toppin. He's flaired is th' Lean Man—flaired."

Bet the slattern had moved to the cottage-door soon as she saw Mistress Wayne come through the churchyard gate with Witherlee.

"There's summat I want to axe of ye, Mistress," she said, twisting an apron-corner in her feckless hands. "I've getten a little un as is like to dee o' th' Brown Titus, an' I thowt mebbe ye'd step in next door here an' gi'e th' bairn a touch o' your hand—they like as they pike up, so to say, when they feel a softer hand on 'em nor us that wark for our bread hev getten."

The same half-troubled, half-eager look came into Mistress Wayne's face as when she had lately talked with the Sexton of children and the childless women. Cold as she was, and anxious for the warmth of the peat fire which showed through Nanny's open door, she turned on the threshold.

"If 'twill comfort the child, I'll come with thee and gladly," she said.

"Ay, an' ye'll cure her, Mistress," put in Witherlee, with quiet assurance.

"Why do all the folk come running to me, Sexton, when their friends are sick?" asked Mistress Wayne. "I am so weak and can do nothing for them, and yet—" She stopped and clutched the old man. "Look who rides toward us!" she cried, shrinking behind Bet's bulky figure. "His face is scarred as if hot iron had played across it, and he lacks an ear. I know him, Sexton; he was cruel to me once—but where? 'Tis long ago, and I forget."

"Th' Lean Man, begow!" muttered Nanny. "Hiram said he war i' Marshcotes, but I niver thowt he'd foul my door-stun wi' his face.—Ay, he looks daunted a bit; he's not half th' man he war a two-week sin'," she added, eyeing the horseman narrowly and not guessing that Hiram Hey himself had added his straw to the sum of the Lean Man's burden.

Nicholas, seeing the women grouped round the door, drew rein and snapped his words out as he always did when talking to the country-folk—a habit that had earned him a good half of their ill-concealed dislike.

"Where is thy man Earnshaw? I want him," he said, frowning down on Bet.

"Earnshaw, Maister? I'm sure I cannot tell ye. He's hed no wark these two weeks past, an' happen he gets into loosish ways when——"

"Well, tell him from me that we're short of hands for the walling beyond Wildwater, and the sooner he can come with a stiff back to the work, the better I shall be suited. If he knows of half-a-dozen other stout fellows, he can bring them with him." He was turning away when his eyes fell on little Mistress Wayne, shrinking close behind Bet Earnshaw. "Oh, is it you, Mistress?" he cried. "What brings you out of doors on such a day? Marry, the wind will mistake you for a bit of thistle-down unless you have a care."

"I—I am going to heal a sick child," stammered Mistress Wayne. Still she could not remember when she had last seen this grim-faced man, nor in what way he had shown her cruelty; but instinctively she feared that he would do her some fresh hurt.

Nicholas laughed mightily. "By the Mass, so there's healing in your touch? Would I had known that the other night, when your kin at Marsh planted these pretty love-tokens on my face." He pointed to the scarce-healed scars. "Come, now, that should bolster the Wayne pride—to have a wise woman in the family to set against a foolish master."

The Sexton's wife dared not look at him, lest he should see how she itched to set her hands about his throat; but her voice confessed as much. "'Tis easy to scoff, Maister, when ye've no clouds across your sun, an' there's a mony doubts nowadays. Ay, there's them as doubts Barguest even—afore he's crossed their path." She shot a sideways glance at him, and saw that she had aimed true.

"He has never crossed mine, woman, so I'll be on the doubting side yet awhile," he answered, after a silence.

"Well, ye'll know best; but ye've crossed Barguest, if he's noan crossed ye, an' they say it's mich like wedlock, is crossing th' Brown Dog—him an' ye till death do ye part. But theer! I've telled ye as mich afore, an' happen I'm full o' fancies, for ye say ye've niver seen him sin' that neet."

Nicholas Ratcliffe wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve, and gave one quick glance behind him. Whichever way he turned, it seemed he could not rid him of these folk who talked of Barguest.

"Devil take thee!" he cried. "There's no such thing—and if there were I'd fight him with a dozen Waynes to back him. Get to your healing, Mistress Wayne; you are fit company for Nanny Witherlee."

Mistress Wayne eyed him doubtfully. "No such thing as Barguest?" she said gravely. "Sir, I have seen him—just before the fires were lit about the Marsh doorways, it was, and I was in the garden with Ned, and the Brown Dog came and fawned on him,—his coat was shaggy—brown against Ned's clothes. And he whimpered so; and I think it was because he was cold and in trouble that he lit a fire to warm himself."

The Lean Man's anger melted; something awesome there was about this woman's quiet recountal that compelled belief. "You—you saw him?" he whispered. Then his old spirit quelled the rising terror, and he gripped the saddle afresh with his knees. "Tell him from me then, since you're friendly to him," he sneered, jerking the snaffle, "tell him that Nicholas Ratcliffe fears neither ghost nor man, and if Barguest cares to visit him at Wildwater—" The rest was drowned by the clatter of his horse's feet as he galloped down the lane.

"Neither ghost nor man?" echoed Nanny. "Ye're th' far side o' th' truth, there, Maister. I niver heard that ye feared man born o' woman—but ony one can see that Barguest hes getten his teeth in."

"Sakes, 'tis fearsome talk; I wish tha'd hod thy whisht, Nanny, that I do," twittered Bet Earnshaw.

But Nanny was no bustling housewife now, with a ready hand for whatever was to be done and a ready tongue to answer any speech; she was the same dream-eyed woman who had rung the bell for Wayne of Marsh, who had watched Wayne's body the night through and listened to the speech of other worlds.

"Mistress, ye've getten th' second-sight," she said softly, putting an arm about Mistress Wayne. "God rest ye, for ye'll stand 'twixt Shameless Wayne and trouble one day. Mistress Nell has done it, an' I've done it, an' so will ye, sooin or late; an' yourn 'ull be th' greatest help of all, for ye've seen th' Dog, while we've nobbut heard th' patter of his feet."

CHAPTER XIV

HOW WAYNE AND RATCLIFFE MET AT HAZEL BRIGG

The days had gone heavily for Janet since the Lean Man made his bargain with the Ratcliffe men-folk. Fear for Shameless Wayne mingled with the dread that she would be forced into hasty wedlock with one of her cousins; and each day that passed brought nearer home to her the grim irony which had set Wayne's life as the price of her own hand. Then, too, she had no trust in Red Ratcliffe, now that he knew her secret, and scarce a day passed but he pressed his suit home with threats of telling all to old Nicholas Ratcliffe.

Trouble, indeed, seemed closing in on Wildwater during those bitter days of sun and snow and northeast winds, which, if they had dealt hardly with the low-lying lands, had swept over these upland wastes with swift and pitiless ferocity. The Lean Man was failing, body and mind, in some strange way which the girl could not understand: for a day or two he would be hard and keen as ever, and then, suddenly as if he had been stricken by some unseen blade, the life would go out of him, and he would watch his own shadow fearfully, shunning the eyes of his kin until the fit had passed. Janet was fond of her grandfather, so far as she could reconcile such fondness with her love for Shameless Wayne, and it added the last touch of disquiet to see him under the spell of what she could not but name witchcraft. Once he had come home from Marshcotes—the same day it was which had brought him across Mistress Wayne's path as she went to heal Bet Earnshaw's child—and his eyes had met Janet's with a dumb appeal for sympathy. He had all but made confession to her then touching this spell which lay upon him; but the mood had passed, as others had passed before it, and the days wore on, from storm to calm, from calm to full break of spring, without a word from him that could give her any clue to the nature of his sickness.

This morning, as they sat at breakfast, Nicholas was in gay spirits and very full of what must be done here and done there about the land. "Spring's here at last, and we must make the most of it, lads," he cried. "Did Earnshaw bring any men with him to do the walling?"

"Ay, sir, he brought six as shiftless as himself," laughed Red Ratcliffe.

"Well, there's a cure for shiftlessness, and I'll ride that way this morning.—Janet, 'tis a twelve-month and a day since we had plovers' eggs for breakfast, and they'll be breeding now. Thou art fond of wandering abroad to no purpose; wilt take as kindly to it if I bid thee carry a basket on thy arm?"

"Just as kindly, grandfather," said Janet, well pleased to see him in a mood so cheery; "and if my old cunning serves me, I'll bring you home a well-filled basket."

"I'll warrant thou wilt, though it takes a nimble wit to match the tricksy mother-birds.—By the Heart, this springtime gets even into old blood, methinks; let's be off, lads, for we've wasted enough of a grand morning, and there's a deal to be got through before nightfall."

"Both here and on Wayne's farm. Ay, 'tis a busy time for the moorside," said Red Ratcliffe, glancing at Nicholas as they rose from table.

The Lean Man frowned him down, but Janet had caught the glance, and she misliked her cousin's tone. She welcomed Red Ratcliffe, accordingly, with less than her wonted coldness when he followed her into the courtyard a short while afterward, for she was bent on learning what lay behind his talk of Wayne's farm.

"Thou'rt quick to set off, cousin," he said. "Tell me, do the plovers nest at Marsh House, that thou showest so eager to seek their eggs?"

"I know little of Marsh House, sir, and my way lies contrary across the moor."

"Why, then, thou wilt be glad of a companion. Say, shall I come with thee, pretty Janet?"

"If it pleases thee," she answered.

He sought for mockery in her face, but, finding a half encouragement there, he fell into step beside her. Then, not understanding the slant ways of women, he must needs think that all was his for the asking, if only he put a bold front on it.

"Janet," he said, "I knew thou'd'st weary of this feather-headed rogue from Marsh. Put thy hand in mine and say 'yea' to a plain question, and I'll think no more of jealousy."

"Many thanks, cousin. Thou wooest, methinks, as a ploughboy would. Whoa, he cries to his team, or gee-up, and being used to have his horses obey him, he thinks women have as little wit."

"He holds the whip, girl, as I do, and so is sure of them. Hark ye, I'm tired of this, and I will have thy answer. Flout me again, and I tell the Lean Man what I know."

Her anger, never quiet when Red Ratcliffe was at her elbow, broke into sudden flame. "Tell him, and have done with it. I care not," she cried, forgetting that she had meant to wheedle him into telling her what she wished to know.

"Hast never seen the Lean Man's anger, that thou talk'st so glibly of it? Pish! Thou'rt a child. If I were so much as to hint that Shameless Wayne met thee by stealth, grandfather would—kill thee, I think."

"That is true, cousin, he would go near to kill me," she said, standing straight and proud with her eyes on his. "And why should I fear that at his hands which I would compass myself rather than be wife to such as thou?"

"Who fathered thee, I wonder?" he sneered. "No Ratcliffe, I'll wager, or thou would'st have died of shame long since to let one of the Wayne hounds foul thee with his touch."

"Wayne of Marsh, cousin, is a better fighter, and of a more cleanly courtesy than thou," said she, with a hard laugh. "No wonder the thought of him is bitter—the carrion crow likes not the eagle, does it?"

He turned on her, his hand uplifted, but she eluded him. And then he let slip, in the heat of jealousy what prudence would have checked.

"The carrion-crow, for all that, will be bosom comrade to him before long," he cried. "'Twas pleasant to see the Lean Man so full of cheeriness? But what did it mean, girl? Why, that he saw a way to snare thy fool of Marsh."

For a moment she faltered; but her pride in Wayne of Marsh, which was comrade always to her love for him, steadied her fear of coming evil. "Ye have hatched plans aforetime," she answered quietly—"at the burial in Marshcotes kirkyard, and when ye got fire to help cold steel at Marsh. And Red Ratcliffe, if I recall, fled each time that Wayne showed a sword-point to him."

His freckled, wind-raw face was ill to look upon, and in among his speech the wildest curses of the hillside slipped and stumbled. "I fled from the Brown Boggart, not from Wayne—but the Dog will sleep one day, and then 'twill be my turn, man to man.—Ay, I'll tell thee just what is afoot, and thou shall have that to give thee courage when the Lean Man rails at thee. Suppose Wayne has a farm called Bents close up to Wildwater? Suppose old Nicholas, passing yester-even, saw that the storms had riven half the roof-slates off, and twitted the farmer with Wayne's slovenliness?"

"'Twould not be like grandfather to pass without such raillery. Ay, sir, go on."

Janet was watching him narrowly, letting his unclean oaths drift past her, and hearkening only to what lay under them. And he, eager to wound her at any cost, went blindly on.

"Suppose the farmer, all in the way of those who have dealings with the young Master just as Hiram Hey did when I tried the same trick on him, and telling Nicholas that Shameless Wayne himself was coming up this week to see to the mending of the roof?"

"On what day does he come?" asked Janet softly.

"I'll tell thee that after we've met him on the road—and, as thou'rt kindly toward him, I'll bring thee back some pretty love-token. What shall it be, Janet—a drabbled lock of hair, or——"

"They name thee cruel, cousin—but I think thou hast been very kind just now," she interposed.

"God's faith, art witless altogether?" he cried, dumbfounded by her hardiness.

"Nay, for I've learned what will serve one I love. Get thee back to Wildwater, cousin, with thy tale-bearing. 'Tis thou and I now, a man against a maid, and the thought of fighting thee is physic to my blood."

He saw now into what folly he had been betrayed. She would seek out Shameless Wayne, and one more attempt to rid them of their enemy would be defeated.

"Thou'lt not—not dare to warn him," he stammered.

"Shall I not? Those that they hang at the gibbets, I've heard—down in the peaceful lands where gibbets are—had as lief be hung for a herd of oxen as for one poor sheep. Grandfather can do no more than kill me—well, I'll give him greater cause."

He stood irresolute while the girl moved up the path. Eager as he was to carry her back forthwith to Wildwater, he knew that any show of force would serve only to deepen the girl's hate of him.

"She's passing dear to the Lean Man, too," he muttered. "He'll be loath to turn against her as it is—and 'twould only discredit the tale I have to tell him if I used force. Well, let her go. Haply she will not set eyes on Shameless Wayne."

Yet twice he started in pursuit; and when at last she had dipped over the nearest hill-crest, his bitterness would not be held in check.

"I offered her honest love, and she refused it," he cried, kicking the peat up with his heel in senseless frenzy. "God curse her, she shall not wed Wayne of Marsh till thistle-tops grow wheat."

But Janet, swinging free across the moor, was strangely light of heart. The deceit that had lain between herself and Nicholas was to be lifted once for all, whatever might be the upshot, and there was no longer any secret by force of which Red Ratcliffe could press his suit. Not for a moment did she doubt that her cousin would fulfil his threat; the Lean Man's wrath she regarded as awaiting her already at Wildwater, and she had learned not to underrate its fury. But by some means she would fight them, for her own sake and for Shameless Wayne's; and she came of a stock to whom battle had ever been what the wind was to the storm-birds who hovered the year about the chimney-stacks of Wildwater.

She would go straight down to Marsh, she told herself, and ask for its Master. The servants would wonder, doubtless, and the moorside gossip would be fed by the strange tale of how a daughter of the Ratcliffes had come to seek her people's enemy; but what did gossips matter now that she had declared open warfare with her folk? There was a grim reckoning for her at Wildwater, and she did not shrink from it for her own sake; but Shameless Wayne must be kept out of danger's way, and see him she must before returning if he had to be sought from Marsh to Cranshaw.

Janet laughed on the sudden, as she crossed the rough stretch of moor that lay this side of Withens. She was to see Shameless Wayne before the sun went down, and to do him a last service; and the lark's song overhead found a blithe answer in her heart. Then, too, the moor was in joyous mood, and no upland tarn ever reflected the sky's face more faithfully than Janet echoed the shifting humours of this big-little world of hers. No year went by but she learned all afresh how rare and bewildering a thing was springtime on the moor; so warm it was, so full of a thousand clean-cut scents, of wind and peat, of ling and standing waters. The bilberries, with their green and crimson leaves, lay bushy to the sunlight, which shone reflected in tints of amethyst or ruby, pearl or daintiest saffron. The crowberries, which had shown a surly green the winter through, put on new livery, and all down their serried stems the brown-red blossoms peeped. A stray bee loitered down the wind, and cloudlets lay like snow above the blue edge of the heath.

It was the time of year when Janet ceased looking across the endless spaces of the moor, and turned her eyes to the lesser miracles that showed at every step. Month after month the waste had shown itself a giant of awful majesty, whose breath was storm, whose heart was pitiless; and now—lo, this moor was full of little housewife's cares, cleaning her floors of last year's litter, suckling her young like any human mother, neglecting no hidden corner where blade or flower was thirsting for her milk.

Past Robin Hood's Well the girl went, and across the beck, and over the moor this side of Withens; and as she went she thought that surely Wayne of Marsh must lose a little of his sternness under such skies as these. Nay, she smiled as she looked toward the far-off brink of moor under which Marsh House lay hidden.

"If not for myself, he'll love me for my news, may be," she said, and smiled again as she thought of what might chance when she knocked at the door of the Marsh House and asked for Shameless Wayne. How if his sister Nell should open to her and ask her business? Once already they had met, she and Nell, since the feud broke out; and Nell had taunted her with outright bitterness; and they had not parted till deep wounds had been given and received on either side.

"Were she to open to me," murmured Janet, "she would rive a spear down from the walls and thrust me out, for fear another than she should help Ned into safety. Well, I must risk that, too—but I had liefer meet the Lean Man than this same Mistress Nell. Love is jealous, they say—but for madness it is naught to this quiet, sisterly affection."

The peewits screamed about her, and the empty basket was still swinging on her arm; and now and then from very habit, she cast a glance about her in search of the eggs which she had promised to bring back to Wildwater. But Marsh was in her mind, and with each mile her stride grew longer, her carriage firmer. She was to see Ned, and after that she would let come what would. Soon she came in sight of Hill House standing bluff on the further slope of Hazel Dene, and a song rose unbidden to her lips; for Hill House held kinsmen of her lover's, and it was scarce more than half a league from Marsh.

Janet was nearer to the truth than perchance she guessed; for Nell's love of her brother, the slow growth of years of thwarted hopes and bitter self-denial, was firm as the rock on which Marsh House was built. He had been a ruffler and a drunkard, so wild that his name had grown a by-word among folk who were not easily moved by any usual excesses of the gentry; he had all but killed the last spark of love and trust in her; and now, just when he had cast off old ways, and had stood up, a man, before scorn and intimate, hourly danger and the slow round of farm-work which he loathed—now, it seemed that all was to go for naught because of his love for one of the accursed folk who dwelt at Wildwater. Jealous she would have been of any wife, but it was shame unspeakable to think that Janet might ever take her place at Marsh; and she was full of the matter this morning as she and Shameless Wayne walked up the fields together.

"Ned," she cried, breaking an uneasy silence, "dost recall how once I asked thee about Mistress Ratcliffe? Thou said'st then it was a folly laid aside, yet now——"

"Well, now?" he said, in a hard voice.

"I have heard that not long since thou wast with her on the moor, stooping more closely to her ear than friendship alone warranted."

"'Twas Hiram Hey told thee as much? He's the wise sort of fool who must hunt out the wrong side to every trivial matter."

"Nay, it is common gossip by this time. I had it from Nanny Witherlee, who has loved us well enough, Ned, thee and me, to allow of freedom in her speech. She is of my mind, too—that the last and worst disaster would fall on Marsh if——"

"If the clouds dropped, or the sun shone bright at midnight?" he broke in stormily. "I have told thee, Nell, that there is naught between us now—can be naught. Dost want to hear me swear it?"

"Yet thou lov'st her," she said, with the keen glance of jealousy.

"Ay, as I love the good life in my veins," he answered, his voice deepening. "But what of that? Even life must go, soon or late; am I a woman, to think love the one thing that must not be crushed?"

"'Tis the one thing that none can lay plans against. Hark ye, Ned! Mistress Ratcliffe met thee by chance, I take it, and ye talked awhile together and then passed on. Thou wilt meet her again—to-morrow—and some trick of speech or eye will sweep thee off thy feet—and thou'lt wonder, having played with steel, that the sharp edge cuts thee to the bone."

He flushed, and would not meet her glance. "If chance sends her across my path, I can help it as little as if a dozen of her kinsmen met me by the way—and, faith, the latter would prove more hazardous, I fancy. Shut thy mind to it once for all, Nell; I love her, and she's naught to me, and there we'll leave the riddle."

Never until now had Nell complained, nor touched on her old devotion to him; but his open confession, twice repeated, jarred on her beyond endurance. "I've a right to speak, Ned," she cried. "I loved thee before this wanton crossed thy path; I have cared for thy comfort in fifty little ways thou know'st naught of. When father was hard on thee for thy wildness——"

"I know, lass, I know," he muttered, his anger chilled. For remorse never slept so sound with Wayne of Marsh but that the lightest touch could wake it.

"And later, when Rolf pleaded hard with me to wed him—he quarrelled with me but yesterday about it—I would not go, because thou hadst need of me at Marsh. See, Ned, I've been sorry and glad with thee—I've given up more, to keep thee out of wildness, than I shall ever tell. Is all to go for naught, because a woman beckons lightly to thee from across the moor?"

"I have told thee," he said, and left her without another word.

Old habit claimed her now. "Ned!" she called. "If thou must go to Hill House, promise thou'lt stray no further afield after thou hast done thy business there. The Ratcliffes are itching to be at thee, and——"

"I'll go no further," he answered over his shoulder; "and as for the Ratcliffes—they know how many Waynes are sheltered by Hill House; 'tis no likely hunting-ground for them."

His mood was bitter as he crossed the brigg below Smithbank Farm and climbed the narrow stile that opened on to Hazel Dene. Nell had said hard things of Mistress Ratcliffe, and not all her care for him could wipe out the memory. Was Janet to be named wanton, because she had been born at Wildwater? It was unjust. Little by little her beauty took shape before him, to back his pleading with weightier arguments than his own poor wit could furnish; and all the while that same resistless breath of spring was blowing on him which up above was lightening Janet's feet across the heath.

There was a throstle in every thorn-bush and a merle on every alder, each singing hard against the other in harmony with the note of the south wind through the rush and the tinkle of water over smooth-worn stones. The corn-mill was busy with the hum of toil as he passed, and along the little strip of garden-path the miller's wife was teaching her first-born child to walk.

Wayne halted a moment and let his eyes dwell on the tender frolic of it all; then sighed impatiently and pushed up the stream side till he reached the moor. To the right the bare fields stretched to the sky, catching a shadowed softness from the sunlight; to the left, Hill House glowered down upon the dark cleft that nursed the waterfall.

"Ay, this picture has more truth in 't than yonder idleness of spring below," he muttered, watching a hawk glance down on molten wing and lift a screaming moor-tit in its beak.

On the sudden a clear voice came over the swell of the brinkfield up above, singing a moorland ballad of love and battle—a voice that had something of the throstle's nesting-note in it. Shameless Wayne, shading his eyes with both hands, looked up the hill and saw a well-known figure standing clear against the sky. He started forward eagerly; but his face was dark again as he waited at the little brigg of stone until Janet reached the further margin of the stream; and she, seeing him, halted at the far side of the brigg, under the rowan that waved its feathery shadows to and fro above the sun-flecked waters. But still Wayne gave no greeting, though his eyes were fain of her.

"I give thee good-day," she faltered, chilled by his silence. "Wilt not tell me, Ned, that 'tis well-met by Hazel Brigg?"

Wayne looked across at her, and his face showed harsher than his thoughts. "Ay—wert thou a Wayne, or I a Ratcliffe, girl," he said.

Janet had learned to know this mood of his; at their last meeting—the same which Red Ratcliffe and Hiram the farm-man had surprised—he had met her with the same stubborn front. Then she had given way to her impatience; but this morning she was minded to be soft toward him, knowing the danger he was in and eager at all costs to save him from it.

"What ails thee, Ned?" she asked, after they had looked each at the other across the stream.

"Why, life, I think," he answered, with a hard laugh. "To take the stoniest road, and all the while to know one's self a fool for 't——"

"I had thought life somewhat sweeter than its wont to-day," she broke in, obstinate as himself in her own fashion. "The sun shines, and the larks sing——"

"But the feud-cries are louder still, and not if all the larks in heaven tried to sing them down would it be otherwise." Cold his voice was, with only a deeper note in it now and then to show how sorely it was fretting him to stand his ground.

"Art minded, I see, to take up the tale just where we left it on the moor when last we met," cried Janet, with a flash of scorn.

"Does the tale go lighter, Janet, for what has been added to it since we met? Thy folk came down to Marsh, and one of them did not go back again."

"Thou didst not bid him come—nor I wish him God-speed on his errand," said Janet, with a last effort to persuade him.

But Wayne made no answer—only stood there with a line cut deep between his brows and his face moulded beyond hope of change, it seemed, to an obstinacy that was almost surly.

"Nay, he was heartless," said Janet to herself. How often had she crossed the moor, full of the same eagerness that had come with her to-day? And he had always offered her less than she had brought him. Of old, some late debauch had dulled his welcome; and nowadays he met her with a sternness that was harder still to bear. Headstrong, with her strength and her need of happiness at flood, the girl could see but the one issue; it was Wayne and she, here on the quiet moor, and she would brook no interference from without.

"He's heartless," she repeated, and set one foot on the narrow bridge.

Wayne of Marsh stood at the further end, not moving to make way for her. And Janet, had she glanced at him, might have read indecision plainly in his face.

"Let me pass," she said, cold as himself. "The brigg, I take it, was built for all the moorside, and even a Ratcliffe is free to cross by it."

For answer he stood more squarely across her path. "I'll not let thee go!" he cried. Then, as if asking her help against himself, "Janet," he said, laying a hand on her shoulder, "I have killed three of thy folk, and the Ratcliffes in times past have slain more of mine than the fingers of both hands could count. Thou'rt free to pass, and—I was a fool to block thy way."

She looked him fairly in the face. "If thou hadst not killed when it was thy right, should I have thought the better of thee for it?" she asked.

Again Wayne did not answer. He wanted no wayward riddles of the sort that women give a man; temptation pressed more and more on him at each of these chance meetings, and it was bitter hard to fight it down. Janet, misreading his silence, moved down the path; but Wayne did not follow, and soon she faltered in her walk. Angered and ashamed she was, but she could not forget the errand that had brought her here; if she left Ned now without the warning she had come to give, his death would lie at her door. He was harsh now, and would turn a deaf ear to any warning; well, she must humour him until his mood showed likelier.

"Canst tell me, Ned, where best to search for plovers' eggs?" she asked, turning about and touching the basket on her arm to show its purpose. "They are so fond of the eggs at Wildwater, thou know'st, and I have been seeking all across Ling Crag Moor for them."

Wayne smiled despite himself. So like a child she was on the sudden, so earnest touching a light matter; and yet awhile since she had tempted him with storm and subtlety and all her woman's weapons.

"Fond of them, are they, at Wildwater?" he cried. "My faith, Janet, 'tis a pretty reason to give a Wayne of Marsh.— Come, then, for as it chances I can help thee in thy search. The Hill House folk showed me their nesting place but yesterday, and it lies at a stone's-throw above us yonder." He did not wait for her, but turned to climb the slope as if he guided her unwillingly.

Janet followed him up the spur of moor that backed Hill House; and still she would not remember the Lean Man, nor what awaited her at Wildwater; her mind was set wholly upon winning Ned from this black mood of his, that he might hearken to her warning. The climb grew steeper, and Wayne, with tardy courtesy, took the girl's hand to help her up the slippery clumps of bilberry.

"What brings thee so near to a Wayne homestead?" he asked, pointing to the grim front of the house above.

"Why should I fear? Our men folk fight, but none ever heard of one of your name waging war upon a woman."

"That is a true word," muttered Wayne, and would have said more, but checked himself.

"But the Ratcliffes have no such good repute? Nay! I know what was on thy tongue, Ned." Her face grew clouded, and a sudden, bitter cry escaped her. "Would God, dear lad, that it were different!" she cried.

Wayne's grasp tightened on her hand as he drew her half toward him. "There's a quaking bog, Janet, lies 'twixt what a man would and what he will," he cried. "God's life, girl, why must we always look askance at happiness?"

The words were forced from him, and under them was such a ring of passion as Janet had hungered for during many a long day of misery and dread that she had lately spent at Wildwater. This was a glimpse of the Ned she loved—hot, and eager, and rebellious. She had given all to him—shame and love of kin; and she was justified, whatever followed after. She would force him to tell her the secret that showed plain enough in eyes and voice; and then, if his sternness came again, she would not heed it.

"We have no feud, Ned, thou and I," she said, in the voice that once before the quarrel ripened, he had been free to hearken to.

For a moment he wavered, looking down at her. Behind her a sweep of blue leaned to the shoulders of the heath. The throstle's note came low and mellow from below, and in the sun's eye larks were singing wildly. Slim, warm and sweet she stood, a Ratcliffe and a maid.

Shameless Wayne had fought this battle once before, and thought to have killed desire; yet the struggle when he had met her by the kirk-stone, weeks ago, was but the beginning of an uphill road. It was as Nell had said, not an hour since, and this thing called love had fifty ways of ambush for a man.

"Hark ye, Janet," he said at last. "There shall no feud stand between us; 'twas of their making, and I love thy little finger better——"

He freed her on the sudden; his eyes went out far across the moor, and into them there leaped a fierceness and a dread.

"Ned, what is't?" she cried.

"What is't? I saw dead Wayne of Marsh come up the slope, with blood on his wearing-gear and sorrow on his face."

"Hush, for Our Lady's sake! Hush——"

"There 'twas a fancy, girl," he said, huskily. "We'll think no more on 't.—Here is the nesting-ground; and, see, I all but trode on the first pair of eggs."

She answered nothing but stooped for the blue-white eggs that lay on the bare ground at her feet. Each welcomed the excuse for silence, and each went gravely forward with the search. But neither the tragic thought of the dead master of Marsh, nor yet Ned's chill withdrawal from her glance, could make Janet less than glad that she had come to Hazel Brigg. He loved her, and by and by she would carry back the knowledge to lighten her footsteps home to Wildwater.

Overhead the mother-birds were wheeling—crying piteously each time that one or other of the searchers stopped to a fresh nest, yet striving all the while to lure them from this strip of heath that held a year's hopes for them. Birds and beasts were always sure of friendliness from Janet, and something in the plovers' screams touched a soft chord in her.

"They have a human sort of wit, Ned," she murmured, stopping to watch them when the basket was three-quarters filled. "See how they coax, and make feint, and do all to persuade us that their nests lie otherwhere. 'Tis pity we should rob them, when all is said."

Wayne was looking at her with his old bitter smile; for he had been thinking, not of love, but of the father who called him from the grave to gird his loins for the fights to come.

"Wilt take this basket to the Lean Man, Janet, and say that Shameless Wayne sends greeting with it?" he said.

"'Twould be a fairer token than thy last."

"Why, what dost thou know of tokens? They did not tell thee, surely?"

"I was the first to chance on it—the hand that lay on the boundary-stone, with thy greeting scrawled beside it."

He came and put his hand on hers, half tenderly. "It was no sight for thee. God knows I never thought a maid's eyes would light on it."

Janet, bewildered by the ebb and flow of feeling, could not withstand this touch of kindliness. She read his trouble with new understanding, and for the first time she realised how at each step she had made the struggle harder for him. Her pride in him took clear shape on the sudden. Nay, in this moment she loved the very stubbornness that held her from him. He had fought her as he had fought her kinsfolk, and he had won. One by one her doubts grew clearer; her folk were Waynes, as they had not been until now; and some day she would prove to him that she was as little a Ratcliffe as any who dwelt at Cranshaw or at Marsh. All this passed through her mind, in hurried, half-formed fashion; and then she needs must tell him of it.

"Speech has been hindered, Ned, between us," she said, "and we know not when another chance may come. I'll tell thee now what I have wished to tell thee many a long day past. Thou art one, and they are many; and it stirs my blood, Ned, to see the gallant fight thou'rt making."

Wayne tried to check her but she did not heed him.

"Once in the kirkyard and once at Marsh—and even the Ratcliffes say thou'rt something between man and devil when a sword is in thy hand. Hold fast, Ned, and strike keen, and thou'lt have the last word yet in this ill-matched quarrel."

"Nay, the pitcher goes once too oft to the well, Janet.—And as for the attack on Marsh, 'twas none of my doing that we beat them off. If the lads had not returned in good hour from the hunting, it would have been the Lean Man's turn."

She was silent awhile, thinking of what Red Ratcliffe had confessed to her this morning. The pitcher goes once too oft to the well—ay, there was truth in the hard old proverb.

"Ned," she cried, looking up on the sudden, "do not go to Bents Farm this week."

"Not go to Bent's? How didst learn I meant to ride up there at all?"

"Red Ratcliffe told me this morning. Ned, I'll not let thee go! They learned of thy coming from the farmer, and some plot is laid—I know not what—to meet thee by the way."

She stopped, for Wayne's face was darker than she had ever seen it, and there was anger in his voice—anger against her, who had sought only to rescue him from treachery. Thwarted, driven back upon herself, she forgot that Wayne's temper was sharpened to a knife-edge by his long struggle with desire. He stood defenceless between love and hate, and the knowledge of his weakness maddened him.

"What is your folk's is yours, Janet," he cried, "and what is my folk's is mine; and the Waynes must fall lower before they hearken to what a Ratcliffe has to tell them of her kinsmen's plans."

Her eyes were wide with amazement, and anger, and a hard sort of contempt. "That is the Wayne pride," she said—"what they call honour, but what their neighbours call stark folly. Nay! I know what is in thy mind. Women have no hold on the niceties of honour, thou would'st say—but I tell thee, Wayne of Marsh, if thou'rt to fight this through like a man, not like a want-wit babe, thou'lt have to use the Lean Man's weapons. What are scruples when life—life, Ned, the one thing that we're sure of——"

"The Wayne pride may be folly," he broke on stormily, "but it has kept Marsh House standing for three hundred years, and I seek no better."

"Then thou'lt not be warned?"

"I shall ride to Bents Farm on Thursday, as I had in mind to."

"And wilt thou take none with thee?"

"I meant to take none, and I'll not shift from my path by a hair's-breadth."

"Fool, fool!" she cried, casting about for some fresh turn of pleading that might weigh with him. "It is told now—I cannot recall my warning, Ned; at least make such use thou canst of it."

"Hast lived so long with the storms, Janet," said he, smiling gravely, "that thou hast learnt naught of Fate? What will be, will be, girl, and if I'm to die by a Ratcliffe blade in three days' time—why, 'tis settled; if not, thy warning still goes for naught."

Stung by his disdain, she ceased pleading, and allowed her own right pride to have its say. "So be it; but I would have thee know this before I leave thee. There's somewhat hangs on the taking of thy life—somewhat that touches my welfare nearly."

"What is't?" he asked, eyeing her curiously.

"'Twould not advantage thee to know.—And so farewell, Ned, and God give thee a better wit."

Shameless Wayne had no struggle now with his love for this slim, passionate girl; with the first hint of battle his mind had swung back to what had been all in all to him since he swore above his father's body never to rest until the Ratcliffes had paid their price. She was a Ratcliffe, and she had dared to bid him slink out of touch of danger; and the good-bye that had seemed agony not long ago, was easy now, as he watched her go up the brink-field without a thought to call her back for one last hopeless word—the word for lack of which her step went heavy up the slope.

"I can do naught for him," she murmured, not turning as she topped the rise. "Is there one other as fond as he in the whole world, to see a plain pitfall and ride hot-foot over it?"

She cared not a whit for what the Lean Man might have in store for her. She would make a straight confession to him and thereafter face him without dread—nay, with a sort of gladness, since his first hot impulse might earn her a release from that terrible bargain which had pledged her to the slayer of Wayne of Marsh. Then she fell into a storm of anger against Wayne, that his stubbornness had forbidden him to save himself and her; and after that a sense of utter loneliness came over her, and she lay down in the heather and sobbed without restraint.

But neither tears nor anger stayed with her for long, and her courage came slowly back after she had picked up her basket again and turned her face to Wildwater. Wayne of Marsh showed helpless as a child, and the old instinct to protect him gained on her. His strength of arm was nothing unless he had some friend to match the guile against which his uprightness was powerless. What could she do?

Her thoughts ran quickly now. She was full of feints as the peewits that had lately tried to decoy her from their nests. For her own sake she would have been glad to let the Lean Man know all; but there was Ned to think of, and by some means she must hide the truth. Her eyes brightened on the sudden, and she moved with a brisker step.

"I told Red Ratcliffe I would fight him," she cried eagerly, "and may be I shall worst him yet.—But to lie?—Ned, Ned, I'm glad thou dost not guess how deep my love for thee has gone. To lie? Well, 'twill be nearly truth if told for his sake. He goes on Thursday, does he, to Bents Farm? Well, there's three days 'twixt now and then."

CHAPTER XV

MOTHER-WIT

The Lean Man and Red Ratcliffe were standing in the courtyard at Wildwater, and Nicholas was regarding his grandson with cold displeasure.

"Thy tale hangs ill together, lad," he said, "and I'll not believe a word of it till Janet has told me her side of the matter. What, one of our breed go meeting one of them by stealth? By the Heart, if thou hast let jealousy——"

"But, sir, I saw them; they were as close as I am to you, and his words were honeyed if his low voice and earnest look were aught to go by."

"Well, there's no more to be said. 'Tis beyond belief, and I had rather saddle thee with a lie than Janet with such wantonness.—Peste! Where is the girl? She should be back by now, unless her search has taken her further afield than a handful of plovers' eggs is worth."

"Haply she is with Wayne of Marsh, sir," said the other softly.

The Lean Man pointed through the open gate. "Is she, then?" he snarled. "The next time thou dost hazard a guess of that sort, be sure the maid is not in sight already. Now, lad, I'll front thee with her straight, and we'll plumb the bottom of this matter."

Janet saw them while she was two-score yards away, and her heart sank for the moment. Her plan seemed harder of fulfilment now that she was all but face to face with the Lean Man. But she carried herself bravely, and crossed the open with a firm step, and held her basket out to Nicholas with a curtsey.

"Here are the eggs, sir. Have I not done well?" she said.

"Put them down, girl," said Nicholas, and paused, afraid to ask the question which might kill his love for her.

Janet was quick to take advantage of his hesitation. "I've done more than rob the peewits this morning, grandfather," she went on, with a glance at Red Ratcliffe. "Whom did I meet, think ye, above the Hill House waterfall?"

A foreboding seized the younger man; for her glance said plainly that she had no fear of what he might have told his grandfather.

"Whom, lass? Come, tell me quick," said Nicholas.

"Why, Shameless Wayne—and learned somewhat from him which he little thought might prove of service to you."

"Shameless Wayne? What led thee to Shameless Wayne?" cried Nicholas.

"Nay, what led him to talk to me? 'Tis not the first time, either. Not long ago, as I was crossing the fields this side of Marshcotes, he stopped me by the way, and made much of some little acquaintance which once there was between us."

Nicholas shot a glance of triumph at Red Ratcliffe, and one of doubt at Janet. "Thou should'st have passed him by," he said.

"What can a maid do, grandfather, when the man is headstrong and she is out of call of help? He"—she lifted her brows disdainfully,—"he dared to make hot love to me that day; and again this morning as I was gathering eggs, he——"

The Lean Man fetched an oath. "So the lad is not content, 'twould seem," he muttered; "it is not enough to kill three of us and to flaunt my son's hand in the public view, but he must—see, child, he means thee no good by this, and I was right when I bade thee keep to home awhile."

"But, a murrain on 't, the girl was willing!" cried Red Ratcliffe, aghast to find the Lean Man's anger diverted so swiftly from Janet to Wayne of Marsh. "What didst say to me this morning, Janet, when I met thee on the moor?"

"What I say to thee now, cousin—that thou'rt the meanest of all my kin, and the one least likely to catch any woman's fancy—that thou may'st threaten, and bully, and play the tale-bearer, and yet not win me in the end."

"'Tis plain to see I bred thee, lass," laughed Nicholas, putting a kindly hand on her shoulder.—"As for thee, Red Ratcliffe, I gave thee free leave to say thy say to Janet, but not to force her will."

"Then, sir, you would liefer see her wedded to Wayne of Marsh than to me?" broke in the other hotly. "They call him Shameless, but by the Mass this girl would hold the title with better credit. See how she stands there, with an open front and a clear eye, and all the while she knows——"

"Sir, my cousin has gone through it all before," said Janet, deftly taking up the talk as Red Ratcliffe paused for very anger. "I said nay to him this morning; and he turned and snarled on me, vowing he would tell you how I met Shameless Wayne willingly by stealth. Has he done so, or was he still finding wit enough to carry the tale through when I came up?"

"I said the tale went lame," muttered Nicholas; "ay, I knew there could be naught in 't."

"Did he tell you, sir," went on Janet merrily, "did he tell you that Wayne of Marsh was whispering love-tales in my ear, and that I was listening with greedy relish? He threatened so to do; because, forsooth, he had asked me a plain question, and my answer liked him little."

Red Ratcliffe had made many a useless effort to claim a hearing, but he could see by the Lean Man's face that the tide was running all against him.

"He thought I should be feared of you, grandfather!" cried Janet, laughing softly. "He thought I should not dare to come with a straight tale to you as he came with a crooked."

Nicholas, eager beforehand to keep his trust in the girl unshaken, let his last doubts fall off from him. "Thou wast right, child, to trust me," he said. "This fool here got his word in first, and if thou hadst not told me of thy meeting with Wayne before ever I twitted thee with it—why, I might well have believed that which would have gone nigh to break my heart."

For a moment the girl's eyes clouded and she could not look him in the face. He was so kind to her, so ready to take her part at all times; and she was rewarding his trust in sorry fashion. But that passed as she remembered the Lean Man's cruelty, his guile, his resolve to do Shameless Wayne to death by any sort of treachery. Was it a time to stand on scruples, when she was fighting, not for her own life, but for another's? Again her mother-love for Wayne swept over her, touching her fancy with a sense of fine issues that were to be compassed, here and now, by her own unaided wit.

"I said, sir, that I was powerless to keep Wayne of Marsh from walking with me," she went on, her voice gaining depth and subtlety as she made forward with the tale that had been shaping itself in her mind all through the long walk home from Hill House; "but I could at the least make him pay for his ill manners in curious coin. He to dare offer marriage to a Ratcliffe! My cheeks were red with shame, as if another man had offered less than marriage; but I would not let him see it. I lured him on, I played with him, I learned all that he had done, or was doing, or was about to do."

"God rest thee, lass!" cried the Lean Man, with a boisterous laugh. "Who says thou'rt more or less than a very Ratcliffe? Thou didst lead the poor fool on, then, with a trail of honey? By the Dog, I never loved thee half as well as now.—What, Ratcliffe the Red, thou lookest moody! The old man was not fond enough to stomach any wild tale thou didst bring to him?—Well, girl, what didst learn from Wayne?"

"That he was going to Bents Farm, to see that some repairs were rightly done."

"Ay, it tallies," murmured Nicholas.—"Go on, Janet; we knew as much as that."

"But did you know, sir, that Wayne had somehow learned your purpose? He was to have gone on Thursday——"

"Did he tell thee that, or was it I?" broke in Red Ratcliffe. "Hark ye, grandfather! I let slip to her this morning the tale of what we meant to do, and she uses it now for her own ends."

"Peace, sirrah! I have a long account to square with thee, and a quiet tongue may keep thee from adding to the reckoning. Didst let the tale slip? The more fool thou, when I had bidden thee speak of it to no man. Haply 'twas from thee that Wayne of Marsh learned what we have in mind?"

"It matters little, as it chances, whether Wayne knows or not," said Janet. "He will go on Friday, sir, at noon, instead of on Thursday; for he told me as much, laughing to think how easily he could outwit you."

"Haply the last laugh will be mine," said Nicholas grimly. "Didst learn how many of his folk he meant to bring with him? Being warned, he will not go alone, I warrant."

"Nay, he professed to be a match for any four of you," answered the girl, a spice of the Ratcliffe devilry leading her to garnish her story with needless detail, "but for prudence sake, he said, he would take some two or three with him."

"A match for any four?" muttered the Lean Man. "I'll keep that word in mind when Wayne fares up to Bents. Ay, by the Rood I will let none but myself cross swords with him. Three of my folk I'll take, to equal his, and none shall say that Wayne of Marsh fought against odds when he was slain on the road to Bents Farm."

Janet shuddered to hear her grandfather talk of Wayne's death, as of a fact already well accomplished; glancing at the Lean Man's height and wiry frame, remembering the skill he had in wielding that dread two-handled sword of his, she felt that Wayne of Marsh, for all his lusty youth, would find a match in Nicholas Ratcliffe. And then she laughed her fears away; for was she not sending the slayers on the veriest Jack-o'-lanthorn errand that ever led men into the bogs?

"Take the men with you, sir, for Wayne can be tricky as yourself," she said gravely. "By Our Lady, I think he'll not fare back again from Bents to Marsh."

"Hast a shrewd head on thy pretty shoulders. Gad, yes, thou'rt crafty! Who is't thou callest to mind, girl? Some one out of the musty Book that Parson reads from on the Sabbath. Delilah, was it not, who fooled the long-haired fighter and clipped his locks for him as if he were a sheep at shearing-time?"

"And he could not fight at all, sir, after the shearing was done. 'Tis a good fable," laughed Janet.

"Ay, but how if she is clipping a Ratcliffe poll the while, and fools us into thinking that Wayne's locks, not ours, are underneath the shears?" snapped Red Ratcliffe.

The Lean Man, good-humoured almost now that his quarry was well in view, turned and looked his grandson up and down. "It would take a clever lass, methinks, to clip that rusty head of thine; as well reap a stubble-field for corn," he sneered.—"There! The work speeds merrily, and a little jest suffices for a big laugh. Janet, come draw me a measure of wine, and we'll pledge thy mother-wit."

He moved across the courtyard, and Red Ratcliffe, stepping to Janet's side, laid a hand on her cloak. "I asked this morn who fathered thee," he whispered. "Well, now I know. The devil got thee, and thou'lt not shame him. The game is thine so far—but by the Lord I'll make thee smart when fortune shifts her favours."

"What, dost not believe my story?" she answered, with demure wonder. "Well, go on Thursday, then, if thou doubtest——"

"Nay. He will not go to Bents Farm on Thursday, for thou hast warned him; nor will he go on Friday, since thou tellest us so glibly the place and hour. But we'll wait each day for him until he comes."

"The Lean Man will not wait with you, save on the Friday."

An ugly scrowl crossed the other's face. "The Lean Man ages fast; we must learn to strike while he is hanging on every lying word of thine," he said, and left her.

Janet halted on the threshold before following Nicholas indoors.

"Ay, even such as he can call me liar," she muttered, looking out across the heath as if for guidance. "Sorrow of women, why must we always stoop to feints and trickeries? Why cannot we fight as men fight——"

The peewits were wheeling over the sky-rimmed moor, and Janet, watching them, bethought her once again how they had used the self-same trickery to save their unhatched young. Instinctively she felt their world was hers, their teaching hers, and what was right for the wild things of the heath was right for her.

"And I have saved Wayne of Marsh. God be thanked for it," she cried with sudden fervour, and went to bring the Lean Man the cup which was to pledge her mother-wit.

CHAPTER XVI

HOW WAYNE OF MARSH RODE UP TO BENTS

The sun was nearing the top of his climb, and his rays were kindly with Mistress Wayne as she sat by the waterside in Hazel Dene and filled her lap with flowers and green lush grasses. Here a clump of primroses nestled close to the water's edge, and there a hazel-bush waved its catkins finger-like over the peat-brown water, dusting the wavelets with finest saffron pollen. Above, in the sloping fields, lambs bleated after the wethers, and kine chewed lazily the cud of sweet new grass. All was tender frolic, as if a month ago no snow had filled the hollows of the trees where now were nests, as if no bitter wind had whistled downward from the moor, chilling the bud within its sheath and the sap in well-turned limbs of ash and oak.

Mistress Wayne ceased playing with her flowers, and fell to dreaming. She was the one still thing among all the quivering eagerness of leaves and water, birds and hovering flies and glancing fish. For the storms that had chilled and frightened her were over, and with the spring her mind seemed to be loosing, one by one, its winter bonds. Old memories stirred in her and clamoured for release; new desires awakened, and with them a fresh load of doubts and fears; she sat, helpless and inert, and strove with all her might to unravel the threads which one night's tragedy had tangled.

"Ah, it is sweet—sweet," she murmured. "I was a child once—a child—and they gave me love—both hands they gave me full of love—and it was always spring, I think, with warmth like this and song of birds. But I'm old now; older than anybody knows, and sad. I think it is because I did some one a great wrong. What was it? Down in the meadows, when he came and tried to kill me with his hard grey eyes—the eyes that stared at me afterward from the bier. Nay, he could not forgive me, even in death—I think he knew that I had never loved him."

For a moment longer she struggled with memory; then her face grew empty as of old, and she picked up her flowers and fell to talking babe-talk to them. But her witless moods held lighter sway nowadays; reason was coming slowly back, and day by day her mind returned more often from childishness into the piteous strife of sanity. She got to her feet soon, and threw the flowers from her, and looked with troubled eyes toward Marshcotes.

"I might go and find Sexton Witherlee," she said, halting with one finger on her lip; "he is so wise, and he may tell me what I want to learn. Yes, I must find the Sexton."

A crackling of twigs came from up the Dene, and turning affrightedly she saw Shameless Wayne striding along the narrow path.

"Why, little bairn, what art doing here?" he cried, as she ran to him with hands outstretched in welcome.

"Thinking, Ned—always thinking. I want to remember—oh, I want to remember—but the thoughts will never stay still enough for me to put my hand on them. I have been trying to catch the little fish in the stream yonder, and it was just the same; they stayed till I had all but caught them, and then they glanced and flickered, flickered and glanced, until I could not see them for the splashes which they made."

"Bide awhile, bairn," he said kindly; "thy thoughts will come tame to hand one day, never fear."

"Art going home, Ned?" she said, after a silence. "I was crossing to Marshcotes kirkyard, but if thou'lt come into the fields with me, and talk, I'll ask naught better."

"I'm going to Marsh, but only to get to saddle and be off again. Better talk to the Sexton this morning, and I'll walk with thee after dinner.—Nay! Never look so downcast. 'Tis only that there's work to be done up at Bents Farm, and I shall scarce get there and back as 'tis by dinner-time."

Again the puzzled look, which told that she was doubtful lest this returning memory of hers were leading her astray. "I thought, Ned—I thought thou hadst gone there yesterday? Well-away, the days slip past, and sometimes I forget to count them; was it not Thursday yesterday—and Friday today—and what comes after?" Her eyes filled with tears. "It is so hard, dear, to forget and to know that all the world is pitying me."