SHAMELESS WAYNE (continued 8)

Now and then he pushed the matter from him and turned, for lack of better company, to listen to the gossip of his farm-folk. He heard each detail of the morning's fight described, repeated, and described again, till he wearied of it and half turned to go indoors again. Yet still he dallied.

"Wheer's th' Maister, like? I could right weel like to set een on him," said Jose the shepherd, breaking a long silence.

"Ay, a feast's no feast at all without th' Maister comes to drink his share," cried one of the younger men.—"What, Hiram, mun I pass thee th' jug again? For one that's no drinker tha frames as weel as iver I see'd a man."

Hiram filled his pewter and all but emptied it before he spoke.

"He'll noan show hisseln this side o' th' door to-neet, willun't th' Maister," he said slowly. "He's getten summat softer to think on nor sich poor folk as ye an' me."

Wayne flushed under the moonlight and muttered a low oath; but he would not move away, for the whim took him to hear the worst these yokels had to say.

"Oh, ay?" put in one of the wenches. "What dost mean, Hiram? Tha'rt allus so darksome i' thy speech."

"What should I mean? We knaw by this time, I reckon, what hes chanced. D'ye think snod Mistress Ratcliffe came an' swopped herseln just out o' love for Mistress Nell? Not she; 'twas for love o' Maister hisseln, if I know owt."

"Tha'rt bitter, Hiram," cried Martha. "An' thee to hev fought for him nobbut a few hours gone by!"

Hiram spoke in a tone which Martha had heard more than once before—a grave, troubled voice that had a certain dignity of its own. "I'm bitter, lass, an' tha says right," he went on. "He shaped like a man, did th' Maister, up at th' weshing-pools, an' I warmed to him. But what then? Nanny Witherlee telled me, just afore she gat her back to Marshcotes, that she'd crossed to th' hall a while sin', an' fund th' pair on 'em—nay, it fair roughens me to think on 't."

"Well, an' let 'em do as they've a mind to, poor folk, says I," put in Martha. "She's no Ratcliffe, isn't Mistress Janet, not at th' heart of her."

"She carries th' name, choose what, an' that's enough to mak most on us hod our nostrils tight. Well, he war born shameless, an' shameless he's like to dee."

"I doan't believe it!" cried shepherd Jose, striking his pewter on the table. "That's an owd tale o' thine an' Nanny's, Hiram, but I'm ower fond o' th' Maister myseln to think he'd do owt so shameless-crazy as wed a Ratcliffe. Ay, tha should bite thy tongue off for whispering sich a thing."

Again Wayne lifted his head and looked straight in through the doorway, himself unseen across the moonlit strip of yard which stood between the garden and the kitchen. Hiram's wryness was no more to him than the thistle-burrs which waited for him during any of his usual walks about the fields; but the shepherd's plain kindliness toward him, the shepherd's quiet assurance that there could be naught 'twixt Janet and himself, touched him to the quick. In vain he mocked himself for hearkening to what such folk as these could find to say of him; he stayed stone-still, his arms upon the rounded garden-wall, and heard them wear the matter threadbare with their talk. And there was not one—save Martha—who augured less than disaster from the match.

"Good hap, my very dogs will turn next and look askance at me," muttered Wayne.

But still he did not move, for he had plumbed the bottom depth of weariness to-night, and it was easier to stay hearkening to distasteful gossip than to turn to the ill company of his own thoughts. Work had succeeded fight and loss of blood; and close after these had followed his anxiety on Nell's behalf, his sudden yielding to the passion that had dogged his path all through the uphill months; then had come the struggle with his honour, the victory that was worse than defeat, and, last of all, the chill glances of those who were his nearest kin. Aged as he had grown of late, his youth was slow to die outright, and the quick ebb and flow of passion had left him weak to bend to the touch of his surroundings; and the chatter of these farm-folk, who condemned him in such frank, straightforward terms, seemed the last straw added to his burden.

They left talking of him by and by, as the ale began to warm them and frolic pressed for outlet. Little by little the Master lost his own cares in watching their rustic comedy played out; from time to time he smiled; and once, when Martha encouraged shepherd Jose too patently at the expense of Hiram, he laughed outright. Heretofore Wayne had been friendly with his servants in his own proud way; but to-night it was borne in upon him how like their betters, after all, were these rough-speeched folk. The same jealousies were theirs, the same under-fret of passion, veiled by banter or rude coquetry; and they, too, reared a score of stumbling-blocks, feigned or real, about the path of wedlock.

The night was wearing late meanwhile, and the farm-folk got to their feet at length and shuffled out by twos and threes—some to return to outlying farms or shepherds' huts far up the moor, others to less distant farms. Martha came to the gate to give them a God-speed, with Hiram Hey beside her, and it was long before the last shout of farewell died echoing up the moor.

Perhaps it was the ale he had drunk; perhaps it was Martha's flouting of him throughout the evening in favour of shepherd Jose; but for one cause or the other Hiram showed less than his wonted hesitation as he drew nearer to her in the moonlit yard. Their faces were turned sideways to the Master, and neither noted his quiet figure leaning against the wall.

"Martha, 'tis a drear house, this, I'm thinking," said Hiram.

"Ay, but it's all the roof I've getten."

"'Tis as full o' dead men's ghosts as it can hod, an' nobbut to-neet there war one more ligged quiet beside th' gate, as if th' owd place fare went hungering for bloodshed an' sudden death."

"Well, Hiram?"

He pointed down the fields to where, in a snug-sheltered hollow, the gable-end of his own farm climbed up into the moon-mists.

"Yond's a likelier spot, an' quieter, for a wench," he said.

"Sakes, Hiram! Tha'rt noan so backard-like i' coming forrard, when all's said."

Hiram was quiet for a space, and the Master could see a laughable air of doubt steal into his face as he ruffled the frill of hair that framed his smooth-shaved chin.

"An' then," put in Martha softly, "there's even a quieter spot nor yond that mud varry weel be mine for th' axing."

Hiram Hey ceased doubting. "What, dost mean that owd fooil Jose wod like to tak thee to th' wind-riven barn he calls a house?"

"Summat o' th' sort, Hiram—ay, he'd be fain, wod shepherd Jose. An' if th' house be i' a wildish spot—well, 'tis farther out o' harm's way."

"That sattles it. Wilt wed me afore th' corn ripens, lass, an' come to yond snug bigging dahn i' th' hollow?"

"I reckon I will, lad. Why didst not axe me plain afore?"

Then Hiram kissed her, under the left ear; and the Master, forgetting that they did not count upon a listener, laughed outright. Martha turned, with cheeks aflame like the peonies newly-opened in the garden place behind her; and Hiram lost his calmness for the moment.

"Thou dost well, Hiram," said the Master drily. "Love while thou canst, for thou'd'st better make the most of what few years are left thee."

Hiram took the stroke staunchly, knowing it was the return-thrust for many a home-blow he had given Wayne.

"An' so I bed, Maister," he answered, not shifting a muscle of his face—"by wedding one that counts no red folk i' her family."

The Lean Man and Janet had been riding slowly home while Wayne sat listening to the shepherds' gossip; and as they went up Barguest Lane Nicholas had bent toward his grand-daughter with more than his wonted tenderness.

"Janet, girl, 'tis good to know thou'rt safe again," he said. "What would Wildwater be without thee?"

She did not answer, but turned her head away a little; and so they rode on in silence until they reached the open moor. The old man shivered then, and glanced behind with the quick gesture she had learned to know.

"I had forgotten it," he muttered.—"Didst hear aught in the wind, Janet?"

"I heard a moor-bird calling, sir, and the rustle of dry heather-stalks."

"Naught else? No sound, say, of a hound baying down the lane?"

"There's a farm-dog barking at the moon; that is all."

He straightened in the saddle. "To be sure! When a fool is old, he's past praying for, eh, girl? Yet—is yond brown shadow going to fare to Wildwater with us?"

"So long as there's a moon to cast it, sir."

Another silence, while a mile of heath slipped underneath their hoofs.

"They bade me keep Nell Wayne, and let thee take thy chance," said Nicholas presently. "Think of it, Janet! To wake in the morning and have no slip of sunshine like thyself to come down to."

"Grandfather, it—it hurts me to hear you praise me so."

"Why, what ails thee? Cannot I praise the one thing on God's earth that I love, without hurting thee?"

Yes, she must tell him all. All the way up it had been borne in on her that she would let the deceit go no further. She owed no less than frankness to him, and he should have it, though afterward he struck her to the ground. They were alone with the sky and the wind; the hour, the dim-lying spaces of the moor, encouraged confidence. She had chosen her road—but at least she would start fair on it, honest as the man who had her love in keeping. Quietly, without shrinking or appeal, she told him all—how she used to meet Shameless Wayne by stealth, how she had given him warning, how, lastly, she had to-night ridden down to Marsh and surrendered herself into Wayne's hands.

The Lean Man was very quiet when she had finished, and not till they were skirting the dull ooze of Wildwater pool did he break silence. "I had rather have shovelled the earth above thy dead body, girl," he said, checking his horse at the brink.

She watched his face working fantastically as he stared into the water. Mechanically she traced the scars of fire, the lump of discoloured flesh that marked where his right ear had been shorn level with the cheek; and she told herself that Wayne of Marsh was answerable for both. His anger, gathering slowly, was terrible to meet.

"What is't to thee that my heart is broken?" he went on. "I could set finger and thumb to thy throat, girl, but would that heal my own hurts? The care I've given thee, the constant thought—womanish thought—the way I shamed myself by opening to thee all my secret fears." He laughed drily. "Barguest? Methinks thou hast killed him, lass, with a worse sickness. Hark ye! This shall not be. I've sap in my veins yet, and I'll cheat thee of thy lover before I die."

"Sir, is this the love you have for me? What has Wayne ever done that you should not cry 'peace' and let our marriage staunch the feud?"

"What has he done? He has fooled me, beaten me in fight, robbed me of more than life. Is that naught, or must I fawn on him and thank him for good service rendered in wedding Janet Ratcliffe? Thou hast heard of Sad Man's Luck, girl? It comes to those who have lost all, and it nerves them to strange deeds."

He moved forward, Janet following; and as they waited for the gates to be thrown open, he gave the low, hard laugh which never yet had boded good to man or woman.

"The luck has veered at last," he said quietly. "Wayne will begin to fear for himself, now that he has thee to unman him. His pluck will get tied to thy apron, lass, and he will quaver a little in his sword-strokes—what, did I say thou hadst broken my heart? I lied. Thou hast put new heart in me."

CHAPTER XXIV

HOW THE LEAN MAN FOUGHT WITH SHAMELESS WAYNE

Sexton Witherlee moved unsubstantial among his graves, stopping here to pull up a tuft of weed and there to rub a sprig of lavender or rosemary between his shrivelled fingers. He looked old beyond belief, and the afternoon sun, hot in a sweltering sky, traced crow's feet of sadness across his cheeks, and in among the sunken hollows underneath his eyes.

"What's amiss wi' me?" he murmured. "Here hev I been gay as a throstle all through this God-sent-weather—going about my business wi' a quiet sort o' pleasure i' seeing this little garden-place look so green, like, an' trim-fashioned—so green an' trim—an' now, all i' a minute, I'm sick-like an' sorry. Ay, I could cry like any bairn, an' niver a reason for 't, save it be this thunner-weather that's coming up fro' ower Dead Lad's Rigg.—Well, I mun hev a bit of a smoke, an' see what that 'ull do for me."

He lit his pipe, then fetched a broom from the tool-house and began to sweep the path of the leaves which had fallen, curled and brown, during the long spell of drought. But he desisted soon and sat him down on the nearest grave-stone.

"Nay, I've sweated ower long at helping th' living to bury their dead out o' mind, till now there's no lovesome sight, nor sound, nor smell of sweetbriar, say—but what it leads my crazy thoughts to th' one bourne—th' one bourne—an' that's a blackish hole, measuring six feet by length an' three by breadth. Lord God, I'm stalled, fair stalled! Hevn't I toiled enough at life? An' th' Lord God knaws how fain I am to be ligging flesh to earth myseln."

He sat silent for a long while, and his favourite robin came and perched on his shoulder, asking him to dig up its evening meal; but Witherlee paid no heed to the bird.

"I reckon it's a sight o' little Mistress Wayne I'm sickening for," he went on presently. "When she war fairy-kist, she niver let day pass without heving her bit of a crack wi' th' Sexton; but now she's fund her wits again—why, she hesn't mich need o' th' likes o' me, seemingly. Eh, but I wod like to hear her butter-soft voice again! There's peace in 't, somehow, to my thinking."

"Oh, tha'rt theer, art 'a?" put in Nanny's voice at his elbow.

"Begow, tha made me jump! What is't, Nanny?"

"Nay, I nobbut came for a two-three sprigs o' rosemary. It grows rare an' sweet i' th' kirkyard here, I call to mind, an' Mistress Nell, 'at I've nursed fro' a babby, is bahn to be wed to-morn to Wayne o' Cranshaw—sakes, how th' days run by!—an' she'll be wanting rosemary to wear ower her heart i' sign o' maidenhood. Well, I'd like to see one who's more a maid, or bonnier, i' all th' parish—an' I'll thank thee, Witherlee, to stir thy legs a bit for fear they'll stiffen for want o' use. What mak o' use is a gooidman, if he willun't stir hisseln to pluck a two-three herbs?"

The Sexton rose with his old habit of obedience, and went to the corner where the rosemary grew, and brought her both hands full.

"'Tis queer, I've often thowt," he said; "we all knaw what mak o' soil grows under foot here—yet out on 't come th' sweetest herbs i' Marshcotes. An' that's a true pictur o' life, as I've fund it through three-score year an' ten."

"What's tha knaw about life?" snapped Nanny. "Death is more i' thy way, an' tha'll be a wise man, Witherlee, sooin as tha comes to join th' ghosties.—Not but what there's sense for once i' what tha says. Sweetness grows i' muck, an' ye can't get beyond that; an' if onybody thinks to say it isn't so, let 'em look at Shameless Wayne, an' set him beside what he war afore th' feud broke out."

"Ay, he's better for th' fighting," put in Witherlee, with something of his wonted zest.

"Fighting? I reckon nowt on 't. All moil, an' mess, an' litter—gaping wounds that drip on to th' floors just when ye've bee's-waxed 'em—women crying their een out, an' lossing so mich time, ower them 'at's goan—'tis mucky soil, I tell thee, Luke. An' yet, begow, it hes bred summat into Shameless Wayne that he niver hed afore."

"They say him an' th' Lean Man is hunting one t' other fro' morn to neet, but allus seem to tak different roads. What's come to th' Lean Man, Nanny? He war daunted a while back, an' now he's keen as ony lad again!"

"Tha doesn't knaw Barguest's ways as I knaw 'em, lad. Th' Dog, when he's haunted a man nigh out of his senses, hods off for a bit, for sport, like, an' maks him 'at he's marked think th' sickness is all owered wi'—an' then, when he's thinking o' summat else entirely, up th' Brown Beast leaps, snarling fit to mak his blood run cold.—Ay, it's true th' Lean Man is hunting this day, for I met him riding into Marshcotes not a half-hour sin', wi' his een on both sides o' th' road at once, an' his hand set tight on his sword-heft."

"Did he say owt to thee, Nanny? He's noan just friendly to thee, an'——"

"He said nowt to me," broke in Nanny, "but I said a deal to him. I asked if Barguest's hide war as rough, an' his teeth as sharp, as when he fought th' owd feud for th' Waynes. An' he seemed fit to strike me first of all; an' then he sickened; an' at after that he rode forrard, saying nowt nawther one way nor t' other. Well, he minds how his father died, an' his father's father; an' he'll be crazy again by fall o' neet, if I knaw owt. It's th' Dog-days, an' all, an' th' month when dogs run mad is Barguest's holiday, I've noticed."

"Tha mud weel say it's th' Dog-days," said Witherlee, pointing to the moor above. "We shall hev sich a storm as nawther thee nor me hev seen th' like on, Nanny, sin' we war wedded."

From the moor-edge an angry haze was beating up against the wind, and the sun, a round ball that seemed dropping from the steel-blue of the sky above it, was cruel with the earth. Everywhere peatland and tillage-soil—the very graveyard earth—opened parched mouths and cried for drink. But still the sun shone, and only the slow-moving haze told of the rain to come.

"Ay, it 'ull be a staunch un," said Nanny. "Tha'd best come indoors, Witherlee, afore it breaks—for when it does break, buckets willun't hod th' drops, an' tha'll be drenched i' crossing th' kirkyard.—Why, there's Mistress Wayne. If iver I see'd a body choose unlikely times, it's yond little bit o' sugar an' spice."

Witherlee glanced eagerly down the graveyard path. "Now, that's strange," he murmured. "I war nobbut saying afore tha comed, Nanny, that I hedn't bed speech of her this mony a day—an' here she comes. Eh, but she's a sight for sore een, is th' bonnie bairn!"

Nanny's half-religious awe of Mistress Wayne was disappearing now that she had come to her right mind again. "Nay," she grumbled, "I reckon nowt so mich on her. She war bahn to do a deal for th' Maister, so I thowt; but what's comed on 't? Nowt, save 'at she carried a fond tale to Mistress Nell a while back, an' all but brought her into ruin.—Now, lad, art minded to get out o' th' wet that's coming?"

"Nay, I'll step indoors by an' by, for I'm fain of a crack wi' th' little Mistress at all times."

Nanny glanced shrewdly at her husband; something in his voice—a weariness that was at once helpless and resigned—brought an unwonted pity for him to the front. Impatient she was with him at most times; but under all her fretfulness there was a sure remembrance of the days that had been.

"Luke," she said, laying a hand on his sleeve, "tha'rt nobbut poorly, I fear me. Stop for a word wi' Mistress Wayne, if needs must, but don't stand cracking till tha'rt wet to th' bone."

"Nay, I'll noan stay long, lass—noan stay long," he murmured.

Nanny moved down toward her cottage, and the Sexton, sighing contentedly, gave a good-day to Mistress Wayne while yet she was half up the path.

"Ye've not been nigh me lately, Mistress," he murmured, making room for her on the grave-stone which had grown to be their wonted seat.

"I have been restless, Sexton, and my walks have taken me far a-field. But to-day I'm tired, and full of fancies, and I thought 'twould be pleasant to sit beside thee here and talk."

"To be sure, to be sure. Ye're looking poorly-like, an' all; it 'ull be this heavy weather, for I feel that low i' sperrits myseln——"

"'Tis more than the weather," she interrupted, turning her grave child's eyes on his. "The mists begin to come down again, Sexton, as they did when my lover was killed yonder on the vault-stone. Sometimes I can see men and women as thou see'st them; and then a mist steals over them, and they are only shadows, and the ghosts creep out of the moor, moving real among the unreal men and women."

"That's nobbut th' second-sight," said Witherlee gently. "I've getten it, an' ye've getten it, Mistress, an' we've to pay our price for 't. But it's nowt to fret yourseln about."

"Not when I hear Barguest—Barguest creeping pad-footed down the lane? Sexton, I've heard him every night of late—just at dusk he comes, and if I pay no heed he presses like a cold wind against my skirts. Does it mean trouble for Wayne of Marsh, think'st thou?"

"Hev ye set een on th' Dog?" asked Witherlee sharply.

"Nay, I have but heard him, and felt his touch."

"Then there's danger near Wayne o' Marsh, but nowt no more nor what he'll come through. 'Tis when th' Brown Dog shows hisseln 'at he doubts his power to save th' Maister—he like as he seeks human help then, an' it's time for all as wish well to Marsh to be up an' doing.—Begow, but we'd better be seeking shelter, Mistress."

She followed his glance, and shivered at that look of earth and heaven which they called in Marshcotes the scowl of God. To the west, whence the wind was gathering strength, the sky was a dull, blue-green; from the east a tight-drawn curtain of cloud moved nearer to the sun, which shone with dimmed light and heat unbearable. Light drifts of cloud trailed like brown smoke between earth and sky. The whole wide land was still, save for quick breaths of suffocation which stirred the summer dust and whipped up the leaves untimely fallen.

"I am frightened, Sexton. Let us go," murmured Mistress Wayne.

"All day I've watched it creeping up," said Witherlee, regarding with rapt eyes the eastern sky. "There's storms as come quick, an' go as lightly—but this un hes nursed its rage a whole long day, an' when it bursts, 'twill be like Heaven tumbling into Hell-pit fire. Ay, I've seen one sich storm, an' it bred bloodshed. See ye, Mistress, th' first rain-drops fall! An' th' streams that are dry this minute 'ull race bank-top high afore an hour is spent. An' them as seeks for tokens need seek no farther."

Beyond the kirkyard hedge a horseman passed, fast riding at the trot.

"What did I tell ye!" cried the Sexton. "Th' storm an' th' Lean Man ride together, an' th' streams that war empty shall be filled."

"He must be hastening from the rain. See, Sexton, he rides as if pursued."

Witherlee remembered Nanny's meeting with Nicholas. "It may be th' rain he's hastening fro'—or it may be summat 'at ye've heard whining, Mistress, when dusk is settling over Barguest Lane," he said.

For a while he stood there, nursing his visions and heedless of the gathering drops; then, seeing how Mistress Wayne was shivering, he came back to workaday matters.

"Come ye wi' me, Mistress," he cried. "Th' drops is falling like crown-pieces.—Good sakes, there's another horseman skifting out of th' wet, or intul 't; who mud it be, like?"

Shameless Wayne, riding up the field-side that ran from the Bull tavern to the moor, looked over and saw his step-mother standing beside the Sexton in the kirkyard.

"The clouds blow up against the wind. There'll be thunder, Witherlee," said Wayne, and would have passed on.

"Well, there's one gooid thing 'ull come on 't, ony way," answered the Sexton. "Th' Lean Man o' Wildwater is like to get wet to th' bone afore he wins across th' moor. An' ye can niver tell but what a wetting may tak a man off—I've knawn mony a——"

Wayne swung his horse round sharply. "The Lean Man! Hast seen him, then?" he cried.

"Not ten minutes agone. He crossed up aboon there at a gooidish trot."

"What, by the moor-track?"

"Nay, his face war set for th' Ling Crag road; he war hurrying, an' wanted better foot-hold for his horse, I reckon, nor th' peat 'ud gi'e him."

Mistress Wayne was at the wall-side now. "Ned, thou'lt not ride after him?" she pleaded. "'Tis Nell's wedding-day to-morrow—she'll think it a drear omen."

But Wayne was already gathering the reins more firmly into his hand. "Nell will want a wedding-gift, little bairn—and, by the Red Heart, I'll bring her one of the choicest.—Sexton, shall I overtake him before he gets within hail of Wildwater?"

"Wi' that mare's belly betwixt your legs, Maister, ye'd catch him six times ower."

Wayne stopped for no more, but touched the mare once with his heels and swung up the field and round the bend of the Ling Crag road. The Sexton looked after him and nodded soberly; and it was strange to see his old eyes brighten, as if at the grave-edge he were turning back to see this one last fight.

"There's more nor one storm brewing; I said as mich," he muttered, and hobbled to the wicket to see the flying trail of dust and rain that marked the rider's headlong course.

The wind rose on the sudden. The rain-drops fell by twos now where lately they had fallen singly. A far rumble of thunder crept dull through the leaden sky-wrack.

"Gallop, thou laggard, gallop!" muttered Wayne to his mare, as Ling Crag village swirled by and the rough track to Wildwater stretched clear ahead.

The village folk came out of their houses as he passed, but they were slow of foot, and all that they reaped for their trouble was the fast-dying beat of horse-hoofs down the wind.

"Wayne, 'tis Shameless Wayne. Who but him carries Judgment-fire i' his hoss's heels?" they said.

Past Blackshaw Hall and through the Conie Crag ravine swept Wayne the Shameless; past the three wells of Robin Hood and Little John and Will Scarlett, and up into the naked moor. The land lay flat to the sky up here, and through the thickening rain-sheets Wayne could see his enemy's lean figure rising and falling to the trot of his lean bay horse. Soon the track crept timorous round the bog, and under foot the water splashed and creamed; but still Wayne plied his mare with tongue and spur. The thunder-throb grew nearer, and muttered all along the murky sky-edge and down the dun moor-fastnesses. Earth and sky, bog and peat and cloud-wrack, were wakeful and at war; the starveling moor-birds fled on down-drooping wings, and from the under-deeps the Brown Folk chattered restlessly.

Wayne's heart was lifted to the storm's pitch as he rode. Ahead was the man who had made a shameful bargain touching Janet, the man who had perilled his sister's honour and warred with malice unceasing against his house. There was but a quarter-mile between them—and now but ten-score yards—yet Wildwater lay over yonder slope.

"Dost crawl, I tell thee, just when I need thy speed. Gallop, thou fool!" he muttered, then rose in the stirrups and raised a cry that might have roused the slumber of dead men in Marshcotes kirkyard.

The Lean Man checked when he heard the cry, and looked behind; and Wayne lessened by the half the distance between horse and mare.

"Who calls?" yelled Nicholas Ratcliffe.

"Wayne of Marsh. Who else? There are old debts between us, Ratcliffe the Lean."

"On both sides, Wayne the Shameless," cried Nicholas, and turned the big bay's head, and rode straight at his man with heavy sword uplifted.

Between them, while they neared each other, a zag of lightning flashed to earth, and Wayne's cry as he galloped to the shock was drowned in a wild roar of thunder. He took the Lean Man's stroke, and jerked his own sword back; but the mare shied with terror, and his return blow aimed wide, grazing the Lean Man's saddle-pommel as it fell.

"Thou aimest ill, lad. I thought a sword sat better in thy hand," laughed Nicholas, as Wayne brought his mare round once more to the attack.

The Lean Man had found his youth again, and in his heart, too, the storm-wind was singing shrill. Fear of the Dog slipped from him. He warmed to the old joy of hardened muscles and of crafty hand.

"'Tis thou and I now, thou bantling," he cried, plucking the curb as his beast reared its fore-feet to the sweltering sky. "Does the Dog fear the storm, that it comes not up with thee to fight?"

A second flash shot through the rain-sheets, and another roar snapped up the Lean Man's words. Try as their riders would the horses refused obedience to the bit, for each flash and each new burst of thunder whetted the keen edge of their terror. Three times Wayne brought round the mare and strove to force her to the shock; and three times she swerved out of sword's-reach.

"God's life, shall we never get to blows!" roared the Lean Man. "Down, lad, and we'll fight it out on foot."

There was no gully of the moor now but hid a rolling thunder-growl. The streams raced foaming between their dripping banks, and all across the sky ran sinuous lines of blue-red fire, the harbingers of lightning-blasts to come or the aftermath of flashes spent.

Yet neither Wayne nor the Lean Man knew if it were foul weather or fair, save that the rain dimmed their sight a little; for each saw his dearest enemy across the narrow, sword-swept space between them that stood for the whole world. And now one gained the advantage, and now the other, while still they shifted back and forth, treading into great foot-holes the soaked bed of peat on which they stood.

Above, the greater battle—the shock of hurrying clouds close-ranked against each other, the shriek and whistle of the wind, the down-descending sweat of combat. Below, the lesser battle, with smitten steel for lightning, and hard-won breaths for wind and thunder, and rage as fierce, and monstrous, and unheeding, as any that smote the moor-face raw from yellow east to smouldering, ruddy west.

"I have thee, Wayne!" yelled Nicholas, as he cut down the other's guard and aimed at his left side.

"Nay," answered Wayne, and leaped aside so swiftly that the stroke scarce drew blood.

A keener flash ripped up the belly of the sky as they fell to again, a nearer harshness crackled in the thunder's throat; but naught served to quench the fury of the onset. Like men from the Sky-God's loins they fought, and their faces glowed and dripped.

But Wayne was forcing the battle now, and step by step the Lean Man was falling back for weariness. Harder and harder he pressed on him; there was a moment's pauseless whirr of cut and parry, and it was done. Shameless Wayne, seeing his chance, sprang up on tip-toe and lifted his blade high for the last bone-splittering stroke that is dear to a swordsman's heart as life itself.

And then a strange thing chanced, and a terrible. As his sword was half-way on the upward sweep, Wayne saw, through a blinding lightning-flash, the Lean Man's blade shrink crumpling into a twisted rope of steel and the Lean Man's arm fall like a stone to his side. He checked himself, with a strain that nigh wrenched the muscles of his back in sunder, and lowered his weapon, and cursed like one gone mad because the sky had opened to rob him of his blow.

"Your tale is told, Lean Ratcliffe," he said. "Had the storm so few marks for sport that it must needs rob me in the nick of vengeance?"

The Lean Man tried to move his stricken arm, and his face showed ghostly-grey through the rain sheets while he mowed and mumbled at his impotence. But the old light shone quenchless in his weasel eyes, as he slid his left hand toward his belt, and clutched his dagger, and stumbled forward with the point aimed true for the other's breast. But Wayne had never taken his eyes from him and he warded the stroke in time.

"'Tis an old device of your folk, and one I know," cried the younger man. "Your game is played out, lean thief of Wildwater—God pity me that I lack your own strength to kill a stricken man."

"Curse thee, curse thee!" groaned Nicholas. "Is that not an old Wayne device likewise? Ay, and a mean device, when we would liefer take steel at your hands than quarter. Kill me, thou fool, least it be said I begged quarter of a Wayne."

Wayne eyed him gloomily. "Cease prating! I cannot kill you, and I cannot leave you to die among these howling moor-sprites. Can you sit in the saddle if I lift you to 't?—Peste, though, the horses have taken to their heals. Can you frame to walk, then?"

The Lean Man made a few steps forward, then stopped and seemed to stumble. "Give me thy hand, Wayne, as far as Wildwater gates. I am weak, and cannot walk alone," he mumbled. "There shall none of my folk do thee hurt—I swear it by the Mass."

Wayne saw through the trick, for he knew from those few forward steps that, though his enemy's sword-arm was sapless as a rotten twig, his legs were firm to carry him. A touch of grim approval crossed his hate. This Lean Man had a grandeur of his own; maimed, defeated, worn with the fiercest battle he had ever fought in his long life of combat, he could yet keep heart to the last and frame a quick stroke of guile when all weapons else had failed him.

"Featly attempted!" cried Wayne of Marsh. "How your folk would swarm about me when you got me to the gates! And in what strange fashion they would keep me safe from hurt. Nay, Lean Man, I know the way the hair curls on the Ratcliffe breed of hound."

The old man was silent, weaving a hundred useless subtleties. And then an exceeding bitter cry escaped him. "God curse thee, youngster! The Dog fights for thee—my very children fight for thee—and now the sky opens to snatch thee out of hurt."

"Nay," answered Wayne, gravely, "for the blow was mine, and you know it."

And so they parted. And the storm howled ravening over the tortured waste.

CHAPTER XXV

AND HOW HE DRANK WITH HIM

It was the morrow of Wayne's fight with Ratcliffe of Wildwater, and he rode with his sister to her wedding. The past day's storm was over, but the clouds hung grey and lowering, spent with the battle, yet waiting to rally by and by for a fresh outburst. The day was scowling on the bride, folk said, and Nell herself would fain have seen one gleam at least of fair-omened sunlight.

"Well, lass, I have brought thee a wedding-gift of the choicest," said Wayne, as they neared Marshcotes village.

"And what is that, Ned?" Her voice was cold, for she would not forget how Janet Ratcliffe had supplanted her, had driven her into wedlock before she wished for it.

"What is it? Why, the knowledge that the Lean Man has fought his last. I would not tell before, seeing thee so busy with thy bridal-wear—but yestereven we met on Ling Crag Moor, he and I, and fought it out."

The light came back to her eyes. "Didst kill him?" she asked eagerly.

"Nay, for the storm robbed me. I had him, Nell, and just was striking when the lightning snatched my blow."

"'Tis well, Ned. I had liefer thou hadst given the blow—but he is dead, and I'll take that thought to warm me through my bridal."

Wayne eyed her wonderingly, for he had looked for greater softness at such a time. "He is not dead, lass; his sword arm was crumpled—but for the rest, he could make shift to get him home."

"Thou—didst—let him go?" Nell had come to a sudden halt, and her voice was low and passionate.

"God's life, what else could any man have done? Wast bred a Wayne, Nell, or did some Ratcliffe foster-father teach thee to trample on a stricken man?"

"Thou should'st have killed him," she answered, and went slowly forward.

Again Wayne glanced at her. "There's rosemary on thy breast, lass, and thy shape is like a maid's," he said, after a deep silence,—"but, Christ, I sorrow for thy goodman, if thou com'st to thy very bridal with such thoughts."

"Wilt never understand?" she cried impatiently. "Wilt never learn that I wedded the feud, long months ago, when father staggered to the gate and died with his head upon my knees? Sometimes, Ned, it seems I care for naught—naught, I tell thee—save to see the Ratcliffes stricken one by one. And thou could'st have slain their leader, the worst of all of them, and didst not!"

"Nor would do, if I had my chance again," he answered, meeting her eye to eye.

"Ah, God, that I had been born a man-child of the Waynes! That was like thee, Ned, just like thee. Reckless, stubborn, hot for battle—and then, all in a moment, the devil apes helplessness and touches thee to woman's pity. Father was the same, and died for it; he would not kill the last remnant of the Ratcliffes when the chance offered."

"If thou hadst made a comrade of the sword, and learned what it teaches a man's heart," said Wayne quietly, "thou would'st know why father left killing—ay, and why I let the Lean Man go in safety."

She was silent until they had turned the bend of Marchcotes street and saw the kirk-gates standing open for them, with the knot of village folk clustered round about the tavern. And then she glanced at him—once, with the passion frozen in her eyes.

"Had Mistress Janet naught to do with that?" she asked. "Or was it a thought of her that weakened thy heart at the eleventh hour?"

Wayne jerked his bridle and started at the trot. "Thou lov'st me, lass," was all he said. "Well, thou hast a queer way of showing it.—See, our folk wait for thee just within the gates; and there is Rolf, with as soft a bridegroom's look as ever I saw. For shame's sake, Nell, return him something of the love he's giving thee."

"Love!" she murmured, as they dismounted at the gates. "Well-away, I've naught to do with it, methinks; 'twas hate that cradled me—and if God gives me bairns, I'll rear them to take on the feud where thou hast failed."

It seemed the folk were right when they named the day unchancy; for Nell's hand was cold in her lover's as he led her up the graveyard path, and her mind, disdaining all that waited for her in the present, was wholly set upon that late-winter afternoon when she had watched her father breathe his last. Nor could she shake the memory off when she stood within the kirk and listened to the droning Parson's voice. Till death do us part—what meaning had the words? Death walked over noisily abroad in Marshcotes parish to render the vow a hard one either to make or keep; and man and wife need look for such parting every day so long as there were Ratcliffes left to foul the moor.

It was done at last. Rolf and the pale, still girl whom now men named his wife moved down the rush-strewn aisle. Their kinsfolk, with pistols in their belts and swords rattling at their thighs, followed them into the wind-swept, sullen place of graves. And the village folk ceased every now and then from strewing rue and rosemary before the bride, and whispered each to other that twice in the year this kirkyard had seen the Waynes come armed—once to the old Master's burial, and now to his daughter's bridal. Would this end as that had done, they asked? And then they glanced affrightedly toward the moor-wicket, as if they looked for another shout of "Ratcliffe" and another rush of red-heads down the path.

But naught chanced to break the grey quiet that hung over graves and dripping trees. The bridal party got to horse. The landlord of the tavern, according to old usage, brought the loving-cup and lifted it to the bride's lips. And then, still with the same foreboding stillness of the crowd about them, they wound down Marshcotes street.

Shameless Wayne rode with them until they came to the parting of the ways this side of Cranshaw; and then he stopped and took Nell's hand in farewell; and after that he gave Rolf a grip that had friendship in it, and a spice of pity too.

"She is in thy care now, Rolf," he said. "Od's life, Marsh will seem cold without its mistress."

"'Twill not lack one for long; I trust the new mistress will love Marsh as I have done," said Nell, and Wayne, as he turned about and set off home, knew once for all that no wit of his could ever throw down the barrier that had reared itself between them.

But he had scant time for counting troubles during the weeks that followed. The grass was ready for the scythe in every meadow, and he was busy day-long with the work of getting it cut and ready for the hay-mows. The weather—rainy, with only now and then a day or two of sun between—doubled the labour of hay-winning; for no sooner was it cocked and all but ready for the leading, than the rain came down once more, and again the smoking heaps had to be spread abroad over the sodden fields. The work was ceaseless, and Wayne of Marsh took so tired a head to pillow every night that sleep fell on him before he could hark back to the tangled issues of the feud.

Yet every now and then he found time to stop amid his labours and to tell himself that, spite of all Nell had to say, he was glad to have kept his hand from the Lean Man that day upon the moor. It had been easy to fight with Nicholas Ratcliffe in hot blood; but he had conquered him, and that was enough; and Janet would have given him less than thanks if he had killed the only one among her folk who claimed her love.

Another matter he learned, too, and one that irked him sorely. Heretofore he had gone about the fields with no fear of danger, but rather with a welcome for it; but ever since the night when Janet had come down to Marsh and given herself to him, he had grown tender of his skin—had halted before going out, and had wondered if sundown would find him still unharmed. Some day, perchance, he would confess as much to Janet if she came to need proof of his passion for her; but the knowledge of it was very bitter to him now, and, even as he crushed it down, he mocked himself for feeling it.

The days wore on until at last the hay was all won in, and the farm-folk paused for breath before the corn should be ready for harvesting; and all the while Wayne's friendship with his step-mother grew deeper and more intimate. Often, when his brothers were out with hawks or dogs, she was his only companion at the supper-board; and afterward she would sit beside him while he drank his wine, talking and watching the fire which burned on the great hearth-place the year through. Mistress Wayne showed even frailer than of yore; she clung more closely to Ned, with more of the dumb pleading in her eyes; and his pity deepened as he saw that she was slowly drifting back to witlessness.

Three weeks had passed since the Lean Man had fought with Shameless Wayne, and it was whispered up and down the moorside that Nicholas Ratcliffe was near his end. None knew how the rumour had arisen, but some traced it to gossip of the Wildwater farm-men; and Earnshaw, who had caught a chance sight of Nicholas on the morning after the storm, vowed that he had never seen a man shrivel so in the space of one short day. Nanny Witherlee had the news from Bet the slattern, and she passed it on in turn to Hiram Hey, who carried it to the Master on the very morning that saw the last of the hay safely housed.

Wayne sat up late after supper that night, turning the news over in his mind and wondering if it were true. Dusk was stealing downward from the moor, but the storm-red of sunset lingered yet, and the ghostliness which crept about Marsh o' nights had more unrest in it than usual, as if the darkness that it craved were falling over slowly. The Master had the old house to himself: Mistress Wayne was in her chamber; the maids were gone to Rushbearing Feast; the four lads, despite the broken weather, had followed the chase all day and were not yet returned.

"So the Lean Man is dying," mused Wayne, his eyes on the slumbering peats. "Ay, there's likelihood in Hiram's gossip. 'Tis a marvel he has lived so long, after the storm that palsied him.—Well, God knows I'd liefer the lightning had done the work than I."

The silence of the house crept softly over him, as he sat on and on, thinking now of Janet, now of his sister, and again of the feud that still lay smouldering until one side or the other should stir it into life again.

A sudden weariness of it came to him. Must they fight everlastingly, till either Waynes or Ratcliffes had been swept from off the moorside? The Lean Man's death would free Janet of the only tie that bound her to Wildwater; would it bring her folk likewise nearer to the thought of friendliness?

"God grant it may," muttered Wayne.

And then he glanced across the hall, toward where his father had lain upon the bier awaiting burial—where he himself had stood and sworn above the body that he would never rest from killing. The tumult of the past months rolled back; he saw again the quiet face of the dead; he felt anew the bitter hate that had informed his vow. Was he to draw back now, because the one sweeping fight had given his stomach food enough? Nay, for his oath held him, now as then; and, now as then, he must be ready at all hours to carry on the old traditions.

While he sat there, his head between his hands, with the peats dropping noiseless into light heaps of ash, the door opened and Mistress Wayne crept into hall. Her hair was loosened; her bare feet peeped from under her night-gear; and a man, to look at her, would have named her the bonniest child that ever stood far off from womanhood. She stood for awhile regarding the quiet figure by the hearth, then came to him and rested both hands lightly on his shoulders.

"Why, bairn, I thought thou wast asleep," said Wayne, starting from his reverie.

"I could not sleep, Ned. Each time I closed my eyes the dreams flocked round me."

He took her hands in his and drew her gently down. "Dreams? Come tell them to me, little one," he said.

She crept still closer to him, shivering as with cold. "Ned, I saw thy father as he lay in hall here, long ago—saw his still look, and the candle-shadows slanted by the wind across his face."

Her glance, as Wayne's had done, sought the place where the bier had rested; and he wondered why his thoughts and hers should run on the same theme to-night.

"Let the dream rest there, bairn," he said.

She did not heed him, but went on, with wrapt, still face. "And then the dream shifted, Ned, and it was the Lean Man lay there—the Lean Man, with one ear shorn level with the cheek and the dreadful scars upon his face. Ned, 'twas fearsome! For Nicholas Ratcliffe sat him up and scowled at me as he does when he meets me on the moor—as he did when first I went to Wildwater and was turned forth of doors by him. And his hands crept out toward me, Ned, till they closed about my throat; and then I woke; and I could not bear it, Ned, so I came down to thee."

"Never heed such dreams," he whispered soothingly. "Thou'rt over-weary, that is all."

"It may be so—yet they were so real, Ned! So real." Again she glanced across the hall. "Thrice I saw thy father lying there—and once, Ned, thou stood'st beside him, so I thought, and pleaded with him. Thou had'st kept well thy oath, thou said'st; was't not enough?"

Wayne's hand tightened on her own. It was not the first time that she had touched, as with a magic wand, the hidden burden of his thoughts; yet never had she aimed so surely to the mark as now.

"And what said he—what said the dead man on the bier?" he queried eagerly.

"What said he? He opened his eyes, Ned, and looked thee through and through. ''Tis not enough, save all be slain,' he answered, in a voice that was faint as the echo of a bell. 'I weary of it, father,' thou said'st. 'Yet wilt thou keep the vow, though thou think'st 'tis done with,' said the dead man, and closed his eyes. And then—Ned, there was a whimper and a crying at the door, and thy father stirred in sleep, and lifted himself, and cried Wayne and the Dog, so clear that it was ringing in my ears when I awoke."

Wayne answered nothing for a space. For not his father only, but his father's fathers, lifted their shrouds and gazed at him—gazed mercilessly and told him that the feud was not his, to be staunched or fought at pleasure, that it was a heritage which he must bear as best he could, passing it on when his turn came to die.

No buried legend of his house, no musty tale of wrongs suffered and repaid but came back to mind. And Mistress Wayne sat still as destiny beside his knee, and kept her eyes on his. The wind moaned comfortless through the long, empty passages; the garden-shrubs tapped their wet fingers on the window-panes; and the House of Marsh seemed to mutter and to tremble in its sleep.

Wayne roused himself at last, and looked down at the frail, troubled face. "Dreams need not vex us, bairn, when all is said. Fifty such will come in the space of one night, and each carry a contrary tale."

"And then we heed them not; but mine to-night are played all upon the one string, Ned. What should it mean?"

"It means that thou hast lived through some drear months, little one, and the memory of them takes thee at unawares in sleep.—Come, now, fill up my wine-cup for me, and light the candles, for 'tis gloomy here in hall—and then I'll tell thee tales until thou'rt ready for thy bed again."

She was quick at all times to shift her mood to his; and soon her face smoothed itself, her hands ceased moving restlessly, as she lay back against his knee and listened to his voice. Only the softer tales he told her, of the Wayne men and the Wayne women, their loves and the fashion of their wooing. And in the telling he, too, began to lose the discomfort which her dreams had roused.

"Tell me, Ned," she said, looking up on the sudden; "had any of thy folk so strange a wooing as thine?"

"Ay, three generations back. But that tale has a drear ending, bairn, and I'll not tell it thee."

"Often and often I dream of thee and Mistress Janet; sometimes she stands at the far side of Wildwater Pool and bids thee cross to her—and thou goest waist-deep, Ned, to reach her—and then the sun sets red behind the hill and the waters turn to blood."

"Of a truth, little one, thou'rt minded to have me sad to-night," he muttered.

"Nay, not sad!" she pleaded. "There's much that is dark to me, Ned, but one thing I never doubt—that Janet will come safe to thee. Let the waters redden as they will, thou'lt cross to her one day."

"Over her kinsfolk's bodies? Ay, it may be so," said Wayne bitterly.

They both fell silent then, and by and by Wayne looked down and saw that her eyes were closed and her breath came soft and measured. He let her lie so for a while, then took her gently in his arms.

"Poor bairn!" he said. "She's sadly overwrought; I'll take her to her room again before she wakes."

He came down again presently to hall, and threw fresh peats on the fire, and settled himself beside the hearth; for Mistress Wayne had given him fresh food for thought, and sleep was far from him. This little woman, half witless and altogether weak, had echoed Nell's words of the morning—that, weary of it or no, he must take on the feud. He recalled Nell's look, the quiet and settled hatred that had seemed so ill in keeping with her bridal-morn; and he understood, with the clearness that comes to a man at lonely night-time, how deep the memory of her father's death had gone. He had been revelling when the blow was struck on that stormy winter's afternoon, and it had been to him no more than a disastrous tale re-told; but she had seen the blow, had looked into Wayne's dying face, had watched the life ebb out to nothingness. Ay, there was scant wonder that she could not loose her hold upon the quarrel.

And then his mind revolted from such thoughts, and a clear picture came to him of Janet—Janet, as she had stood yonder in the window-niche and named him master. Dead Wayne of Marsh had his claims, and he had looked well to them; but had the living no claims likewise? He had pledged his word to Janet, no less than to his father; and if a chance offered, he would cry peace with the Ratcliffes and be glad. A deep, pitying tenderness for the girl swept over him; he would be good to her—God knew he would be good to her.

He was roused by a sharp call from without, a call that was thrice repeated before he got to his feet and opened the main door.

"Gate, ye Marsh folk, gate!" came a thin, high voice from the far side of the courtyard.

Wayne looked across the moonlit yard and saw Nicholas Ratcliffe, whom he thought to be dying, seated astride his big bay horse and lifting his hand to beat afresh upon the gate. Too startled to feel anger, if anger had been possible after the plight in which he had left his foe at their last meeting, Wayne crossed the yard.

"Your errand?" he asked.

"To drink the wine I spilled on my last visit here," said the Lean Man.

His voice, his bearing, were softened strangely; and Wayne, seeing what weakness underlay his would-be gaiety, felt a touch of something that was almost pity.

"Spilled wine is hard to pick up, sir," he answered; "but if you come to ask for a fresh measure—why, there's none at Marsh will be so churlish as to grudge it you."

He was turning to fetch the cup when the Lean Man called him back. "I could scarce keep my seat for faintness—I'm weaker than I was, as you will guess perchance—and I am fain to rest my limbs. There's a matter to be talked of, too—would it irk you, lad, to let the Marsh roof shelter me a while?"

Still wondering, Wayne drew the bolts of the gate, then glanced to see if Nicholas held dagger or pistol in his hand. But he was unarmed, nor did he look like one who could use any sort of weapon. As in a dream the younger man helped his guest from the saddle, and noted that he had much ado to stand upright soon as his feet were on the ground.

"Times change," said Nicholas, smiling faintly. "Not long since I forswore your wine—and here I'm craving your arm to help me indoors that I may drink the same."

Wayne was gentler than his wont after his long brooding by the hearth, and again the other's weakness touched his pity. This guest of his, who leaned so heavy on his arm, was an old man, and he, who had brought the bitterness of defeat on him, was young. This guest of his, too, had been kind to Janet in his own rough way.

"Lie on the settle, sir," he said, busying himself after the Lean Man's comfort soon as they had got indoors.

"Well, I've hated this house of Marsh through life—but, sooth, I find its welcome pleasant now the ice is broken.—The wine, lad! Bring me the wine!—I thank you. Shall I give you a toast that will please us both?"

"If you can find such, sir."

"To Janet Ratcliffe, who rules at Marsh and Wildwater," said Nicholas, and drained the cup.

Shameless Wayne leaned against the wall and passed a hand across his eyes. It was more like some fantastic dream-scene, this, than aught else. Had Nicholas, then, learned all that had passed between Janet and himself? Nay, that could not be, since he took it with such friendliness. The riddle was beyond him, and he looked up at last—to find the Lean Man smiling frankly at him.

"There, lad! It puzzles thee, and I'll make no mystery of it. Janet grew shamed of lying to me, and made a straight confession."

"After—after we fought together, sir?"

The other halted a moment; then, "After we fought together," he echoed.—"See, Wayne of Marsh, I'm humbled—by you. I have been scarred by fire and lightning—through you. I despised you when first the feud broke out, thinking you a worthless lad, scarce meet to cross blades with me. Yet you have prevailed; you have made shame my portion——"

"Hold, sir! What is past, is past, and I will not hearken."

"I have cursed you, lad, till, by my life, I think there are no curses left in me. Weakness has stepped in everywhere, and even my hate is lost."

There was no shiftiness about the Lean Man now. His eye met Wayne's with shame in it, but with no trace of guile. And the younger man despised himself that at such a time a doubt should take him unawares.

"Yet 'tis not long since you carried my sister off by deep-laid treachery—ay, and boasted of it when you brought her in exchange for Janet," he said slowly.

"My body was whole then, and my heart hot; and for devilry I lied to you. 'Twas not I, but Red Ratcliffe, who hatched the stratagem.—Lad, lad, if you could read me through, you'd see I'm over broken to lie, or scheme, or fight again." His eyes dimmed, and he bent his scarred face on his breast awhile.

Wayne felt his doubts slip by. Like a dream it was still, but a truer dream than Mistress Wayne's. Only an hour ago she had talked of disaster and bloodshed; and here was the Lean Man, come to give her prophecies the lie. And Nicholas could give him Janet, and peaceful days wherein she and he might watch the old sores heal.

The Lean Man roused himself presently, and tried to smile. "I lack it, Wayne, that hate of mine, when all's said; but 'tis gone, lad—gone altogether."

"As mine is, too," said Wayne in a low voice.

"Is that a true word?" cried the other. "Is't courtesy only bids you say it, or——"

"As I live, I have lost my hate for you. Ay, I could welcome peace if it were offered."

"That is the Wayne spirit, lad—the damned Wayne pity when theirs is the upper hand. Have you no fear of what chanced to your folk aforetime through letting us breed instead of killing us?"

Wayne warmed to the downright sturdiness of the man. "I must leave that to shape itself," he answered.—"But, Janet, sir? What of her?"

"She came with her tale, boy, when I was at the lowest ebb of spirits, thinking on my dead arm and the fights it might have played a part in. She told me her love for you—she pleaded that the long strife should end, that she and you should bind the two houses close in friendship."

"And you consented? You——"

"I, like a fool, consented—and she, like a woman, holds me to the folly. There, lad! A life's enmity is a dear thing to surrender—but Janet has witched it from me. I'm tired, and old, and very near my grave, and peace it shall be henceforth if you're of that mind too."

Shameless Wayne held out his hand, and the Lean Man gripped it with his left; and they looked deep into each other's eyes.

"I have a fancy, lad," said Nicholas presently, "an old man's fancy, and a worthless. You see me here now, and think the end will not be yet; but I know better. Death may come to-day, to-morrow—and, when it comes, I should like full peace to be made above my body. My folk are ready as myself; 'tis only my zeal has kept them to the feud so long. Wilt promise me this much—that thou'lt bring thy kin to my lyke-wake and make peace at the bier-side. Oaths taken at such a time bind men more straitly, I've noticed."

"But, sir, there's no need to talk of death as yet!" cried Wayne, eager to soothe the old man's trouble.

The other did not heed him. "I've not done much good in my lifetime," he went on, as if talking to himself. "Life's pity, I'm growing womanish, to sorrow over back-reckonings—yet still—'twould please me to bring this one good deed to pass. Wilt promise, lad, to grant my whim?"

"I promise gladly, sir—and trust that the need to keep it lies far off."

"Good lad! Fill up for me again, and then help me back to saddle. There's none but you would have brought me so far from home to-day."

Their hands met again when Nicholas had mounted and was ready to start. A grim humour was twitching at the corners of his mouth.

"What is it, sir?" asked Wayne.

"Nay, I was but thinking we parted in a different fashion when last we met. Fare thee well, lad, and I'll take some sort of love-sick message from thee to one at Wildwater."

Shameless Wayne went back to his seat by the hearth, and leaned his head on his hands, and wondered if all had been indeed a dream. And then his heart rose up in thankfulness, that at last the rough ways were to be made smooth.

"It was a true word I spoke," muttered the Lean Man, as he rode at a foot-pace up the hill. "The strength is dying fast in me—this peace-errand of mine is the last big effort I shall ever make." Again the smile flickered and died at the corners of his mouth.

"The last effort—save one," he added when he gained the top of Barguest Lane.

CHAPTER XXVI

MISTRESS WAYNE FARES UP TO WILDWATER

A week had passed since the Lean Man came down to drink with Shameless Wayne, a week of bitter winds that brought rain and hail from the dark northern edge of moor. July, which should have been at middle splendour, had been flung back to March, for the thunderstorm, fiercer than any that had swept over Marshcotes in the memory of man, had quenched the sun, it seemed, and had harried the warm winds and lighter airs to hopeless flight. The heather, that had been budding fast, bent drearily to the peat and kept its flowers half-sheathed. The corn draggled limp and wet across the upland furrows.

Shameless Wayne, as he sat at meat this morning with his step-mother, turned his eyes from the window and the dripping garden-trees that stood without. Never had his chance of happiness shown clearer than it had done since the Lean Man came to drink the peace-cup with him; yet the weather chilled him with a sense of doom. Do as he would, he could not shake off the influence of moaning wind and black, cloud-cumbered skies.

"I'm a child, to sway so to a capful of cold wind—eh, little bairn?" he said.

The past week had set its mark on Mistress Wayne; her eyes were ringed with sleeplessness, and wore perpetually that haunted look which had been in them when she came from her bed to rid her of perplexing dreams.

"The children are wise sometimes, Ned," she murmured. "They sadden for storm and clap hands when the sun shines—and that is wisdom. Does the sky know naught of what is to come?"

"Nay, for it lifted when I was heaviest, and now that the tangles show like to be unravelled—see, the sky scowls on me."

"But it knows—and when disaster steals abroad it veils its face for sorrow.—Look, Ned, look! There's hail against the window-panes. Dost recall that night when thy—thy father—lay dead in hall here, and they killed Dick Ratcliffe on the vault-stone? 'Twas the edge of winter then, and now 'tis full summer; yet the hail falls, now as then, and the trees sough with the same heartbreak in their voices."

"'Tis just such another day," he muttered, crossing to the window and watching the hail-stones gather on the sill.—"What, then, bairn! Are we to cry because fortune is fairer than the weather? Have I not told thee there's to be peace at last? And Janet Ratcliffe, whom thou wast so eager for me to wed, will be mine soon as——"

"Thou hast told me all that, Ned," she interrupted gravely, "and yet—forgive me—I am sick at heart. Barguest was scratching at my door last night; I cannot rid me of him nowadays. What should the poor beast want with me?"

Wayne turned sharply and looked into his step-mother's face. If the sky's frown had chilled him, how could a word of Barguest fail to move him—Barguest, whose intimate, friendly dealings with his house had grown to be as much a part of Marsh as its walls, its trim-kept garden and lichened mistal-roofs.

"And not the Dog only, Ned," she went on, quietly, "but I saw thee stand on the brink of Wildwater Pool again—thee and Janet—and she cried to thee across the crimson waters like one whose soul is in dire torment."

"God keep us, bairn!" he cried. "Why didst not tell me this before? Did Janet speak in thy dream? Did she say aught of the Lean Man or her folk?"

"Naught; she did but wring her hands, and bid them hasten.—Ned, Ned, where art going?"

"Going? Why, to Wildwater. Red Ratcliffe has taken advantage of the old man's weakness.—God, bairn! Shall I be in time to save the lass?"

"'Twas no more than a dream, Ned," she stammered, trying to block his way. "I never thought 'twould drive thee up to Wildwater."

"How could it do less?" he answered, putting her from him and buckling on his sword-belt. "I laughed at dreams a while since—but only when they promise peace need we have doubt of them."

She followed him to the door, still piteous with entreaty. "Ned, have a care! The Lean Man is on our side now, but he is only one, and they are many at the grim house on the moor—rough men and cruel, like those who met me once and told me thou wast dying.—Well, then, if thou must go, let me come with thee!"

"Thou, bairn?" he cried. "What should such as thou do up at Wildwater? There, I'll come safe home, never fear; and keep thou close within doors, meanwhile, for thou'rt over-frail to meet these blustering winds."

She stood there at the door until he had saddled his horse and brought it round from stable; and again she sought to keep him from his errand. But he paid no heed to her, and soon she could hear his hoof-beats dying up the lane.

"God guide him safe," she whispered, and held her breath as the wind rose suddenly and set the hall-door creaking on its hinges.

All morning she wandered up and down the passages, afraid of the dreams that had racked her through the night, doubtful if she had done well to give Ned warning, in hourly dread lest some ill news of him should come from Wildwater. All morning the wind sobbed and wailed, as if there would never again be gladness over the cloud-hidden land. And under the wind's note Mistress Wayne could hear the patter-patter of soft feet, ceaseless and unrestful, till for very dread she wrenched the hall door open once again and went into the courtyard. But the footsteps followed her, and once she sprang aside as if some rough farm-dog had brushed her skirts in passing.

Wild the storm was in this sheltered hollow, but on the open moor it was resistless. The wind's voice in the chimney-stacks, piteous at Marsh, was a scream, a shriek, a trumpet call, up at the naked house of Wildwater, and the walls, square to the harshest of the tempest, shook from roof to the rock that bottomed them, as if they grudged shelter to the sick man whom they harboured. For Nicholas Ratcliffe had taken to his bed on the day that followed his ride to Marsh, and he knew that he would never rise from it again.

He had made them move the bed to the window, from which his eyes could range to the far hill-spaces of the heath; and he lay there this morning, listening to the storm and counting the hours that he had yet to live. As the wind raved out of the north, he could see it plough its green-black furrows across the dripping murk that hugged the ling from sky-line to sky-line; and the sight seemed good to him.

"It fits, it fits!" he murmured. "Lord God, how sweet the storm-song is!"

He was dying hard, undaunted to the last. He had feared naught save Barguest through his sixty years of life; and even the dog-dread now was gone—it had as little terror for him as the grave which showed so close ahead. Nay, a grim sort of smile wrinkled his lips as he lay on his side, and gasped for breath, and heard the wild wind drive the Horses of the North across the waste; for he counted his hours, and he thought they would lengthen till dawn of the next day—or may be noon.

"And by then we shall have made peace with Wayne of Marsh, and with his kin," he muttered; "ay, peace—'tis a fair word after all, methinks, though once I cared so little for it."

His eyes were on the open doorway, and they brightened as Janet crossed the stair-head. "Janet!" he called. "I've a word for that pretty ear of thine; come to the bedside, lass."

The girl came softly across the floor and put a hand on his wet forehead. "Can I do aught?" she asked.

"Ay, thou canst do much, girl. Dost recall how I railed at thee when first I heard of thy love for Wayne? And then how I softened to thy pleading? Od's life, I think thou hast bewitched me; for now I'm keener set on peace than ever I was on blows. Hearken, Janet! I rode down to Marsh not long since, as I told thee."

"Ay, sir—and didst drink a cup of wine with Wayne in token that the feud was killed."

"In token that the feud was killed," he echoed, with a sideways glance at her. "And now I cannot die till I have seen the peace fairly sealed, here by my bedside. Would Shameless Wayne bring his folk here to Wildwater, think'st thou, if I made thee my messenger?"

Janet caught his hands in hers. "Would he bring them? Why, sir, he would ask naught better," she cried. "Let me ride down to Marsh forthwith."

"Young blood, young blood!" said the Lean Man, with a laugh that brought the colour to her face. "I warrant the sight of Wayne is worth more to thee than fifty truces, for thou'rt eager as a hind in spring to seek this new-made lover of thine."

"Nay, grandfather," said Janet gravely; "I would do for peace sake all that I would do for love. Peace means life—life to Wayne—is that so slight a matter that I should scruple to ride down to him?"

"Wayne's life is no slight matter," said the other softly. "Get thee down to Marsh, Janet."

The girl grew very tender on the sudden. She had dealt amiss with her grandfather in times past, and he was rewarding her by kindness not to be believed.

"We shall thank you all our lives for this—all our lives," she cried.

A shadow crossed the Lean Man's face; his hand trembled on the bed-covering; his eyes wandered hither and thither about the room, not meeting Janet's.

"I was so fearful when you learned my love for Wayne," she went on. "I feared you would find a way to kill him, and then that you would leave Red Ratcliffe free to do as he would with me."

"All that was in my mind, lass," said Nicholas, after a long silence. "Nay, if this pesty sickness had not weakened the pride in me—but that is passed. Get thee to Marsh, then, and bid every Wayne in Marshcotes or in Cranshaw come up to drink old sores away.—What, doubtful?" he broke off, as Janet halted half toward the door.

"Not of Ned's coming, sir—but the Waynes of Cranshaw will hold back, suspecting treachery. I saw Ned two days ago, and he told me how his kinsfolk had taken the news of your peace-errand."

The smile played again about the Lean Man's lips. "God's pity, what do they fear from me?" he cried. "Look at me, Janet, and say if I could scare any one—save the crows, haply, when they come a-stealing corn."

"They say that, while Nicholas Ratcliffe lives, there will be bloodshed; they say, sir, that they'll give no ear to talk of peace until—" She checked herself.

"Nay, finish it out, lass! Until I'm under sod, thou would'st have said? So my name holds good even yet? Well-away, 'tis a thought to soften one's pillow, when all is said."

He fell into silence, and Janet, standing by the bedside, saw his rough brows drawn tight together as if the brain were quick yet in his dying body. A vague foreboding seized her; time and again in the past she had seen the Lean Man knit his brows in thought, and some one of his moorside foes had always rued it later in the day.

"So the Cranshaw Waynes carry suspicion of me still?" said Nicholas after awhile. "Art sure, Janet, they will doubt me to the last? Doubt me, when Wayne of Marsh has given his hand, knowing that peace is all I ask for?"

"They have not seen the changed look of you as Wayne of Marsh has done, or they could never doubt." There was a break in Janet's voice, for her foreboding of a moment ago grew shameful when measured by the old man's gentleness.

"Then I must die without seeing what I yearned to see. Well, so be it. Now give me a promise, girl—the last I shall ever ask of thee."

"I promise it beforehand—but it must not be the last. You will live, grandfather——"

"Tush, bairn! A broken jug carries no wine.—God, don't cry so, Janet! When I was hale, I could never bide the sight of tears; and now they madden me. Listen; when the breath is out of my body, my folk will wake beside the bier. Well, the Waynes must come then if they'll not come while I'm living; death will soften them, lass."

"Grandfather——"

"Peace, I say!—Whenever I die, girl, be it to-day or when it will, do thou take the news to Wayne of Marsh and bid him to the lyke-wake with all his kin. Wilt do this much, Janet?"

"I will do it gladly, sir."

"It may be to-night, Janet. Art prepared?—Yet, Lord, I doubt they will not come! Girl, will they come, think'st thou?"

"Grandfather, what ails you? Is't not enough that you have righted this evil quarrel? You rode down to Marsh, at a time when you had scarce strength to sit the saddle; you showed Ned that he could trust you; you won him to the side of peace. What then? Lie back on your pillow, sir, and rest content."

"Rest? There's no rest," he muttered. "Fears crowd thick about a dying man; fears are carrion crows, girl, that never swoop until a man is past his strength. I fear everything, I tell thee—everything."

"I'll not wait, sir; let me go see Wayne of Marsh this moment—'twill ease thee to know I 'have told him how hour by hour your eagerness for peace grows hotter."

"Ay, go! Have thy mare saddled, and ride with the wind's heels. Tell Wayne to be prepared against my death—the death his folk are watching for. Bid him come to the lyke-wake on peril of his soul, for the curses of the dead are no light load to bear. Bid him in God's name or the devil's——"

His voice tripped for very feverishness; his eyes burned with a sombre fire; there was no doubting that this last whim of his had grown to be an overmastering passion.

"I will persuade him, grandfather, have never a fear of that," said Janet, as she went to do his bidding.

She turned at the door, and saw that he was following her with his eyes; and she stopped for a moment, spellbound by the scene. The wind was raving overhead; the light that filtered through the panes was leaden, streaked with a storm-red; the gurgle of rain, the hiss of hail, came never-ceasing from across the moor; it was as if the earth were riven asunder, and all the waters of the earth were gathering to a head. And there, silent amid the uproar, lay the Lean Man of Wildwater, with the fire-scars on his face, and the red lump that stood for his left ear, and the strained look that comes when the one-half of a man is palsied.

"How drear it is, how drear!" murmured Janet, and looked at the Lean Man again, and saw that a bitter sadness had come into his face—a sadness whose depth she could not fathom.

"Come back," whispered the Lean Man, beckoning feebly to her.—"Thou hast loved me well, Janet," he went on, as she stooped above him.

"I have loved you well, grandfather—better than ever you knew of."

"But less than Wayne of Marsh—Wayne, who thwarted me at every turn—who—there, lass! What am I saying? That is wiped out, and haply I like him none the worse because he gave shrewd blows. God, to think how fain I am to see thee wed to him—safely wed to him."

He dwelt on the last words, repeating them with a vehemence half grim, half childish. And then he pointed to the door, and not till Janet's footfall sounded on the stair did he break silence.

"The lad has thwarted me, and I forgive him," said the Lean Man slowly. "Janet has played me false, and I make her the messenger of peace. 'Tis fitting; the old hatred was an ill comrade for grey hairs."

And then he lay back, listening to the spit-spit of the rain, the falling cadence of the wind. And a smile, as of hardly-won content, played round about his hollow face.

Red Ratcliffe was waiting at the stair-foot when Janet came down into the hall.

"How goes it with the dotard?" he cried.

She made no answer, but brushed past him toward the door.

"Ay, go where thou wilt," sneered Ratcliffe, watching her put on cloak and hood; "so long as the Lean Man lives, I'll lay no finger on thee, for there's a devil in him that only the grave can kill. But what after that?"

"After that, Ratcliffe the Red," she cried, turning suddenly to face him, "after that I shall put my safety in the keeping of one thou know'st."

"Wayne of Marsh, I take it? Shameless Wayne, who drank his own father's quarrel away, who——"

"Who goes abroad with a cry of Wayne and the Dog. Hast ever heard the cry, Red Ratcliffe?"

He winced, remembering how often he had fled panic-stricken with the cry behind him; and Janet, turning from him in disdain, crossed to the stables through the misty drizzle that was scattered from the skirts of the late storm.

It might be a half-hour later, as she dipped down the Ling Crag hill, that she met Shameless Wayne galloping hard up the stiff rise. He checked on seeing her and brought his mare on to her haunches.

"I was riding to thee, Janet. What brings thee here? No ill news, is't?" he cried.

"Nay, Ned—save that grandfather is not like to live the day through."

"There's no danger threatens thee?"

"Never less, Ned. Whither wast galloping so hard, and why dost look so tempest-driven?"

"What hast done to me, Janet?" he cried. "I'm full of dreads since winning thee; and just because Mistress Wayne saw thee last night in a vision, I needs must come helter-skelter to learn if thou wast safe."

"If the vision foretold disaster, Ned, methinks it erred—and, by that token, it is well we met, for I have a message to thee."

"What, from Wildwater?"

"Ay. Grandfather, like thee, is full of doubts—but his are a sick man's terrors. His fury I know, and his tenderness—ay, I have seen him panic-stricken, too—but I cannot tell what ails him now. His talk is all of peace between our houses; and yet, when he speaks of my wedding thee, he scarce knows whether to jest or scowl."

"I was a youngster, and chance gave me the better of the fight," said Wayne quietly. "Canst wonder he grudges it a little?"

"It must be so—and, Ned, we've happiness to thank him for. His message was that, soon as he is dead, you are to come with your folk to wake beside the body. My kinsmen are rough, Ned, but they know grandfather's wish, and when ye stand beside the bier with them, be sure the thought of death will soften them to the truce."

"I promised him as much a week since, and I'll keep faith, dear lass—for thy sake, if for no other."

"Yet he fears the Cranshaw Waynes will still hold back. Ned, canst make sure of them? 'Tis his last wish, and I would not have him thwarted.—And now, dear, fare thee well. I dare not be away from Wildwater, lest he be wanting aught, or—lest he die, Ned, without my hand in his."

Wayne turned about. "I'll ride to Hill House now, and then to Cranshaw. They shall come with me, Janet; trust me to persuade them."

"Ned! 'Twill be—'twill be to-night, I think. To look at him, he cannot live through the day."

"Then to-night shall find us ready.—Why, child, what is't?"

She brushed the quick-rising tears away. "Naught—'twas naught—only, Ned, I've no friend in the world but thou when grandfather has gone."

She was gone with that, and Wayne, after seeing her gallop into the mists, turned his mare's head and made across the moor to Hill House, where he told them of the Lean Man's message and the nearness of his end. Some were in favour of the truce, others refused to abandon their settled mistrust of Nicholas Ratcliffe; and last of all they rode with him to Cranshaw, there to take counsel of the Long Waynes. At Cranshaw it was the same; some were on Shameless Wayne's side, others were hot against his plan; and Nell herself was the first to resist his counsel.

"It seems the Lean Man's dying wish is more to thee than father's," she cried; "but, for my part, I can hear no talk of peace for the cry that rings day-long in my ears. No quarter, Ned—dost mind the cry?"

"We have followed it far enough," he answered. "Has wedlock taught thee so little, Nell, that peace shows not worth the gaining?"

"As I told thee,—neither wedlock nor aught else can wipe one picture out."

"Well, I for one, Nell, am fain to see the end of all this blood-letting," cried her husband.

"And art thou fain," she answered bitterly, "to see him wedded to this Ratcliffe girl?"

"Ay, even that I'd welcome, though 'tis not long since I thought ill of it. But it should help to heal the feud—and, besides, they say she is no Ratcliffe in her honesty."

"Have it as ye will. Mistress Janet is leagued with her kin, doubtless—but men do not believe these matters when their logic is a bonnie face."

"Mistress Janet is well enough; all the moorside has a kindly word for her," put in one of the Waynes of Hill House; "but what if the Lean Man has not done yet with his accursed trickeries?"

"Then we are armed, and in full force," said Shameless Wayne. "Would the Lean Man have bidden all of us to the feast, think'st thou, if he had meant trickery?"

"Ned is right," put in Rolf; "we will go to the lyke-wake, and if the feud is to be staunched above his body, there'll many a wife go happier to bed than she has done since the spring came in."

Nell held out against them still; but they overruled her, and one by one the malcontents agreed to follow the counsel of those they counted as their leaders.

"He'll not last through the day, so Janet told me," said Shameless Wayne. "Best come with me to Marsh forthwith, and wait the messenger."

"So thou'lt marry this daughter of the Ratcliffes?" said Nell, as she stood at the gate and watched her brother get to horse.

"God willing, Nell—and one day thou wilt love her near as much as I."

"Nay, I have done with loving. Ride on, Ned, and if they tell thee I have cared for thee—why, say they lie."

He touched his horse and rode slowly out; and all the way to Marsh his thoughts were busy with this sister's love that would fain have kept him close in prison. It was not the feud only then, that warped her nature. I have done with loving, she had said; and dimly he understood that even her husband had no place beside him in her heart.

"Od's life, these women! Who framed them at the start?" he muttered, as he gained the steep down-hill that led to Marsh.

And then he remembered little Mistress Wayne, and wondered if she had rid her of the needless fears which had driven him out this morning in search of Janet.

But his step-mother had left Marsh House and was already nearing the lane-top that took her to the moors. All morning she had wandered from room to room, from house to courtyard, to see if Ned were coming home. Why had she listened to her dreams, she asked herself? Why told him how Janet had stood on the verge of Wildwater Pool, entreating help? Visions might play her false and had done as much a score of times. Yet—what of Barguest? He at least was real; he at least—

She put her hands against the gate to steady herself, and looked up the lane; for the sound of pattering feet was in her ears once more, and there was a coldness in the wind more shrewd than any that blew off the moors. And not only the sound of feet, and icy, upward moving breeze—for a dun and shaggy-coated hound crept out of the empty road, and swung up toward the heath.

Mistress Wayne halted no longer now. There were many who had heard the Dog in Marshcotes, but none save she to whom he showed himself. It must be as she feared; Ned was in peril at Wildwater, and the Dog was leading her to him. Not once did she halt to ask what service she could render him; it was enough that he was in danger, and that Barguest sought her aid.

The dun mist hugged the moor as she made forward. The clouds were grey as hopelessness, and everywhere the sound of moorland brooks, flushed by the heavy rains, was like a doom-song in her ears. Underfoot the peat oozed black at every step. The further hills were blotted out, the nearer rises showed unsubstantial, wan and ghoulish; the very grouse were wearied into silence. The shaggy-coated beast that had led her here had vanished into the drifting mists; but still she pressed on, her whole mind bent on reaching Wildwater.

She would have been lost at the first mile had she brought reason to help her find the track to Wildwater; but instinct guided her more surely, and presently the black house in the wilderness showed swart among the mists. So dark it looked, so evil, that once she half turned back; but Ned had need of her—and she would go to the house-door and knock, and ask what they had done with him. And if they killed her—well, it would not matter.

On and on she went. And now she had reached the outer-most intake; and now she had crossed the lank grass, and gone through the gate at the top, and reached the bare house-side that looked from its solitary window on to the path which led to the courtyard. Mistress Wayne caught her breath, and stopped, and listened; but the house was still as death. Her resolution faltered; she looked up and down the wall, with the rain-lines shimmering grey from the gable-end to the rustling weeds at its foot—looked, and saw nothing for awhile—looked, with the absent gaze of those who wander in their sleep, until a shadow crossed the window-pane, a shadow that took substance.

Then there was a crash, the falling of broken glass, and Mistress Wayne had wit neither to scream nor flee. She could but follow the hand that beckoned through the broken pane.

CHAPTER XXVII

HOW THE LEAN MAN FORGOT THE FEUD

Janet, soon as she reached Wildwater after bidding farewell to Shameless Wayne, went up to the Lean Man's room to tell him how she had fulfilled her errand and to see if he were in need of anything. But the sound of voices met her when she gained the stair-head, and she stopped irresolute. The pity that she felt for her grandfather was such as to make her shrink from showing it to the rude eyes of her kinsmen, and she would wait until the Lean Man and she could be alone together.

The door was wide open, and as she turned to go downstairs again Red Ratcliffe's voice sounded harshly across the landing. "By the Heart, sir, we judged you all amiss! We thought the fight was dead in you, and now——"

"Dead? The fight will die, lad, when I do," chuckled the Lean Man. "Tell me, is it not bravely planned?"

Janet crept close to the door, her eyes wide-open with dismay.

"Bravely, sir," went on Red Ratcliffe. "Peste! We have them in the hollow of our hands, and yond Wayne of Marsh will learn, as his father did, whither courteous foolery leads a man. He drank in your tale, then, when you went to him that night at Marsh?"

"Ay, did he; and God knows how I kept my laughter in when I saw him falling into the wonted softness of his race. How could he refuse an old man's plea? How could he be less than courteous when I fetched a tear or so and babbled of my failing strength?"

Janet leaned against the wall, sick and nerveless. The blow had fallen on her like a thunder-bolt, and as yet she could not realise that the Lean Man on his very death-bed was playing so grim a part.

"I would have had them ride up this afternoon," went on Nicholas, "because I feared to die before the good hour came. But the Waynes of Cranshaw are less guileless, it would seem, than him of Marsh, and they would trust me not a stiver till the breath was cold in me. What, then? Ye shall lay me out in state in the great hall below us, and I will show death that I am ready to play his game before he calls me—ay, but I'll not die, call he never so, before I have sat me up on my bier and cheered you to the fight."

"You'll look so reverend, I warrant, that the sight of you will disarm them altogether," laughed Red Ratcliffe boisterously. "We shall pledge your soul with such sorrow, we Wildwater folk, and they'll be eyeing us so steadfastly, that our blades will be clean through them before they have got hand to hilt. Courage, grandfather! You'll see the end of every Wayne that steps before you leave us."