Mistress Wayne crept, softly as she had come, out of the chamber whose
guest perplexed her so.
"Her bridal-morn!" cried Nell, as though her father could hear that she
was speaking to him. "Is it for malice that she gowns herself in white
on such a day, and prates of weddings? Father, why didst go to the Low
Country for a wife? She has brought disaster on disaster since the first
day she set foot in Marsh."
A new thought came to her, adding its own load to the burden that was
already over-heavy for her. Would Ned win free of his passion for Janet
Ratcliffe, or would his marriage, too, be ill-fated as his father's? To
wed from the Low Country was folly, but marriage between a Ratcliffe and
a Wayne would be a crime on which the country-side would up and cry out
shame.
And then, in a moment, all the girl's fierceness, her resolution and
tearless pride, were lost. God had made her a woman, and like a woman
she fell prone across the bier, and wept, and thought neither of
vengeance nor of hatred, but of the love that had grown through twenty
years of comradeship between the dead man and herself. It was not her
father's strength, his sweeping recklessness in fight, that she
remembered now; but she recalled his gentleness toward her, his clean
and upright courtesy, his generosity to rich and poor among his
neighbours.
Marsh House was full of the unrest that goes before a burial, the
fruitless wandering to-and-fro which seems to ease the sorrow of the
living. The menservants were idling in the courtyard with a subdued
sort of noisiness; the maids were still passing and re-passing from the
kitchen; and Nanny Witherlee, unable to snatch more than the briefest
spell of sleep, came hobbling by and by into the hall.
The old woman stopped on seeing Nell stretched across the bier, and half
advanced toward her; then shook her head. "I'll let her be; happen
'twill be best for her to cry her een out," she muttered, and turned
down the passage to the kitchen.
Nanny showed different altogether this morning from the quivering,
ghost-ridden watcher who had kept so long a vigil with only the dead and
strange voices in the wind for company. Then there had been no work to
be done, no household cares to rouse the old instincts in her; but now
that preparations for the burial feast were going busily forward she
slipped naturally into the place which had been hers at Marsh aforetime.
Brisk as though she had had a full night's sleep, she fell to doing this
and that, rating the maids the while with a keenness that robbed the day
of half its sadness for her.
"Now then, ye idle wenches!" she cried, soon as she had crossed the
kitchen threshold. "Do ye think gaping at a mutton-pasty 'ull mak it
walk to th' dining board? Martha, tha'rt allus mooning ower thy work
like a goose wi' a nicked head. An' look at Mary yonder! Standing arms
under apron when th' house 'ull soon be full o' hungry folk. An' th'
Waynes allus had good appetites, sorrow or no sorrow."
Nanny was setting parsley-sprigs round a dish of neat's tongue all this
time; and when this was done she climbed onto the settle and reached
down piece after piece of haver-bread that was drying on the creel. The
same instinct that had bidden her test the quality of Wayne's winding
sheet, while yet she was deep in sorrow for him, was with her now, and
her mind was set on leaving no unremembered detail, of wine or meat or
ripe October ale, to mar the burial-feast.
"It's weel to do nowt, same as some folk!" she cried, stopping to glance
sourly at the progress of the maids. "I don't know what wenches are
made on nowadays, that I don't."
"Do nowt, my sakes! When my knees is dibble-double-ways wi' weariness,"
cried Martha.
"Hoity-toity! I've done as mich before breakfast ivery day o' th' week
when I war a lass.--Mary, wilt gi'e me a hand wi' this cheese, or mun I
let it fall to th' floor-stuns?"
The maids, run off their feet already, without any help from outside,
grew wild with the natter-natter of the Sexton's wife; but awe of her
kept any but the briefest snaps of anger from their tongues, and it was
a relief to both when the door opened slowly and they saw Hiram Hey
standing on the threshold. Clean-shaven and spruce of body was Hiram,
and a certain melancholy drooping of the mouth-corners could not quench
his sober gaiety of mien.
"'Tis a sad day, this, for us at Marsh," he said, thrusting his head
forward and sniffing the air with unctuous wonder that the women could
think of victuals at all at such a time.
Nanny turned quickly. "It willun't be ony brighter for thy coming,
Hiram Hey. We want no men-folk here," she cried.
The maids looked from Nanny to the farm-man, and then at each other.
There was a stiff breeze always when these two met, and Nanny was apt to
find her match at such times.
"Well, now, are ye winning forrard-like?" said Hiram, leaning against
the doorway in his idlest attitude.
"Ay, an' no thanks to thee," snapped the Sexton's wife.
"It beats me to know how folk can eat an' drink, an' drink an' eat, when
there's a burying. It seems a mockery o' th' dead, that it does--as
mich as to say, 'See what it is to be wick, lad; tha'll niver put
victuals down thy throat again, same as I'm doing now.' Ay, I've oft
thowt it's enough to mak a corpse turn round an' scowl at ye."
"I've seen thee at a burying, Hiram," said the Sexton's wife, quietly,
"an' tha can do thy share, I've noticed. It's all talk, an' nowt but,
wi' sich as ye. Tha cannot see we're thrang, mebbe?"
His only answer was to shift his shoulder to a more easiful position
against the doorway, and Nanny left him to it. At another time she
would have had a sharper tongue for Hiram Hey, nor would his own
responses have lacked their sting; but the old Master's influence had
never been so strong as it was now, and a sense of seemliness--a fear,
perhaps, of waking the last sleep of him who lay so near to them--held
even the rough tongues of these upland folk in check.
Hiram glanced at Martha, soon as the little old woman had hobbled out to
lay fresh dishes in the hall; and Martha answered his glance in a way
that showed there was an understanding between them--as indeed there was
like to be, seeing that Hiram Hey had been wooing her off and on these
two years past.
"Hast been to th' fields this morn?" asked Martha.
"Ay, iver sin' th' sun war up, lass."
"Tha'll be dry, then, Hiram, at after thy morning's work."
"Dry, now? Well, I wodn't say just dry--but that way on a bit. I niver
war a drinker myseln, as I telled shepherd Jose nobbut yesterday; but
there's a time for iverything, an' if I war to see a quart, say, of
October frothing ower th' lip o' th' mug----"
"Tha'd find a mouth to fit it? Well, an' shall, says I," cried Martha.
Hiram stretched his limbs more lengthily before the peats, as a soothing
gurgle from the pantry told him that Martha was already filling him a
measure. She was back again by and by, with a brim-full pewter in her
hands.
"Drink, lad Hiram; what wi' work an' sadness, there's need for strong
liquor here at Marsh," she said.
The firelight struck with a ruddy, softened sheen on the pewter as Hiram
lifted it. He drank slowly, and his face was full of unwonted
cheerfulness until he had set down the empty mug beside him.
"Theer! It war gooid, Martha," he murmured sorrowfully, "but I doubt
there's nowt mich in it when all's said. Drink is all varry weel, but
there's one ower i' th' hall yonder who'll niver warm to liquor again
this side o' Judgment. Nay, I'm fair shamed o' myseln to be supping ale
while th' owd Maister ligs so cold."
He stopped and eyed the empty pewter; and Martha, reaching across the
settle-back, picked up the mug again.
"Tha's getten too soft a heart, Hiram," she said. "Sup while ye can,
an' mak th' most on't."
"Nay, nay, I'm no drinker. Plain watter is nigh th' same to me as ale,
an' there's no call for thee to fill afresh--leastways, I wodn't say a
full quart, tha knows."
But Martha was back again before he had well finished with his protests.
"Get done wi' 't, Hiram, afore Nanny comes back," she whispered. "She
carries an ill tongue, does Nanny, when she finds life going too easy
wi' a body."
"There's queer things bahn to happen," said Hiram presently.
"By th' Heart, I thowt there'd been queer happenings enough of late!"
"The shepherds telled me this morn that th' Ratcliffes is all a-buzz,
an' folk are shaking their heads all up an' dahn th' moorsides.
Besides, th' owd house here fair rustles, like, as I've known it do
afore when trouble war i' store. I tell thee, I can hear th' boggarts
creeping wick as scropels fro' roof to cellar."
"Hod thy whisht--do, now, for goodness sake. Tha flairs me," cried
Martha, glancing behind her. And then she clutched the farm-man by the
arm with sudden terror. "Look yonder, Hiram! Look yonder!" she cried.
Hiram looked and started to his feet. "Begow, I thowt 'twar a right
boggart this time," he muttered. "What ails th' little body to move so
quiet about a house?"
Mistress Wayne, dressed all in white, with celandines at her breast and
fair hair rippling to her waist, had come in from the garden and stood
at the open kitchen-door; and she was smiling, carelessly and
trustfully, on the frightened maids and on old Hiram.
"'Tis my wedding-morn," she said, "and I've been to talk with the
fairies, Martha. They say 'tis well to get the wee folks' blessing for
the bairns to come."
Hiram gave her a long glance, then looked away; and an unwonted pity
stirred him. "Nay, I've no sorrow to waste. She's made herself a
nettle-bed, an' she mun lig on't," he muttered.
"Come in, Mistress, come in, an' warm yourseln a bit; ye're looking cold
and wan, like," cried Martha, recovering from her fright.
"Oh, no, that is not true. I peeped at myself in the well out there
just now, and I thought that I had never seen a happier face. Hiram,
thou must come to my wedding, too; wilt thou?"
"Ay, Mistress--ay, I'll come, choose what."
She smiled again, and waved her hand, and slipped away into the sunshine
that shimmered over the wet flagstones of the yard. And neither Martha
nor the farm-men found aught to say to one another for awhile.
"What dost mak of it?" said Hiram Hey at last.
"Nay, I can mak nowt of it. But 'tis a drear start for a burial.
Hiram, lad, Marsh is no healthy place just now, an' I for one could wish
to be weel out on't. It isn't th' blood-shed I fear, an' it isn't th'
dead man yonder--but it's th' ghosts! Tha'rt right when tha says they
fair creep fro' floor to garret."
A thought crossed Hiram's mind--no new thought, either, but one that
showed livelier than its wont now Martha was in such trouble.
"Tha'd be fain to change dwellings, like?" he ventured, putting a hand
on her shoulder and half drawing her toward him.
Martha yielded to his touch, and a puzzled look came over Hiram's face;
he had pondered over this last step for four-and-twenty months, and
needed a twelvemonth longer in which to make sure of its wisdom. His
doubts were settled, however, by the intrusion of the Sexton's wife, who
stopped on seeing what was afoot and glanced from Hiram to the empty
mug.
"So that's what's browt thee here, Hiram Hey?" she cried. "Tha'rt a
bonnie un to come talking o' what's seemly i' a house o' death! First,
to drink thyseln dizzy-crazy, an' then to go prettying wi' a wench that
mud weel by thy own grandchild. Nay, I've no patience wi' thee; tha'rt
owd enough to be thinking o' thy own latter end i'stead o' fly-by-skying
wi' lasses, an'----"
Hiram for once could find no answer, but stood ruffling the frill of
hair under his clean-shaven chin and shifting his feet from side to
side.
"I have talked with my cousin, Nanny," came the Master's voice from the
door.
Nanny turned and saw Shameless Wayne standing there, pale and quiet,
with the straight downward rent between his brows which seemed to have
been fixed there two nights ago for good and all.
"About th' burying, Maister?" she queried eagerly.
"Aye. We are to go armed; the word has been sent round."
"Now God be praised! Ye're wise to list to what Barguest hes to tell,"
said the Sexton's wife, and forgot to rate the maids, forgot the fifty
little household cares that claimed attention.
*CHAPTER VIII*
*A STORMY BURIAL*
The Wayne vault lay open to the April sky, and throstles were singing in
the stunted trees, as Sexton Witherlee, infirm of step and dreamy of
eye, moved softly over the graveyard stones. He stopped when he reached
the vault, set down the ladder he was carrying and stood looking at the
clean-swept room below.
"'Tis a sweet place, a vault, to my thinking," he muttered. "So trim and
peaceable the folk lie, each on his appointed shelf, with never a wrong
word betwixt 'em th' twelvemonth through. Ay, 'tis quiet ligging, an'
th' storms pass overhead, an' ivery now an' again there's what ye mud
call a stir among 'em when a new shelf is filled an' a new neighbour
earned. Well, I've seen life a bittock, but I wod swop beds wi' ony o'
these, that I wod."
A robin came and perched on the top rung of the ladder, and eyed Sexton
Witherlee sideways with a friendliness which long following after the
spade had bred.
"What, laddie, dost think I'm delving?" said the Sexton, chuckling
feebly. "Nay, there's to be a better burying this morn nor raw earth
gives a man. 'Tis bricks an' mortar, robin, an' a leaded coffin for
sich as Wayne o' Marsh.--Well, then, bide a bit till I've straightened
all up down here, an' then I'll scrat thee up a worm or two for thy
dinner."
He reached down one stiffened leg, twisted the ladder from side to side
to make sure that it was safe, and began his slow descent into the
vault. He passed his hand lightly over the stone doors that hid the
shelves--lightly, and as if he loved each separate entry in this Book of
Death. And all the while he talked to himself, soft and slow.
"There's old Tom Wayne put to bed there--he war a rum 'un an' proper,
they say, though he war dead a hundred year afore my time--an' yond's
Ralph Wayne's spot--well, he lived hot an' he lived fast, did Ralph
Wayne, an' he died at two-score, an' so saved a mort o' sweating an'
unthankfulness. An' now there's th' Maister come to join 'em; I mind
burying his wife ten years agone--ten years!--an' him to hev lived wi'
all his troubles until now. It 'ull by my turn next, I'm thinking--th'
young 'uns come an' they go, an' it doan't hold to reason that Sexton
Witherlee should be spared to bury 'em for iver."
A broom stood in one corner of the vault, fashioned of heather-fagots
bound to a stout handle of ash. Witherlee took the broom in his hands,
and began to sweep up the rubble that lay about the floor.
"Moiling an' toiling, that's all a man addles by keeping th' life quick
i' him. I'm faired shamed o' living when I come among so many decent,
quiet bodies--ay, fair shamed," murmured the Sexton, and rested on his
broom, and looked up to find a broad face and a sturdy pair of shoulders
hanging over the edge of the vault.
"How's trade, Sexton?" said the newcomer.
"Brisk, Jonas, brisk."
"Well, what's one man's meat is another man's poison, i' a manner o'
speaking. 'Tis how ye look at things, I reckon, an' there's heads an'
tails on ivery good piece o' money. So trade's middling, is't?"
"Oh, ay. Other trades grow slack, but ye cannot do without Sexton
Witherlee i' Marshcotes parish. That's what I says to Parson a week
come yestermorn. 'Parson,' says I, 'me an' thee hev getten likely
trades. Folk allus need prayers, an' they allus need burying. Crops
fail time an' time,' I says, 'an' sickness follows at after famine; an'
that's money i' a Sexton's breeches pockets,' says I."
"Mebbe tha'rt right, Sexton; but I'd liefer live by putting sound liquor
down folk's throats nor be shovelling earth a-top of 'em when they've
getten past meat an' drink. But we munnot fratch, for we're near
neighbours--me at th' Bull, an' thee i' th' kirkyard hard by, an' each
to his own trade, says I, choose who hears me say 't.--'Tis a drear
business, this o' th' Maister o' Marsh. Th' burying is fixed for twelve
o' th' clock, they tell me."
"Ay, sure; he'll be ligged i' bed here all ship-shape, will th' owd
Maister, come a half hour after nooin."
"He's nobbut been laid out two days an' less, hes he? How should that
come about, like? 'Tis nobbut decent I allus did say, to give a corpse
its full time on th' bier--'specially a gentle-born corpse, that looks
for so mich more attention or a common un."
"Nay, I've a fancy that they thowt they mud as weel get th' burying done
wi' afore th' Ratcliffes war up to ony o' their tricks. Leastways that
war what Nanny telled me, an' she war watching th' body all last neet at
Marsh. I've been fettling up a bit, an' pondering a bit, an' going ower
th' owd days. Eh, Jonas, but we shall see what we war meant to see
afore th' winter comes again."
"What--fighting, dost think?"
"Ay, we shall that. I've getten a tidy-parcel o' Waynes down here, an'
I can reckon five o' th' Marsh lot, let alone t' others, that fell by
Ratcliffe swords an' Ratcliffe pistols, an' there's few knows as I do
what a power o' hate ligs 'twixt Wildwater an' Marsh. I tell thee, lad,
it maks my owd blood warm to think o' th' brave times coming back."
"I can niver stop wondering at thee, Sexton," said Jonas Feather,
settling his arms more easifully on his stick. "Tha'rt a little,
snipperty chap, as full o' dreaminess as a tummit is full o' waiter;
tha's getten th' rheumatiz i' legs an' shoulder-blades, an' ivery winter
brings thee browntitus, sure as Christmas. Yet here tha stands, an' I
can see thy een fair blaze again when tha talks o' fighting. Hast iver
seen owt o' th' sort, or is't just fancy, like?"
The Sexton laughed, a dry and feeble laugh. "I've seen part
blood-letting, Jonas; an' ivery neet as I sit i' th' settle after th'
day's moil is owered wi', I go backard i' my thowts. Small wonder that
I'm gay, like, to think that soon there'll be a fight to butter my bread
at ivery meal-time."
"Well, 'tis best for plain chaps like thee an' me, Sexton, to let 'em
settle it among theirselns. Poor folk mun live, I allus did say, an' if
tha addles a bit by burying, I willun't grudge it thee.--Will th'
burying go forrard peaceable-like, dost think?"
"Nay, I couldn't tell thee. Like as not there'll be a fight on th' way
fro' Marsh to th' kirkyard here.--Now, Jonas, hod th' stee-top while I
clamber up," broke off the Sexton, throwing up his broom and setting one
foot on the bottom rung of the ladder. "There's this an' there's that
to be looked to, an' it's gone eleven a'ready."
"Sakes, tha doesn't mean it! An' here I stand cracking wi' thee i'stead
o' smartening up th' sarving-wenches down at th' Bull yonder.--I'm noan
for saying it doan't breed custom, mind ye, Witherlee, this senseless
sort o' fratching 'twixt th' gentlefolk. They'll be coming fro' far an'
wide to see th' last o' th' owd man, for all th' moorside war varry
friendly to him; an' 'tis nobbut fitting 'at them as comes to mourn
should be warmed a bit i' th' innards at after th' job is done wi'."
"Well, there's part folk hereabouts who care nowt whether they've getten
warm drink or cold or none at all; an' that, mind ye, shows a sight more
sense nor us poor shammocky chaps above ground hev to show for
ourselns," said Witherlee, as he picked up his broom and cast a
lingering glance of affection on his "tidy bits o' graves."
"Shameless Wayne is sobered by this time, I'm thinking," dropped Jonas,
walking pace for pace with the Sexton down the path that led to the
tool-house.
"He's getten a gooidish heart, hes th' lad, an' this may weel be th'
making of him."
"Ay, he left me drunk t' other neet, an' he came back i' a two-three
minutes after sober; an' when a man gets skifted out o' liquor so speedy
like, he gets a sort o' hatred on 't. Leastways, that's what I've
noticed more nor once, an' I reckon it hods gooid at most times."
The Sexton's robin, seeing the chance of dinner going by in spite of all
its shy attempts to claim attention, hopped boldly on to Witherlee's
arm.
"Now look at that, Jonas!" he cried, "I thowt I niver forgot a promise,
an' here hev I been so thrang wi' talking o' what's past an' what's to
come that I war all but going off without gi'eing robin redbreast his
bit o' meat. Look at th' little chap! He fair speaks wi' yond wick een
o' hisn, an' his feathers is all piked out to show 'at his belly is cold
for hunger. Well, it taks all sorts to mak a world, an' I niver did see
'at redbreasts war ony way less to be thowt on nor us bigger folk; both
sorts go on two legs, an' both turn their legs toes-uppermost one day,
choose how th' wind blows."
"Ay, there isn't much to choose when it comes to th' latter end."
"Well, I'll be bidding thee good-day, Jonas," said the Sexton, turning
down to the shed. "I mun put th' broom away, for I doan't like to see
more tools about a kirkyard nor need be; an' then I'll turn up a
two-three worms for th' robin. He allus looks on at a burying, does
redbreast, an' I like to think he'll be well lined i' th' innards--it
makes a burying more pleasurable, like."
Jonas, after nodding a farewell to the Sexton, sauntered down to his
tavern, his hands in his pockets, as if there were ample time for
everything in this world; and, though he would bestir the maids
presently with a rough hand and a rougher tongue, he saw no cause to
hurry.
"Hast been to hev a look at th' vault, Jonas?" said a farmer from over
Wildwater way, who was just going in for a mug of ale as the landlord
entered.
"Ay. All's ship-shape, an' as neat as a basket of eggs. We shall see a
big stir, I reckon."
"A bigger stir nor ye think for, mebbe," said the other. "What dost
mean, lad?"
"Nay, I can't rightly say--only that when I war crossing th' moor ower
by Wildwater a while back, I see'd a band o' Ryecollar Ratcliffes come
riding up to th' Lean Man's door. Their sword-belts were noan empty,
awther, an' they war laughing."
"Laughing, war they? There's a saying that when a Ratcliffe laughs,
there'll be wark for th' Sexton. How mony strong wod they be, like?"
"Six or seven, so far as I could reckon 'em up."
"Ay, it looks bad--it looks bad, an' I'm noan for denying it. Owd
Witherlee war cracking o' summat o' th' sort, too, not mony minutes
sin'. Well, there's none i' th' moorside but what wishes well to th'
Waynes, if it come to a tussle--though I wodn't hev th' Lean Man hear me
say 't."
The folk were gathering meanwhile in the graveyard. Some came in by the
gate at the village end, others by the wicket that opened on the moor.
All wore the air of sober merriment which a burying never fails to bring
to the faces of the moor-folk; all clustered about the vault, and
chattered like so many magpies, and turned to ask Sexton Witherlee, when
he came from feeding his robin, a hundred silly questions as to the
disposal of the coffins. These were holiday times for the moorside, and
their real sorrow for the sturdy, upright master of Marsh House served
only to add a more subtle edge to their enjoyment.
They were festivals for Witherlee likewise; and, though the Sexton held
that pride became no man, seeing what he must come to in the end, he
always bore himself more youthfully at a burial and looked his
fellow-men more squarely in the face. This was his workshop, and it
pleased him that his lustier fellows, who were proud of their skill at
farming or joinering or the like, should see that he, too, man of dreams
as he was, could show a deft hand at his trade.
Gossip grew rife as the knot of sight-seers increased. One would tell a
tale of the old days when Waynes and Ratcliffes fought at every
cross-road, and another would cap the narrative with one more fearsome.
The women talked of the good deeds that Wayne of Marsh had done, of the
tidy bit o' brass his coffin had cost, of the mad pranks that Shameless
Wayne had played in times past. The children played hide-and-seek among
the graves, or crept to the vault-edge and peered down in awed
expectation, awaiting they knew not what of such terrors as their
mothers had taught them to associate with the dead. The grown lasses
came with lavender in their aprons, and sprinkled the vault-floor with
the lovesome herb, and sent up a prayer to the unknown and dreadful God
who dwelt amid the peat-wastes and the bogs--a prayer that they might
escape this last close prison until wedlock had given them bairns, lest
the curse of the women who were buried with empty breasts should light
on them.
"Th' corpse is coming!" some one cried on the sudden.