Rover, see that ye bring him back again; I doubt he will not answer to
your whistle as he does to mine."
"They're likely lads, and stiff-set-up," said Wayne of Cranshaw, as the
four of them raced pell-mell out of the hall. "But thou need'st more
than these about thee, Ned."
Shameless Wayne squared his jaw, after a fashion that brought back his
father to Nell's mind. "I've said nay once and for all to what thou
hast in mind," he answered. "What, leave Marsh and show the white
rabbit-scut to Nicholas Ratcliffe?"
"Show that thou hast sense enough to know when the odds are all against
thee. I tell thee, ye Marsh Waynes would never learn when to give
ground. There's fresh trouble brewing, Ned--and 'tis aimed all at
thee."
"How, at me? Has the Lean Man, then, vowed friendship with Cranshaw and
with Hill House?"
"Nay, but his hate is hottest against thee. He thought thee a fool, and
he found thee somewhat different; and he blames thee altogether for
their defeat in the kirkyard."
"How dost learn all this, Rolf?"
"The Lean Man makes a boast of it up and down, and only to-night as I
came through Marshcotes, they told me he had sworn to pin thy right hand
to thy own door."
"Why, that was what Mistress Wayne said just now," cried Nell. Her eyes
were fixed on her brother, and there was grief and something near to
terror in them.
"Ay, her wandering talk hit straightish to the truth," said Wayne of
Cranshaw. "Whether 'twas guess-work on her part, or whether she did
meet Nicholas in the road, I cannot say--but any village yokel will tell
thee what the Lean Man's purpose is. See, Ned, there are eight of us at
Cranshaw; come and bring all thy folk with thee."
Shameless Wayne shook his head, and would have spoken, but the door was
burst open suddenly and his brothers stood on the threshold, an unwonted
gravity in their mien.
"The dogs are poisoned, Ned," said Griff.
"Poisoned? What, all of them?"
"All. When we went into the courtyard we found Rover stretched by the
well, his muzzle half in the water, and his body twisted all out of
shape."
"Hemlock," muttered Ned. "'Twas grown on Wildwater soil, I'll warrant."
"Then we went to the kennels, and found the doors open, and all the dogs
but one laid here and there. The white bitch was missing, but she has
gone to some quiet corner, likely, to die."
"God's curse on them!" cried Shameless Wayne, getting to his feet. "Why
should they fight with the poor brutes when they dare not face their
master?"
"'Tis but one more argument," said Rolf quietly. "Come to Cranshaw,
Ned; it is witless to forego a plain chance of safety."
"Take Nell and the women-folk, if they will go--but the lads and I stay
here while there's a roof to the four walls. Dost think I have not
smirched the Marsh pride enough in times past?"
"That's done with, Ned; none doubts thee now, and thou'lt lose naught by
seeking a safer dwelling."
"The Lean Man wants me. Well, he knows where to find me. Did father
play hide-and-seek, leaving the old place to be burned to the ground,
when the feud was up aforetime?"
"He stayed--as thou wilt do," said Nell, her pride undaunted by any ebb
and flow of danger.
"But, Nell, 'tis stubbornness--'tis folly--" began Wayne of Cranshaw.
"That may be," answered the girl, "but it is Wayne stubbornness, and I
was reared on that. I stay, and Ned stays, and with God's help we'll
worst the Lean Man yet."
Shameless Wayne crossed to where his sister sat and laid a hand on her
shoulder. "We'll worst him yet, Nell," he said, and turned to leave
them to their confidences. "Why, where are the lads gone?" he cried,
staring at the open door, through which a gentle breeze was blowing.
"They feared to miss their sport if they asked leave a second time,"
said Rolf, "and so they slipped away while thy back was turned to them."
"Young fools!" muttered Shameless Wayne, as he went out. "Could they
not keep to home when those who strew hemlock privily are within
pistol-shot?--I'll walk round the yard and outbuildings, Rolf, and see
if aught else has gone amiss."
"Hadst better have company," said Wayne of Cranshaw, moving to his feet.
"Nay. The times are hard for love-making; take thy chance while thou
hast it, Rolf, or it may not come again."
Rolf looked after him, and wondered at his bitterness. But Nell,
remembering Janet Ratcliffe, knew well enough which way her brother's
thoughts were tending, and she sighed impatiently.
"'Tis well to love by kinship," she said.
Rolf missed her meaning, being full of his own fears for her.
"I've loved thee well, dear, and I fear to lose thee," he said, after a
silence. "Wilt wed me out of hand and let me take thee safe to
Cranshaw?"
"Not yet, Rolf. I cannot." Her voice was low; but he gleaned scant
hope even from its tenderness.
"Think," he urged. "It is hard to have waited for the good day--waited
through summer heat and winter frost, Nell--and then to see such danger
lying on the threshold as may rob me of my right in thee. Thou know'st
these Ratcliffe swine; a woman's honour is cheap as a man's life to
them. Lass, give me the right to have thee in keeping day and night."
"Some day, Rolf--but not yet."
"Thou hast scant love for me, or none at all," he flashed, pacing
moodily up and down the hall.
"That is not true, Rolf, and thou know'st it; but I have love for the
old home, too, and love for Ned. I'm young, dear, as years go, but
there's none save me to mother them at Marsh. What would Ned do, what
would the lads do, if I left them to fight it out alone? And Ned"--she
faltered a little--"Ned is very new to repentance, and who knows how the
wind would shift if he had none to care for him?"
"He would follow thee to Cranshaw--where I would have him be."
"Nay, but he would not! If he stood alone, without a sword to his hand,
he would wait here for what might come."
Still he pleaded with her, and still she held to her resolve. And at
last he gave up the struggle.
"None knows what the end will be, but we must win through it somehow,"
he said.
And then, her object gained, she crept close to his embrace, and,
"Rolf," she whispered, "how can Ned fight the Lean Man and all his folk?
Is it true that he is the first victim chosen?"
"I fear it, lass."
"But, dear, I cannot bear to lose him! I cannot."
"What, all thy bravery gone? There, hide thy face awhile--the tears
will ease thee. There's hope for the lad yet, Nell, for he means to
live and he has a ready sword-arm."
Shameless Wayne, meanwhile, had gone the round of the farm-buildings,
railing at the wantonness which had bidden the Ratcliffes kill the best
hounds in Marshcotes; but beyond the dogs' stiffened bodies he had found
no sign of mischief. Restless, and ill-at-ease about the lads' safety,
he wandered into the garden in search of the frail little woman who had
gone thither to seek the fairies. He said nothing of his troubles
nowadays to Nell or to any of his kinsfolk; but Mistress Wayne offered
the trusty, unquestioning sympathy that a horse or any other dumb animal
might give, and day by day he was growing more prone to drop into
confidences when he found himself alone with her, half-smiling at his
folly, yet gleaning a sort of consolation from the friendship.
She was standing by the sun-dial when he found her to-night. The
moonlight was soft in her neatly ordered hair and flower-like face, and
Shameless Wayne thought that surely she was nearer kin to the other
world of ghosts than to this workaday earth which had already proved too
hard for her.
"Well, were the fairies kind to you?" he asked, leaning against the dial
and watching the moon-shadows play across her face.
She pointed to a green ring traced in the blue-white dewdrops that
gemmed the lawn. "Yes, they were kind," she said, "I'm friends with
them, thou know'st, and they came and danced for me round yonder ring."
"And what has come of them? Did I scare them all away, little bairn?"
"Oh, no," she answered gravely. "They guessed, I think, that I was
weary of them, and scampered off before thou camest. Wilt mock me, Ned,
if I tell thee something?"
He did not answer--only shook his head and put his arm more closely
round her.
"It is all so dark and strange. I seemed to fall asleep long, long ago,
and then I woke to a new world--a world of mists and moonlight, Ned,
where the human folk move like shadows and only the fairies and the
ghosts are real. The fairies claimed me for their own, and I was
content until I saw the wee birds nesting and the spring come in. But
now I'm hungry, Ned, for something that the fairies cannot give." She
stopped; then, "Didst meet thy lady-love to-day?" she asked.
Wayne's eyes went up toward the hills that cradled Wildwater. "Hast a
queer touch, bairn, on a man's hidden wounds," he said, after a silence.
"Did I meet my lady-love? Nay, but I met one who is playing the
will-o'-the-wisp to my feet--one whom I love or loathe. Who told thee,
child, that I had seen her?"
"I think it was Hiram Hey; he was telling Nanny when I went into the
kitchen how he had seen you cross the moors with her."
"Trust Hiram to pass on the tale!" muttered Wayne.
"Ned, 'tis a drear world, and thou'rt not right to make it harder," said
the little woman, turning suddenly to him. "Somewhere, in a far-away
land, I once met love and scomed him; and I have lacked him ever since,
dear."
He bent toward her eagerly; so grave and full of wit she seemed, and
haply she was a better riddle-reader than he during these brief moments
when she slipped into touch again with the things of substance. But the
light was already pale in her childish eyes, and soon she was laughing
carelessly as she traced the moon's shadow on the dial with one slender
forefinger.
"See, Ned!" she cried. "It points to mid-day, when all the while we
know 'tis long past gloaming. I wouldn't keep so false a time-piece if
I were thou; the dandelions make better clocks at seeding-time."
The night was warm, and the moon-shadows of the gable-ends scarce
flickered on the grass; but on the sudden a little puff of icy wind came
downward from the moors and whimpered dolefully.
"The night wears shrewd, bairn, and we've talked moon-nonsense long
enough," said Wayne sharply, turning to go indoors. He was sore that she
had lost the thread of reason just when he most needed guidance.
But Mistress Wayne was shivering under a keener wind than ever was bred
in the hollow of the sky, and her face was piteous as she followed her
companion with her eyes. "Ned, canst not see it?" she stammered.
"See what? The shadows lengthening across your fairy-ring?" he said,
impatiently.
"He crept behind thee--he's fawning to thy hand--shake him off, Ned,
shake him off! Such a great beast he is----"
Shameless Wayne glanced sharp behind him. "By the Heart, 'tis Barguest
she sees!" he muttered.
"Thou canst not help but see him--his coat is brown against thy darker
wear--he's pressed close against thee, now, as if he fears for thee."
He could see naught, but there were those who had the second sight, he
knew, and the old dreads crept cold about his heart. "Would God the
lads were safe indoors," he muttered.
"How if it be thou he comes to warn?" she whispered.
He laughed harshly. "I've over many loads on my shoulders, bairn, to
slip them off so lightly; but the lads are young to life yet, and full
of heart--'twould be like one of Fortune's twists to send them across
the Lean Man's path."
"Hark, Ned, didst hear?" she broke in, as a low whistle sounded through
the leafing garden-trees.
Shameless Wayne could not find his manhood all at once; but at last he
shook himself free of dread a little. "Ay, I heard some poor hound
whimpering--it has crept away to die, belike, after eating what those
cursed Ratcliffes dropped. Come, child! There's naught save ague to be
gained by staying among the night dews here."
*CHAPTER XI*
*HOW THE RATCLIFFES RODE OUT BY STEALTH*
The moon was crisp and clear over the low pastures when Griff and his
brothers went down for the hunting. Wayne of Cranshaw had hit the truth
when he said that they feared denial from Shameless Wayne, and so had
slipped out quietly while their elders were discussing the old vexed
topic as to whether Marsh should be left to its fate.
"Ned will not leave the old place," said Griff, as they crossed the
first field.
"Not while he has us to help him to fight," answered Bob, the youngest,
drawing himself to as full a height as his fourteen years allowed.
"There's naught in it," grumbled a third. "Ned would not let us go to
the kirkyard that day, and there was a merry fight--and now all's as
tame as a chushat on the nest. I thought the Lean Man would come down
and let us have a spear-thrust at him; but we never see a Ratcliffe now,
and 'tis hard after learning so many tricks of fence."
"Bide awhile," answered Griff sagely. "There'll be frolic yet if we can
but wait for it. Dost think they poisoned the dogs for naught?"
"For spleen, likely, because Ned worsted them the other day; but if they
do no more than that--Griff, 'twould have been rare sport to have gone
up to Wildwater to-night."
Griff halted and glanced wistfully at the surly crest of moor above.
"Nay; we gave our promise," he said, with manifest reluctance.
"How are we to hunt without the dogs?" put in Rob. "We left all our
weapons in hall when we crept out so hastily--Good hap, there goes a
fine fat fellow! We're missing the best of the moonlight with all this
talk of a Lean Man who never shows his face."
They all four stood and watched the hare swing up the field and over the
misty crest; knobby and big and brown the beast showed, and his stride
was like the uneasy gallop of a horse whose knees are stiffening.
"We'll miss no more such chances," cried Griff. "There are two dogs at
the Low Farm; let's rouse old Hiram Hey out of his bed and get the loan
of them."
Hiram Hey was not abed, as it chanced, but a rushlight was in his hands
and his foot on the bottom stair when Griff's masterful rat-tat sounded
on the door.
"What's agate?" he growled, opening the door a couple of inches.
"Christian folk should be ligged i' bed by now, i'stead o' coming an'
scaring peaceable bodies out o' their wits----"
"Thou'st little wit to be scared out of, Hiram," laughed Rob.
The door opened a foot-breadth wider. "Oh, it's ye, is 't? Ay, there's
shameless doings now up at Marsh. I' th' owd Maister's days ye'd hev
been abed at sunset, that ye wod."
"We carry arms now, and know how to use them; so keep a civil tongue in
thy tousled head," said Griff, with a great air of dignity. "We want to
borrow thy dogs, Hiram."
"Oh, that's it? Well, how if th' dogs are anot to be hed at ony lad's
beck an' call?"
"We'll take them without a by-your-leave in that case. Come, Hiram, the
hares are cropping moon-grass so 'twould make thy old mouth water just
to see them."
"Let 'em crop for owt I care. What's comed to th' Marsh kennels that ye
mud needs go borrowing?"
"Hemlock has come to them, and there's not one left alive."
Hiram Hey whistled softly, and set down his candle and came out into the
moonlight. "That's not a bad start for a war finish," he said, turning
his head to the low hill which hid the house from him, as if expecting
some sound of tumult.
"Well, 'tis done, and we're missing sport the while," said Griff, with a
lad's peremptoriness. "I can hear those dogs of thine yelping in the
yard yonder. Loose them, Hiram."
Hiram did as he was bid, with many a grumble by the way; then stood and
watched the lads go racing over the pastures, the dogs running fast in
front of them. "There's bahn to be trouble, choose who hears me say
't," he muttered. "Ay, I knew how 'twould be when I see'd young Maister
fly-by-skying wi' yond Ratcliffe wench; 'tis a judgment on him, sure.
Ay, 'tis a judgment; an' hard it is that we should be killed i' our beds
for sake of a lad's unruliness.--What, th' dogs is gi'eing tongue
already? Well, I'd hev liked to see th' sport, if my legs war a thowt
less stalled wi' wark."
Hiram had been asleep a good two hours before the chase was over.
Pasture after pasture was drawn, the lads' zest waxing keener with each
fresh kill, until they had more hares than they could carry.
"Look at the moon, lads! She's nearing Worm's Hill already, and half a
league from home," panted Griff, as he tried to add the last hare to his
load.
"Ned will have somewhat to say to this," laughed Rob; "but faith 'twas
worth all the scolding he can cram into a week."
"Ay, was it, but we'll put the best foot forward now. Let's leave half
the hares under the sheep-hole in the wall yonder, or we shall never get
back to Marsh till midnight.--There. They'll keep till morning safe
enough, unless some shepherd's dog should nose them."
They set off at a steady trot, stopped at the Low Farm to close the yard
gate on their borrowed dogs, and then took a straight course for Marsh.
But breath failed them as they neared the homestead; their pace dwindled
to a walk, and not even noisy Rob could muster speech of any sort. The
moon was out of sight now behind the house, leaving the field that
hugged the outbuildings in a grey half-light--a light so puzzling to the
eyes that Griff, when he thought he saw the dim figure of a man crossing
from the peat-shed to the yard, told himself that fancy was playing
tricks with him. But Rob had seen the figure, too, and he clutched his
brother's arm.
"What is that moving yonder?" he whispered.
A second figure, and a third, came shadowy-vague through the low doorway
of the shed, and Griff could see now that each man carried an armful of
peats, or ling, or bracken--he could not tell which. Fetching a compass
up the field-side, the four of them turned and crept under shelter of
the house, and so on tip-toe across the courtyard till the hall-door
showed in front of them. The light was clearer here, though they were
hidden altogether in the shadows, and they could see a tall fellow
piling a last armful on the heap of ling and bracken that already
mounted to the doorway-top.
"They mean to fire the house!" muttered Griff, and felt for his brothers
in the dark and drew them about him in a narrow ring.
"There were three of them--what has come to the other two?" whispered
Rob.
Griff drew in his breath and nipped the other's arm till he all but
cried out with pain. "There are three doors to the house, likewise.
Dost not see the plan? They have us housed safe as rattens in a gin,
they think, and they mean to block up every door with flames. Hush!
Yond lean-bodied rogue is turning his head this way."
The man at the door had finished making his heap, and had turned
sideways as if listening for some signal. Griff thought that he had
heard them, but a second glance showed him that the man's regard was
away from their corner--showed him, too, a lean face, cropped level
where the right ear should have been. "'Tis the Lean Man himself!" said
Griff. "God, why did we leave our swords indoors--we can do naught--saw
ye his pistols and his sword-hilt glinting when he turned?"
"We've got our wish, and by the Heart, we'll lilt at the Lean Man, armed
or not armed," answered Rob, his voice threatening to rise above a
whisper for very gaiety.
A low call sounded from behind the house; a second answered from the
side toward the orchard. The Lean Man whipped flint and steel from his
pocket, and struck a quick shower of sparks, and on the instant a
roaring stream of fire shot upward from the bracken to the ling, and
from the ling to the dark pile of peats.
"'Tis done. Fools that we were to raise no cry," groaned Griff.
Time had been hanging heavily meanwhile with Wayne of Cranshaw and his
cousin. Shameless Wayne, when he came in from the garden with his
step-mother, found Rolf fixed in his resolve to spend the night at
Marsh.
"After what chanced to the dogs," he said, "they may strike to-night as
well as any other--and strike they mean to, soon or late. There's no
need for me at Cranshaw, and one arm the more here is worth something to
thee, Ned, as thy numbers go."
"Yes, stay," said Nell, her eyes dancing bright now that danger showed
close at hand--"and if they come, we'll give them a brisker welcome than
they look for."
"Well, if ye will have it so; but I doubt there'll be no attack
to-night," muttered Shameless Wayne. "They move slowly, the Ratcliffes,
and strike when ye least expect them.--A pest to those lads. Do they
mean to scour the fields till daybreak?--Nell, get to bed, and see that
the little bairn is cared for. She's in one of her eerie moods
to-night; thou'lt treat her kindly?"
"As far as I can master kindness toward her. Wilt call me, Ned, if--if
ye need another arm to fight?"
"Tut, lass! There'll be no fight. Pay no heed to Rolf when he tries to
scare thee. There! Good-night. Give the bairn somewhat to stay her
fast, for she ate naught at supper."
"What has Mistress Wayne ever done that Ned's first thought should
always be for her? Ah, but I hate her still, though God knows I cannot
altogether kill my pity," said Nell to herself as she went up the stair
in search of her unwelcome charge.
The two men drew close about the fire after Nell had left them. A
flagon of wine stood between them, and an open snuff-box; but the wine
stayed untasted, and the box was scarce passed from hand to hand as they
stared into the fire, each busy with his own thoughts.
"I fear for those lads, curse them. How if I ride down to the low
pastures to make sure that naught has happened to them and to bring them
home?" said Shameless Wayne, breaking a long silence.
"What, and leave the house? The lads are safe enough, Ned; 'tis thou,
not they, the Lean Man aims at, and if he comes, 'twill be to Marsh."
"Art right--yet still I would liefer have them behind stout walls at
this late hour."
Again they fell into silence. Both had had a long day, the one on foot,
the other in the saddle, and presently Rolf was nodding drowsily.
Shameless Wayne, glancing at him, wished that he could follow suit; but
each time he dozed for a moment some memory came and stirred him into
restlessness. He thought of Barguest creeping close beside him in the
garden; he wondered what thread of subtle wit ran through the tangled
skein of the mad woman's talk; he remembered what she had said to him of
his love for Janet Ratcliffe.
"Take love while thou hast it; why make the world a sourer place than
'tis already?--Was not that what she said to me?" he murmured. "Well,
she is fairy-kist, and they say that when such give advice 'tis ever
safe to follow it. Christ, if I could but take love tight in both my
hands, and laugh at kinship.--Nay, though! Like a deep bog it stands
'twixt her and me; and who shall cross so foul a marsh as that?"
He could not rid himself of the feverish round of thought, till at last
Janet's face came and smiled at him from every glooming corner of the
hall. He got to his feet, and paced the floor; and once he stopped at
the wine-flagon and reached out a hand for it.
"Not again," he said, his arm dropping lifeless to his side. "There's no
peace along that road when once--God curse the girl! I have said nay,
and will say it to the fiftieth time; why should she haunt me like my
own shadow?"
He looked at Rolf, slumbering deep by the hearth; and he laughed sourly
to think that one man could sleep while another moved heavy-footed with
his troubles across the creaking boards. He sat down again, and watched
his cousin listlessly; and little by little his own head dropped
forward, and his eyes closed, and Janet and he were wandering, a dream
boy and dream girl, up by the grey old kirkstone that kept watch over
lovers' vows among the rolling wastes of heath.
He stirred uneasily, and Rolf's voice came vaguely to him from across
the hearth. "Get up, Ned! The hall is full of smoke--the flames are
whistling up the house-side----"
"Where's the little bairn? She must be looked to. Nell has wit enough
to save herself," said Shameless Wayne sleepily.
Wayne of Cranshaw shook him to his feet. "They've fired the door! Get
out thy sword, Ned, and step warily."
Ned was full awake by now; and as he rushed to the main door, his
thoughts were neither of himself nor Nell, but of the house that had
weathered fire and flood and tempest through a half-score generations of
Waynes.
"The flames sing from without. There's no fire inside as yet. We can
save the old place still," he cried, swinging back the heavy cross-beam
that bolted the door.