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."