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."
"If fortune holds. I bade them all to the feast--all, lest one should
be lacking from the tally of dead men. Lord God, I must live until the
dawn!"
"And Janet was your messenger? A bonnie stroke, to make the stock-dove
lure the wild goose into bowshot."
The Lean Man rose from his pillows, and his voice was terrible to hear.
"Janet?" he cried. "She played me false, she let my foe wanton with her
in sight of all the moorside; she killed my love, I tell thee, and I
hate her more than I hate Wayne of Marsh. From the first moment that I
learned it, I cursed her by the Dog; and to my last breath I'll curse
her. I all but killed her on the first impulse; but then I thought
better of it, and planned to tear her heart in two by making her the
bait for Wayne--and the plan will carry--the plan will carry, lad!"
"Ay, it will carry, sir. But she must guess naught of it, or by the
Mass she'll find a way to warn them. Where is she now?"
Again the feeble, hollow laugh. "With Shameless Wayne, lad, to be sure.
I sent her to him, saying I was like to die this night and bidding him
be ready for the lyke-wake."
"Christ pity me! It was I who sent him for his kinsfolk," murmured
Janet.
She was dazed yet from the shock; the wall against which she leaned
seemed to turn round and round her; love, faith and honour, so sure a
moment since, were empty phantoms now; nothing was real, save these two
evil voices, of the youngster she had hated and the old man she had
loved.
"And they'll be fondling one another," cried Red Ratcliffe, after a
silence, "and saying how all is made straight for them at last.--Look
ye, sir," he broke off fiercely. "I claim Janet after this night's
bloody work is done."
"And shalt have her, Red-pate, if for no other reason than that she
loathes the sight of thee. Ay, she shall learn the price a Ratcliffe
asks when he is thwarted."
The colour was returning to Janet's face. She had been stunned by the
first shock of discovery; but now that they threatened--threatened death
to Wayne, and worse than death to her whom Wayne had mastered--her face
went hard of purpose as the Lean Man's own. She rallied quickly, stood
for a moment with one ear turned toward the door, then moved on tip-toe
to the stairs.
"What's that?" she heard Red Ratcliffe say. "Didst hear a footfall on
the landing, sir?"
"Not I. Tush, lad, I begin to think thou'rt feared of what's to come."
"I'm feared of naught, save treachery."
"Then why dost grow pale because a puff of wind sets doorways creaking?
As for treachery--Janet is at Marsh, I tell thee; she cannot have got
there and back by now."
Janet held her breath and started down the steps, slowly, with a thief's
tread. One step, two--all was well. But the stones were slippery with
the wet mud that Red Ratcliffe had brought up with him from the
stable-yard, and at the third step she slipped and would have fallen but
for the oaken rail that protected the stairway from the well. There was
a pause and then she heard the sound of heavy feet crossing the floor
above.
"'Tis Janet, I say! Who else would be spying up and down the steps?"
cried Red Ratcliffe, running to the stairhead.
Janet, reckless of another fall, sped down the steps, and on along the
gloomy passage. Red Ratcliffe, heedless likewise of his neck, leaped
after her. She reached the side-door leading to the orchard, and
wrenched the bolts back; but the wood was swollen by the rain, and she
could not move it. Red Ratcliffe was close behind her now; she tugged
at the heavy door, but still it would not yield, though her fingers bled
and the nails were broken half-way down.
"Not again, pretty one!" laughed Red Ratcliffe, as he caught her by the
arms.
"Let me go. I--I will not have thee hurt me so."
"Thou'lt have what I think good for thee in future," he answered,
tightening his grip until she screamed for pain. "Thou didst hear,
doubtless, that the Lean Man gave thee to me just now? Well, 'tis best
to show who is master at the start."
"Master!" she cried. "Thou dar'st to call thyself my master?"
The word was like a knife-thrust to the girl. This lewd, red-headed
fool to claim the title which belonged to Shameless Wayne! And then she
remembered that Wayne's safety and her own depended, not upon passion,
but on coolness now. She turned as Red Ratcliffe loosed his hold, and
eyed him very softly.
"Cousin," she said, "thou wast wont to prate of thy love for me."
"I'll prove it by and by."
"Nay, prove it now--by gentleness. I only ask a moment's freedom--just
to the garden-gate and back again, to cool my feverishness. This
house-air stifles me. Cousin, be kind this once, and I will--will love
thee for it."
"Thou hast fooled me so oft, lass, that it seems the fondest lie is
reckoned deep enough to take me now. How far is't, tell me, from the
garden-gate to Marsh?"
"Wayne is not at Marsh," she broke in. "Why should I want to go there?"
"So thou hast persuaded him to ride to Cranshaw? My thanks for the
news, pretty one. The sport speeds better than I hoped for when I found
thee returning over-soon from thy errand. Didst meet him by the way,
then?"
She rued her hastiness; for she saw by Red Ratcliffe's face that no turn
of speech or eye could cozen him; and she had confessed, all for naught,
that Shameless Wayne would come to the lyke-wake when they bade him.
"Cousin, let me have speech of grandfather," she said, making a last
effort. "I--I can explain all to him----"
"Doubtless," answered the other grimly. "Old liking is hard to kill,
Janet, and I would not trust thee with him--nay, not though he hates
thee now. Thou would'st be soft with him, letting thy lashes melt upon
thy cheeks. God, yes, I can see thee at thy antics!--A murrain on
thee!" he broke off. "Is there so little to be done that I must needs
stand chattering here? Follow me, girl."
"I will not follow thee," she answered stubbornly.
For answer he set his arms about her and half carried, half dragged her
to the little room at the bottom of the passage where once he had
prisoned Nell Wayne; then pulled the door to and turned the key sharply
in the lock.
Janet, left to herself, gave way utterly. She had no heart to lift
herself from the floor, but sat there, her head bowed upon her knees,
and pictured what was so soon to follow in the great hall that lay just
behind her prison-chamber. And by and by her mind began to wander idly
down strange paths of thought, as she recalled each speech and glance of
her grandfather's at their last meeting. All that had puzzled her in
his air grew clear--the touch of remorse, the look of pity that came
into his face at parting. For the one moment he had wavered,
remembering his love for her; why had she not known, not guessed what he
was planning? For then she might have over-ridden his purpose.
Too late! There was nothing to be done now. The thought maddened her.
Springing to her feet, she crossed to the one small window of the room
and stood looking out upon the mist-swept greyness of the heath. But
there was no chance of escape, for a child could not creep through
it--she must wait, then, watching the hours slip ghostly past this strip
of moor--watching the dark come stealthily from the sky-edge--listening
to the noise of men about the house and knowing the reason of their
gaiety.
And she had led Wayne here. In a flash she recalled that other day when
she had sought to save him from going to Bents Farm in face of peril;
now as then her very care for him had been his undoing. If he were here
now--if she could have one poor five minutes with him before the end he
would never doubt her love again.
Then she could bear her thoughts no longer, and she threw herself time
after time against the door, striving to beat it down. That brought
weariness, and welcome pain of body, to her aid, and she sank into a
sort of numb heedlessness that yet was nothing kin to sleep.
She was roused by the sound of feet, slow-moving down the stair as if
some heavy burden were being carried from an upper room. The house,
empty of all furniture save such as the rough needs of their life
demanded, re-echoed every sound. Janet could hear the very shuffle of
the men's boots as they halted at the stair-foot. Then, slowly, with
measured burial-tread, the footfalls came down and down the passage,
halted at the rearward door of the hall, made forward again until they
sounded close beside the wall of Janet's prison. What were they doing,
she asked herself? And then the Lean Man's voice sounded from the other
side of the wall, and she understood the grim business that they had on
hand.
"Ay, well in the corner, lads," said the Lean Man. "Custom bids me lie
in state in the middle of the hall--but I should ill like to cumber
fighting-ground. Say, is there room for all of you--ourselves and all
the Waynes in Cranshaw and in Marshcotes?"
"Room and to spare, sir," answered Red Ratcliffe. "God rest the builder
of the hall for giving it such width."
"Well, remember to strike swift at the word. Fill up your glasses and
lift them to the cry, 'In the name of the dead man--peace between Wayne
and Ratcliffe.' And then--on to them while they drink, and the dead man
on the bier will lift himself to watch."
A subdued hum of laughter followed, broken by the Lean Man's voice.
"I warrant ye found the carrying of me no light work. By the Mass, the
sweat drips from under your red thatches like rain from mistal-eaves!"
Janet shuddered to hear his gaiety. This man was dying, and yet by
sheer force of hate he was keeping the life in him until--but she dared
not think what followed that "until."
"A messenger has gone to bid the Ryecollar Ratcliffes to the wake," said
another voice presently.
"'Tis well. And Wayne of Marsh?"
"He will be gladdening at your death by this time, sir; for Ralph here,
who rode down to Marsh, as thou badest him, to tell them of thy
death----"
"Returns," put in Ralph, "with Wayne's greeting to my kin, and his
pledged word that he and his will come to the lyke-wake after sundown."
"Lord Harry, what a night 'twill be!" cried the Lean Man. "Do ye
wonder, lads, that I was eager to get me to the bier before I need? I
like the feel of it; I like to meet yond dotard death half-way and show
him that I have scant respect for him. Death? What is death, when I
shall see the sweep of swords on splintering skulls before I leave?
Come, wrap the cere-cloths round me; they'll be softer bedfellows than
any wife I ever lay beside."
Janet listened to it all and wondered if her wits were playing her
false. This man, who could rest on his own bier and play with the death
which was already overwatching him--was he the grandfather she had
loved, or some bog-begotten thing that had come from out the moor and
claimed his body? It might be so, for strange tales were told of what
chanced to men who halted between this world and the next. Again she
turned to the window, striving to keep her wits by deadening sense and
hearing to what was passing on the other side of the wall. Without,
grey clouds were hiding the last edge of sunset, and a grey mist was
trailing up the pathway of the wind. Oh, for a moment's freedom! No
more--for not the wind itself could race as she would race to warn the
Ratcliffes' enemies.
She passed a hand across her eyes, thinking that in sober truth she was
going mad at last. For out of the mist-wreaths a figure--a frail
figure, with wet, wind-scattered hair--was coming toward the house of
Wildwater. Janet, awe-stricken, watched it draw near and nearer yet;
and then, with a rush of hope that was almost agony, she saw that it was
no phantom, this, but Mistress Wayne of Marsh--Ned's stepmother, and his
constant friend. Clenching her fist she drove it through the
window-pane with one clean blow.
"Quick! I've a word for you, Mistress Wayne," she stammered, dreading
lest one of her folk should come to learn the meaning of the crash.
"Yond is the pretty traitor," she heard Red Ratcliffe say. "Let her
break every shred of glass the window holds--not even her slim body can
win through the opening."
Mistress Wayne, startled out of the lonely musings that had kept her
company across the moor, turned about as if to flee; but terror held her
to the spot.
"'Tis I--Janet Ratcliffe--Ned's sweetheart--do you not know me,
Mistress?" cried Janet, feverishly.
The little woman drew near a step or two and eyed her gravely. "I
remember--yes, you are Janet Ratcliffe--why did you fright me so?" she
whimpered.
"Mary Mother, must our safety rest with such a want-wit babe as this,"
muttered Janet.--"Come closer, Mistress!" she went on peremptorily.
Mistress Wayne obeyed the stronger will, though still she was afraid of
she knew not what.