CHAPTER XXVIIHOW THE LEAN MAN FORGOT THE FEUDJanet, 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."Go back to Marsh and tell them there is treachery," whispered Janet. "Tell them, if come they will—and Ned, I know, will do no less—that they must come with swords loose in the scabbards. The signal is, 'In the name of the dead man, peace between Wayne and Ratcliffe.' Now, hasten, Mistress—hasten, I tell you, unless you wish to see Ned killed at Wildwater; for see, the sun sinks fast, and sundown is the time appointed."Not at once did Mistress Wayne learn her message; she had to repeat it, child-like, over and over until she had it letter-perfect, while all the time Janet could scarce get the words out for impatience. But one thing the little woman understood—.that Barguest had not led her up the moor for naught, that Ned was in instant peril, that only she could save him by hurrying back to Marsh.Janet watched her, when at last her lesson was well learned, fade ghost-like into the darkening banks of mist. And then she dropped to the floor, and lay there forgetful of the preparations that were afoot behind her in the hall, heedless of the rattle of swords, the interchange of pleasantries between the Lean Man and his folk, the chink of flagons on the lyke-wake board. And afterward she found cause to thank Our Lady for the swoon which gave her so merciful a breathing-space between what had chanced and what was yet to follow.Mistress Wayne never halted until she had gained the door of Marsh. Shameless Wayne himself answered her knocking; his mind seemed bent on weightier matters for he scarce noticed her after the first quick glance of surprise, but led her into hall, where thirty of his kinsfolk were gathered in chattering knots about the hearth, or in the window-nooks, or round about the supper-table. Griff and the three lads stood together in one corner, whispering and trying the edges of their swords."There's no place for trickery, I tell thee," Rolf Wayne of Cranshaw was saying as she entered. "Why should they send a messenger to say that the Lean Man is dead? Why should they press us to go drink in amity above his body?""Because they've hatched some pesty stratagem," answered his fellow, whose doubts had reawakened during the suspense of waiting. "They'll find it easier to fight at home than in the open.""Pish! We've eyes and swords to help us," cried Shameless Wayne, turning sharp round from his step-mother. "If they want peace, they shall have it; and if war, then they shall have that likewise. But 'tis peace, I tell you, for the Lean Man had repented of his hate before he died."None answered him, for all had turned as Mistress Wayne came in. And Shameless Wayne turned then and scanned her up and down; yet, startled as he was to see her in this plight, he asked her no question, but filled a wine-cup to the brim and set it to her lips."Wast ever kind to me, Ned," she whispered brokenly. "None knows, I think, how thou hast watched to give me my least need.""Thy needs are no great burden for a man's back," he answered, in the old kindly tone that he kept for her alone.—"Does the company fright thee, bairn? Why, then, we'll none of them. Come to the parlour and tell me all thou hast to say."She shook her head, and stood with one hand in his, and looked from one to another of the swart, sinewy men who kept so mute a watch on her."There's treason," she said simply, and stopped till she could gather the scattered items of her message.Wayne looked at Wayne, but none spoke. The silence that foreruns a storm held one and all of them."I—I went to Wildwater—in search of Ned," went on the little woman. "He was long a-coming, and I feared for him.""Why, what could'st thou have done to help?" muttered Shameless Wayne."I did not know—only, that Barguest had called me to thy aid. I crossed the moor, and it was very dreary, and I was frightened. But I saw the Dog go footing it up the lane before me, and I went on—on—until I reached the black house of the Ratcliffes."Still no word, not a murmur, from the listening group. All eyes were on the little figure by the table, but she stood with clasped hands and far-away regard, as if she were looking at some other scene."I passed close to the one end of the house—the end that has a little window looking on the moor—and I grew lonely, so lonely, that I wished to turn and run back home to Marsh. And then I saw a hand beckoning me from behind the window—and there was a crash—and, when I had found my wits again, Janet Ratcliffe was whispering to me through the broken pane. A long tale she told me, and I learned it all by heart, and—nay, it has gone! There's but one word in my ears—and it sings so loudly that I cannot hear the rest.""What is the word?" asked her step-son gently."Treason—treason—treason. But there was more—some—some signal. Oh, what will Janet say when she knows I have forgotten my lesson!"The strain was over great for her; her face worked piteously, her hands clasped and unclasped each other in the effort to remember. And Shameless Wayne, dumbfounded as he was to know he had been the Lean Man's dupe, knew well that they must humour this poor waif if they were to get her tale from her."Come, little bairn," he said, "thou hast told enough. Rest thyself awhile, and never heed the finish of thy tale.""Oh, but I must! It touches thee so nearly, Ned." Her face cleared on the sudden. "I know now," she went on still with the same grave simplicity. "They have asked you to wake with them in token that the feud is healed. They will fill your goblets and their own, and lift them to the cry, 'In the name of the dead man, peace between Wayne and Ratcliffe.' And then, while ye are drinking, they will kill you with their swords."The storm was let loose now. The Long Waynes of Cranshaw had their say, and the Waynes of Hill House; Griff and his brothers watched from their corner, with eager faces that showed how they were spoiling for a fight. The Lean Man's name flew hither and thither through the clamour; none doubted that the plot was his, and they cursed him by the Brown Dog of Marsh.Shameless Wayne stood aloof from all until the din had lessened; and when at last he spoke his voice was rough and hard."Waynes, are ye ready for the lyke-wake? 'Tis time we got to saddle," he said."Art mad?" cried one. "Is the warning to go for naught, that we should put our necks into so trim a noose?""Let be, Ned. Wildwater is no good drinking-house for us," said another."Would'st ride thy luck till it floundered?" snarled a third.Shameless Wayne beckoned to his four brothers. "Come hither, lads," he said quietly.They came and ranged themselves about him, facing the noisy throng."Will ye ride with me to Wildwater?" he asked."Ay, if thou mean'st to fight," answered Griff. And, "Ay, will we!" cried the rest."Then saddle.—Who goes with us?" he went on, turning to his kinsfolk.They glanced at each other, angrily, sheepishly. If Griff and his stripling brothers were fain to follow this bog-o'-lanthorn chase, could they hold back?"Think twice about it, Ned, and keep thy strength to meet them in the open," said one of the Long Waynes of Cranshaw."I go, and the lads go, whoever follows.—Hark ye, Waynes! These swine have fooled us; they have twice broken hospitality—once in drinking with me here, and once in offering us a friendly cup at Wildwater. Will our sword's rest light in the scabbard, think ye, if we hold back for one single day?""Ned is right," struck in Wayne of Cranshaw; "and we shall take them at unawares. They count us unprepared. The first blow will be ours."He crossed to his cousin's side, and others with him; and those who still thought the enterprise foolhardy could not for shame's sake stand aloof."Waynes," said Ned grimly, as they clattered to the door, "they think us over-gentle, these Ratcliffes; but to-night, I warrant, we'll be something better than our reputation.Kill.""By the Mass, we shall see fair sport at last!" cried Griff, his face afire with eagerness.Mistress Wayne laid a hand on Ned's arm as he was following the rest. "I—I want to come with thee," she faltered."To come with me?" he cried impatiently. "Thou look'st fitter for thy bed, foolish one.""Say it is fancy—only take me. I'll not fear the bloodshed—I'll not give one cry—take me, Ned!""But, bairn, what should I do with thee?""Hast heard what they say in Marshcotes—that I am thy luck, Ned? Thou'lt win to-night if I am near at hand."He reasoned with her, stormed at her, all to no purpose; for the little woman could be obstinate as himself when she believed that his safety was in case."I say thou shalt not come with us," he said. "There's work to be done, bairn, and we want no women-folk to watch."Yet for all that he would have had her come, for the superstition which he disavowed was quick in him. She was his luck, and he knew it well as she."Ned, I never yet asked aught of thee and was refused," she pleaded."Hold thy peace, child! I cannot take thee—and I will not."Her eyes filled with tears; it was as idle, she could see, to turn him from his refusal as to hold him back from Wildwater."There! I was harsh with thee. Never heed it, bairn," he said, looking toward the courtyard where already he could hear the fretful pawing of horses, the rattle of scabbards as his folk sprang into the saddle, the gruff cries of the stable-men.A thought came to him, then. He fingered the dagger at his belt, in absent fashion, and turned to ask Mistress Wayne if the room where Janet was prisoned was easy to be found."I could show it to thee if thou would'st take me," she said, with a child's subtlety."Wilt make me curse thee, bairn? Where is the room, I say?""It—it lies fair on the bridle-way. 'Tis the only chamber on that side the house.""So Janet learned their secret, and they held her back from warning us," he muttered. "What if the day goes against us? Peste! I never asked myself so mean a question before I had two lives to think for.""Ned! Where art thou?" cried Rolf from the courtyard. "There's thy mare here, kicking all to splinters because thou wilt not mount her."But Wayne was already out in the courtyard and had stepped to the roan mare's head. The roan ceased pawing at sight of him, and came and thrust her muzzle close against the master's cheek; and Wayne with one clean vault was in the saddle.But his step-mother had all the cunning of the fairy-kist. Quick as himself she had followed him into the yard. The flaring torch-light showed her Griff's boyish figure and eager, laughing face on the outskirts of the throng."Griff, I must ride with thee to Wildwater," she said, laying a hand on his saddle.The lad started. He was a little afraid of his step-mother in these latter days, as youngsters are of those they cannot understand."Why, Mistress?" he asked bluntly."'Tis a whim of mine—nay, 'tis a crying need. Ask no more, Griff; it is for thy brother's sake—and if thou wilt not take me, I'll run beside thy stirrup till I drop."Puzzled, liking neither to take her nor to refuse a plea so urgent, Griff stooped at last and swung her to his crupper. "The Lord knows how it will fare with you at Wildwater," he muttered, as his brother's call to start rang through the courtyard.In silence they went up the moor, a score and ten of them. The wind, quiet for awhile, was gathering strength again, and its breath was bitter cold. A blurred round of yellow marked where the moon was fighting with the cloud-wrack over Dead Lad's Rigg. The whole wide moor was dark, and lonely, and afraid. The heather dripped beneath the keen lash of the wind, and over Lostwithens Marsh the blue corpse-candles fluttered."Are ye feared, Mistress?" said Griff, stooping to the ear of Mistress Wayne when the journey was half over. His voice was jaunty, but in truth his dread of moor-boggarts was keener for the moment than his zest for the battle that was waiting them up yonder on the stormy hill-crest."I fear the moor always, Griff; 'tis pitiless, like those red folk who dwell at Wildwater," whispered Mistress Wayne, clinging more tightly to him."Well, there'll be fewer of them by and by, so keep thy courage warm with that."Nearer and nearer they drew to Wildwater, while Janet Ratcliffe was still kept prisoned in the narrow chamber that overlooked the moor. She had wakened from her swoon in time to hear the last preparations of her folk in the hall behind her, and the Lean Man's voice was in her ears as she lifted her aching head and heavy limbs."Do I fit this cursed bier?" he was saying."Like a gauntlet, sir," answered Red Ratcliffe."Do I look pale enough? Lord knows I need, for the fight to keep old death at bay shows like to break me. Lads, if only my right arm were whole! I'd take my turn with you, 'od rot me, and have one merry sword-cut for my last. What hour is't?""'Tis close on ten of the clock. They should be here by now.""Tie up my chin, then, lest aught be wanting. Poor fools! Poor, courteous fools! To think they come in innocence."Would the dread farce never end, thought Janet? Or would a hand reach out of the moor—the moor that was her friend—and strike the Lean Man in the midst of his cool-ordered devilry? But still their voices sounded through her prison-wall. She listened more intently now, for old Nicholas was talking of herself."When all is over, bring the girl into hall here—the girl who mocked me and played the harlot with my foes. Spare her no drop of agony; bring her to where Wayne of Marsh lies bloody, and tell her that is the bridal I had set my heart on. God, how deep my hate goes! And"—his voice faltered by a hair's-breadth—"and once I loved her."He loved her still, thought Janet, and the half-confession touched a strange chord in her. A moment since she had burned with hate of her grandfather; yet now, with the obstinacy of her race, a spark of the old love wakened for this crafty rogue who had spent his last hours in working for her misery. Nay, there was a touch of pride in him, because he kept so staunch a spirit to the end."Well, time wags. Tie up my chin, I tell thee, Ratcliffe the Red," said the Lean Man after a lengthy silence.Janet could hear Red Ratcliffe start forward to do the old man's bidding, could hear the awed laughter that followed. Her fleeting love for him died out. She loathed his treachery, and his impious trafficking with death. Sick at heart she got to her feet and began to pace up and down the room. Had Mistress Wayne carried the message to Marsh House? Or had she faltered by the way? She was so slender a bridge to safety that it seemed she must break down.The wind whistled through the shattered window, and with it came a spit or two of rain. Janet, her senses sharpened by anxiety, heard the least under-sound that came from the hall, the moor, the moaning chimney-stacks. She started on the sudden and put her ear to the casement. Up the path that skirted the house-side came the faintslush-slushof horse-hoofs striking sodden earth."They are coming!" she muttered, racked with fear lest her warning had miscarried.Soon she could see thick shadows crossing the window-space—shadows of men on shadows of horses, outlined against the lesser blackness of the sky beyond. Something struck the ground at her feet; she groped for it and her fingers closed upon a dagger with a curving blade. She knew then that Wayne of Marsh was forewarned—knew, too, the meaning of his quiet message to her. If he should fall he had given her a refuge from dishonour.Her courage returned. At worst she could die with him; and Wayne's luck in battle did not let her fear the worst. She stood straight in the darkness of her prison, and heard the horsemen turn the corner of the house, and waited.Wayne of Marsh, meanwhile, led his folk straight in at the Wildwater gates, which stood wide-open in proof that they were welcome guests."Now, Mistress, what am I to do with you?" whispered Griff to his step-mother as he pulled up his horse and lifted his frail burden to the ground.But Mistress Wayne, not answering him, slipped from his side and lost herself amid the darkness. Nor did she know what purpose was in her mind—only, that where Ned was, there must she be also.Shameless Wayne sprang from the saddle and knocked sharply on the door with a cry of "Ratcliffes, ho! Ratcliffes!"The door was flung wide. "Welcome, all Waynes who come in peace," cried Red Ratcliffe from the threshold."We come to secure peace," said Wayne, and turned in the darkness of the courtyard and whispered, "kill."The hall was aglow with light as they entered. Candles stood in all the sconces of the walls, on the mantel-shelf, on the great dining-table which was pushed close against the outer wall; and, at the head and foot of the Lean Man's bier, a double row of flames shone yellow on the burial-trappings. Over the mantel were the rude letters of the Ratcliffe motto,We strike, we kill; and Wayne of Marsh smiled as his eyes fell on the device which he and his had ridden hither to disprove.Red Ratcliffe caught the direction of his glance, and touched him lightly on the shoulder. "'Tis but an outworn saying, yond," he cried. "We neither strike nor kill, now that the dead has bequeathed us fairer days."He beckoned toward the bier, and Wayne and all his folk drew round it in a ring, looking down upon the closed eyes and wax-white face of their old enemy. Until now they had doubted whether the Lean Man were really dead; but doubts vanished as they saw the still look of him and marked how death had lent its own nobility to the scarred weasel-face."His last prayer was for an end to our long feud," said Red Ratcliffe, smooth and grave."Ay, was it—and he wept that he had not lived to see us friends," cried one of his fellows.Shameless Wayne kept his eyes on the dead man, for fear his scorn of all this honeyed speech should show too soon; and he thought, as Red Ratcliffe spoke, that a tremour like the first waking of a smile ran up from the cloth that bound the Lean Man's jaws. But he could not tell; the candle-flames were slanting now in the wind that rustled through the open door, and the fantastic shadows thrown by them across the bier might trick the keenest sight."'Twas wondrous how quiet an end he had—the old hate clean forgotten," went on Red Ratcliffe."May all his kinsfolk have as quiet an end," said Wayne, and sighed impatiently, wondering when the signal for the onset would free him from all this give-and-take of idle talk.Yet he would not hurry to the goal; for if the Ratcliffes thought to lull him into security by delay, the self-same logic taught him likewise to be patient. For Shameless Wayne was cool to-night; his aim was not victory alone, and if one Ratcliffe of them all escaped, he would count himself a beaten man.A silence followed. The Ratcliffes were glancing sideways at each other, as if asking, "When?"—and one of them, stooping to Red Ratcliffe's ear, whispered, "The door! We have forgot to cut off their retreat.""The night blows shrewd, friends. Let's shut it out," cried Red Ratcliffe boisterously.He stopped half toward the door, and fetched an oath, then laughed aloud; for there on the threshold stood little Mistress Wayne, shivering from head to foot."By the Mass, we entertain a gentle member of your house, friend Wayne," he said. "Enter, Mistress; there's no peace-cup rightly drunk, they say, unless a woman's lips have touched it."Wayne frowned on her as she stepped timidly into the room and crossed to where he stood. "How com'st thou here?" he asked."I could not leave thee—oh, Ned, I could not leave thee," she whispered. "Dear, thou'lt win with me here to watch thee—and—for Our Lady's sake, get done with it, for I'm sick with doubts and fears."Red Ratcliffe had already shut the door and slipped the bolts into their staples. And Shameless Wayne looked on and nodded; for he, too, was wishful for closed doors. He had taken advantage of the little woman's entry to draw off the Long Waynes of Cranshaw, the Waynes of Hill House, and his four brothers, from the bier;—they had masked themselves, as if by chance, a little apart from the red-headed host of Ratcliffes, and either side looked for awhile at the other, each hiding their sense of the wild humour of the scene.Red Ratcliffe was smooth and merry as one who dances at a rout. "Od's life," he cried, "what with the wind, and surety that the dead man's ghost walks cold among us, we need strong liquor. Wayne of Marsh, a bumper with you."The Ratcliffes, following his lead, moved to the table and filled a brimming cup for each one of their guests. And after that they poured measures for themselves; and Janet, listening from the little room behind to all that passed, knew that the time had come for Waynes or Ratcliffes to go under once for all. The instincts of her fighting fathers rose in her; she felt her dagger-edge, there in the darkness of her prison, and yearned to take her part in what was next to chance. But little Mistress Wayne, affrighted by she knew not what, shrank back into the window-niche and prayed."Drink, Waynes!" cried Red Ratcliffe on the sudden. "In the name of the dead man, peace between Wayne and Ratcliffe."The Waynes lifted their goblets high, and ran headlong forward, and dashed them in the faces of the Ratcliffes while yet their blades were only half free of the scabbards."Wayne and the Dog!" the cry rang out, and before the red-heads could wipe the wine-stains and the blood from mouth and eyes, the Waynes were on them.The fight seemed long to Janet, fingering her dagger and longing for a share in it; but it was swift as the moor-wind screaming round the house of Wildwater. The wind was a tempest now; yet its voice was drowned in the blustering yell of "Wayne! Wayne and the Dog!"—-the cry that had driven the Ratcliffes from many a well-fought field.They had no chance. Surprised, outwitted, blinded by the wine-cups, they struck at random. But the Waynes aimed true and hard. One by one the Ratcliffes dropped, and still Shameless Wayne lifted the feud-cry of his house. Neither courteous nor soft of heart was Wayne of Marsh this night—nor would be till the work was done.Ten of the foe were down, and the score and five still left were fighting with their backs against the wall. A lad's laugh broke now and then across the groans, the feud-cries, the hiss of leaping steel; for Griff was young to battle, and the two lives he had claimed had maddened him. Shameless Wayne said naught at all; butkillwas graven on his face.The din of battle had wakened even the dead, it seemed; for on a sudden the Lean Man sat him upright on the bier and watched the fight. A flame was in his eyes, and with one shaking hand he strove to wrench the jaw-cloth loose, and could not. His lips moved with a voiceless cry, as if he would fain have cheered his folk to the attack; but speech and body-strength had failed, and only the brain, the quick, scheming brain, was live in him. Yet none marked his agony, none moved to unwrap the grave-cloth from his jaws.The Ratcliffes, desperate now, made a last sudden effort just as the Waynes were surest of their victory. With one deep-throated yell they leaped to the attack, and drove the foe back with a rush, and rained in their blows as only men do when the grave is hungry for them. Two of the long Waynes of Cranshaw dropped, and one of the Hill House men. It seemed the Wildwater folk might conquer yet by very fury of the forlorn hope they were leading."A Ratcliffe! A Ratcliffe!" roared the on-sweeping band."Wayne and the Dog!" came the answer—but feebler now and less assured, for three more Waynes were lying face to the ceiling-timbers.And then a dread thing chanced. For Mistress Wayne, shrinking close into the window-niche and watching the red pathway of the fight, heard a new note cleave through the uproar. The wind was raving overhead; the cries were loud as ever; but deeper than them all was the low whine that sounded from the courtyard door. She saw no sword-play now, no forward leap or downward crash of men; her gaze was rooted trance-like on the door, and round about her played an ice-cold wind.Up the long chamber, through the reeking press, a brown and shaggy-coated beast stepped softly—stepped till he reached the Lean Man's bier. But only Mistress Wayne had marked his passing.She saw the Lean Man cease struggling with the jaw-cloth—saw him turn a haunted face toward the left hand of the bier, while terror glazed his eyes—saw the rough-coated hound set back his shadowy haunches for the spring, and leap, and clutch the Lean Man by the throat."God's pity, 'tis the Dog—'tis Barguest!" cried Mistress Wayne.Her voice, sharp-edged with agony, struck like a sword-thrust into the fight. The Ratcliffes were sweeping all before them; but they stopped for one half moment. Barguest had carried disaster to them always; there was not one of them but dreaded the Brown Hound; and the woman's cry that he was in the room here plucked all the vigour from their sword-arms. The battle was lost and won in that half-moment's pause; for what had daunted the Red Folk had put fresh heart into the Waynes and driven them to the onset with resistless fury.It was a carnage then. Five Ratcliffes dropped at the first shock, ten at the next onslaught. The rest fled headlong toward the great main door, and tried to open it; but Red Ratcliffe had made the bolts too sure, and they were caught in their own trap. Snarling, they turned at bay, and showed a serried line of faces, lean, vindictive, bright-eyed as the weasel's whom tradition named their ancestor. Those who fell writhed upward from the floor and tried to drive their blades home; and the Waynes, with low, hoarse cries, put each a foot on the skulls of the fallen, and fought on in this wise least the dying, weasel-like to the end, should prove twice as dangerous as those whose limbs were whole.Janet had followed the battle as best she could. She had heard the feud-calls swell, and weaken, and grow loud again; had heard Mistress Wayne's shrill cry of Barguest. And then her lover's voice rose swift in victory above the growling hum of "Ratcliffe! A Ratcliffe!" And she knew that Wayne of Marsh had wiped his shame clean out at last.Red Ratcliffe and two others were all who stood upright now, and they were fighting behind a bank of fallen comrades."Quarter!" gasped Ratcliffe, full of a fresh stratagem."Not again," laughed Wayne. "We courteous fools are out of mood to-night, Red Ratcliffe.""Quarter! We're defenceless, Wayne. Would'st butcher us?""Ay, would I," answered Wayne of Marsh, and cut at Ratcliffe's head-guard, and grazed his scalp as his own blade slid down the other's steel."Thou'st made a priest of him!" roared Griff, beside himself with the reek of slaughter. "Look at his bloody tonsure, Ned."Red Ratcliffe flung his sword in the lad's face, and picked up a dying Ratcliffe in his arms. Fury lent sinew to despair; a moment he staggered under the body, then hurled it full at Shameless Wayne and drove him blundering half across the floor. And then he raced down the pathway he had made, and gained the hinder door, forgotten until now, and clashed it to behind him.The passage was pitch-dark, with a sharp turn and three unlooked-for steps half down it; and his first thought was to pick off the Waynes who followed as they stumbled in the darkness, and afterward to make good his escape in such rough-ready fashion as the ensuing uproar might suggest. He halted awhile, waiting their coming, while his breath came and went in hard-won sobs; then, as his brain cooled, he bethought him of the narrow, winding passage that branched oft from the one in which he stood and led at one end to a rarely opened door that backed the orchard, at the other to the room where his Cousin Janet lay.Behind him he could hear the Waynes calling one to another as they blundered out in search of him; some went up the main stairway; others moved cautiously toward him and called to their fellows in hall to bring them candles. He waited for no more, but crept down the narrowed passage, and felt for the door, and had his hand already on the hasp when he remembered Janet. It was his last chance of safety, this, he knew; but, like the greybeard who had schemed his last behind in hall there, he had a desperate courage of his own, and a like remorselessness. Was he to leave Wayne of Marsh to make merry with the maid for whom he had hungered these twelve months past? Nay, for she should share his flight; and Wayne should find the dregs of victory less welcome than he looked for.His pursuers were moving all about the house; but their thoughts were all of the main doors and plainer ways of escape, and in their hurry they neglected the narrow belt of darkness that marked the opening of the side-passage. Red Ratcliffe laughed softly to himself as he ran to Janet's room; for there was time, and he could yet plant a mortal thrust in Wayne of Marsh.Janet, with the ring of Wayne's last triumph-shout in her ears, heard steps without her door, and cried, half between tears and laughter, that Ned had come to free her—Ned, who had fought a righteous quarrel to the last bitter end; Ned, who was her master, and the master of her enemies. Ah, God! If he had not saved her from Red Ratcliffe!The key was turned softly in the lock—too softly, she thought, for an impetuous lover. She put her hands out, felt them prisoned, and with a "Thank Our Lady, Ned, thou'rt safe!" she yielded herself to a hot embrace."Ned, take me to the light! I want to see thy face. Is there blood on thee, dear lad? Nay, I care not, so it be not thine own."Red Ratcliffe's voice came to her through the darkness. "Ay, there's blood on me, cousin—Wayne blood, that it shall be thy work to cleanse. Meanwhile, the hunt is up— Canst not hear them running hot-foot up and down the house? Come with me, girl, or I'll set thumb and finger to thy throat and drop thee where thou stand'st."She was helpless in his grasp. Bewildered, not knowing where Ned was, nor why Red Ratcliffe was here unharmed, she let herself be carried down the passage, far as the low door that creaked and groaned as Ratcliffe opened it. The cold wind blew on her from without, and on the sudden her senses cleared. This fool whose love she had laughed at thrice a day had trapped her after all. A few more strides, and they would be free of the moor, and Wayne might seek till morning light and never find her. A few more strides, and it would matter little that Wayne of Marsh had fought his way to the very threshold of possession.The dawn was yet far off, and the moon was hid, or its light might have shown Red Ratcliffe the smile that played about his cousin's face, as her hand slipped to her breast and returned."I'll come with thee, cousin, never fear," she whispered softly, and lifted Wayne's dagger in the gloom."Lights! Where are your lights, ye fools?" came Wayne's voice from near at hand. "'Twill be gall and madness to me if this worst ruffian of the band escape.""There's a darksome passage here. Does it lead to a secret way, think ye?" answered Rolf Wayne of Cranshaw."Likely; the wind blows shrewdly down it. Quick with the candles there! And keep your blades drawn, for by the Dog I'll kill the one who lets Red Ratcliffe through."They gained the open door, and on the threshold Janet Ratcliffe stood, with lips half-parted in a smile, and in her eyes the first tremulous self-loathing that comes to women after they have done man's work."Do ye seek Red Ratcliffe, sirs?" she asked."Ay, show him me—show him me, I say!" roared Shameless Wayne, too hot for any tenderness toward his mistress."He is beside me here— Nay, sheathe your swords; he asks no further service of you."All crowded round, and Wayne of Marsh shaded his candle with one hand and held it low to the face of him who lay close without the door."Through the heart," he muttered; "to think the lass should rob me.—Nay, then, the stroke was good; need I grudge it her?"An arm was laid on his. "Ned, I am sick; take me out of sight of all these men," said Janet.One last look he gave at Red Ratcliffe. "All—all—dead Wayne of Marsh need never cry again for vengeance," he muttered.He put an arm about the girl, and led her down the passage, through the knot of kinsmen who were pressing forward for a sight of Red Ratcliffe's body, and through the scattered Waynes who still were searching for the runaway, not knowing he was dead. These last turned wonderingly at seeing Ned no longer in pursuit, and stopped to wipe the sweat of battle from their faces."Hast overta'en him, Ned?" they asked."Ay, his sleep is sound," answered Shameless Wayne.—"Get ye across to Cranshaw, friends, and tell my sister that her goodman and myself are safe. And tell her—that I've kept the oath she wots of."They glanced once at the face of Ned's companion, proud yet for all its weariness; and then they got them out into the courtyard. And after Ned had watched them go, he turned to find Janet leaning faint against the wall.He touched her on the shoulder. "Courage, lass," he muttered roughly.Comfort he would have given her, such comfort as a man at such a time may give the maid who loves him; but he dared not let his heart go out to her as yet, for there was that in the wide hall to right of them which overmastered love.She straightened herself at his touch. "Ned," she cried with sudden fierceness, "'twas for thee I killed him; he meant to take my right in thee.""I know, lass, I know. But would God I had saved thee the stroke.""Leave me awhile," she whispered, after a silence. "I must go to the moor—the moor is big, and friendly, and it will understand."He knew her better than to thwart her mood at such a time, and let her go; but while she was crossing to the door, a frail little woman came out from the hall and moved to meet them."What, bairn!" said Wayne gently. "We've fought our troubles through together, thou and I; and there'll be none can break our friendship now, I warrant.""Blood, blood—see how it drips—oh, hurry, hurry! The stain can never be washed out if once it reaches Wayne of Marsh—he lies under the vault-stone yonder—he stares at me with cruel, unrelenting eyes."And Wayne knew that she had fallen back to the witlessness of that long-buried night when he had watched his cousin fight above the vault-stone. The crash of blows, the bloodshed and the tumult, had touched the hidden spring in her and made her one again with those piteous-happy folk whom Marshcotes gossips called the fairy-kist.A great awe fell upon him as he watched the milk-soft face under its loosened cloud of hair, as he hearkened over and over to the happenings of a night that was scarce less terrible than this. That was the night which had re-opened the old feud of Wayne and Ratcliffe but this had killed it once for all."Will my lover ever come, think'st thou?" said Mistress Wayne. "The post-chaise has been waiting long—the horses fret—the postillion says we shall never gain Saxilton unless Dick Ratcliffe hastens." She paused, and her mind seemed for a space to grapple with the present. "Didst see Barguest steal into the hall?" she whispered. "He came and couched at the bier-side—and then he sprang—come see the teeth-marks in the Lean Man's throat."She beckoned them so imperiously that they were drawn against their will into the reeking chamber, and between the still heaps of the slain, and up to the bier whereon Nicholas Ratcliffe lay with death stamped livid on his face. Quietly as if it were a usual office, the little woman turned down the shroud and pointed to the sinewy throat; and Janet's eyes met Wayne's across the body of their foe, while they whispered one to the other that Mistress Wayne saw something here which was denied to any save the fairy-kist.Wayne of Cranshaw came striding into hall, and after him Griff and his brothers, with a press of Hill House folk behind. But Rolf silenced them when he saw the figures by the bier, and led them quiet out into the night."Best leave them to it," he muttered to a kinsman. "'Tis an ill knot to unravel, and God knows how 'twill fare with yond sad pair of lovers."They stayed there for awhile, Wayne and Janet. The battle-heat went from him; passion was stilled; he stood and went over, one by one, the turmoils that were past—stood, and watched the hate of feud shrink, mean and shamed, into the darkness that had bred it—stood, and wondered to what bitter harvesting the aftermath of feud must come.And Janet watched him, with the dead man's bulk between them—watched him, and sought for a shaft of hope to cross the gloomy hardness of his face.Shameless Wayne lifted his head by and by and moved to the door to rid him of the spell. "Come where the wind blows cool, girl. There's a taint in every breath we draw," he cried.In silence she followed him to the threshold of the great main floor and looked with him across the lone reaches of the wilderness. Dark, wide and wet it stretched. The rains seethed earthward from a shrouded sky. There was no wail of moor-birds, no voice save the sob of the failing wind among the ling."Is this our wedding-cheer?" said Janet, meeting his glance at last. "And those in hall there—are they the bridal-guests?"Wayne answered nothing for a space. And then he gave a cry, and took her to him, so close he seemed to dare each whispering ghost of feud to snatch her from him."We never sought the thing that's ended yonder," he whispered hoarsely. "We'll shut it out—we'll—Janet, hast no word for me?"But the Lean Man, quiet on the bier where he had gibed at death, paid little heed to them. The feud was stanched between Wayne and Ratcliffe; yet he had never a word to say, of protest or of sorrow. The feud was stanched; yet Mistress Wayne, while she plucked at the dead man's shroud as if to claim his notice, was sobbing piteously."My lover waits me at the kirkyard gate," she faltered; "but I dare not pass the vault-stone. Sir, it drips crimson as the sun that lately set behind Wildwater Pool. And hark! There's Barguest whining down the wind."The rain still fell without. The clouds came thickening up above the house of Wildwater. And far off across the moor a whining, comfortless and long-drawn-out, fluttered on the brink of silence.
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.
"Go back to Marsh and tell them there is treachery," whispered Janet. "Tell them, if come they will—and Ned, I know, will do no less—that they must come with swords loose in the scabbards. The signal is, 'In the name of the dead man, peace between Wayne and Ratcliffe.' Now, hasten, Mistress—hasten, I tell you, unless you wish to see Ned killed at Wildwater; for see, the sun sinks fast, and sundown is the time appointed."
Not at once did Mistress Wayne learn her message; she had to repeat it, child-like, over and over until she had it letter-perfect, while all the time Janet could scarce get the words out for impatience. But one thing the little woman understood—.that Barguest had not led her up the moor for naught, that Ned was in instant peril, that only she could save him by hurrying back to Marsh.
Janet watched her, when at last her lesson was well learned, fade ghost-like into the darkening banks of mist. And then she dropped to the floor, and lay there forgetful of the preparations that were afoot behind her in the hall, heedless of the rattle of swords, the interchange of pleasantries between the Lean Man and his folk, the chink of flagons on the lyke-wake board. And afterward she found cause to thank Our Lady for the swoon which gave her so merciful a breathing-space between what had chanced and what was yet to follow.
Mistress Wayne never halted until she had gained the door of Marsh. Shameless Wayne himself answered her knocking; his mind seemed bent on weightier matters for he scarce noticed her after the first quick glance of surprise, but led her into hall, where thirty of his kinsfolk were gathered in chattering knots about the hearth, or in the window-nooks, or round about the supper-table. Griff and the three lads stood together in one corner, whispering and trying the edges of their swords.
"There's no place for trickery, I tell thee," Rolf Wayne of Cranshaw was saying as she entered. "Why should they send a messenger to say that the Lean Man is dead? Why should they press us to go drink in amity above his body?"
"Because they've hatched some pesty stratagem," answered his fellow, whose doubts had reawakened during the suspense of waiting. "They'll find it easier to fight at home than in the open."
"Pish! We've eyes and swords to help us," cried Shameless Wayne, turning sharp round from his step-mother. "If they want peace, they shall have it; and if war, then they shall have that likewise. But 'tis peace, I tell you, for the Lean Man had repented of his hate before he died."
None answered him, for all had turned as Mistress Wayne came in. And Shameless Wayne turned then and scanned her up and down; yet, startled as he was to see her in this plight, he asked her no question, but filled a wine-cup to the brim and set it to her lips.
"Wast ever kind to me, Ned," she whispered brokenly. "None knows, I think, how thou hast watched to give me my least need."
"Thy needs are no great burden for a man's back," he answered, in the old kindly tone that he kept for her alone.—"Does the company fright thee, bairn? Why, then, we'll none of them. Come to the parlour and tell me all thou hast to say."
She shook her head, and stood with one hand in his, and looked from one to another of the swart, sinewy men who kept so mute a watch on her.
"There's treason," she said simply, and stopped till she could gather the scattered items of her message.
Wayne looked at Wayne, but none spoke. The silence that foreruns a storm held one and all of them.
"I—I went to Wildwater—in search of Ned," went on the little woman. "He was long a-coming, and I feared for him."
"Why, what could'st thou have done to help?" muttered Shameless Wayne.
"I did not know—only, that Barguest had called me to thy aid. I crossed the moor, and it was very dreary, and I was frightened. But I saw the Dog go footing it up the lane before me, and I went on—on—until I reached the black house of the Ratcliffes."
Still no word, not a murmur, from the listening group. All eyes were on the little figure by the table, but she stood with clasped hands and far-away regard, as if she were looking at some other scene.
"I passed close to the one end of the house—the end that has a little window looking on the moor—and I grew lonely, so lonely, that I wished to turn and run back home to Marsh. And then I saw a hand beckoning me from behind the window—and there was a crash—and, when I had found my wits again, Janet Ratcliffe was whispering to me through the broken pane. A long tale she told me, and I learned it all by heart, and—nay, it has gone! There's but one word in my ears—and it sings so loudly that I cannot hear the rest."
"What is the word?" asked her step-son gently.
"Treason—treason—treason. But there was more—some—some signal. Oh, what will Janet say when she knows I have forgotten my lesson!"
The strain was over great for her; her face worked piteously, her hands clasped and unclasped each other in the effort to remember. And Shameless Wayne, dumbfounded as he was to know he had been the Lean Man's dupe, knew well that they must humour this poor waif if they were to get her tale from her.
"Come, little bairn," he said, "thou hast told enough. Rest thyself awhile, and never heed the finish of thy tale."
"Oh, but I must! It touches thee so nearly, Ned." Her face cleared on the sudden. "I know now," she went on still with the same grave simplicity. "They have asked you to wake with them in token that the feud is healed. They will fill your goblets and their own, and lift them to the cry, 'In the name of the dead man, peace between Wayne and Ratcliffe.' And then, while ye are drinking, they will kill you with their swords."
The storm was let loose now. The Long Waynes of Cranshaw had their say, and the Waynes of Hill House; Griff and his brothers watched from their corner, with eager faces that showed how they were spoiling for a fight. The Lean Man's name flew hither and thither through the clamour; none doubted that the plot was his, and they cursed him by the Brown Dog of Marsh.
Shameless Wayne stood aloof from all until the din had lessened; and when at last he spoke his voice was rough and hard.
"Waynes, are ye ready for the lyke-wake? 'Tis time we got to saddle," he said.
"Art mad?" cried one. "Is the warning to go for naught, that we should put our necks into so trim a noose?"
"Let be, Ned. Wildwater is no good drinking-house for us," said another.
"Would'st ride thy luck till it floundered?" snarled a third.
Shameless Wayne beckoned to his four brothers. "Come hither, lads," he said quietly.
They came and ranged themselves about him, facing the noisy throng.
"Will ye ride with me to Wildwater?" he asked.
"Ay, if thou mean'st to fight," answered Griff. And, "Ay, will we!" cried the rest.
"Then saddle.—Who goes with us?" he went on, turning to his kinsfolk.
They glanced at each other, angrily, sheepishly. If Griff and his stripling brothers were fain to follow this bog-o'-lanthorn chase, could they hold back?
"Think twice about it, Ned, and keep thy strength to meet them in the open," said one of the Long Waynes of Cranshaw.
"I go, and the lads go, whoever follows.—Hark ye, Waynes! These swine have fooled us; they have twice broken hospitality—once in drinking with me here, and once in offering us a friendly cup at Wildwater. Will our sword's rest light in the scabbard, think ye, if we hold back for one single day?"
"Ned is right," struck in Wayne of Cranshaw; "and we shall take them at unawares. They count us unprepared. The first blow will be ours."
He crossed to his cousin's side, and others with him; and those who still thought the enterprise foolhardy could not for shame's sake stand aloof.
"Waynes," said Ned grimly, as they clattered to the door, "they think us over-gentle, these Ratcliffes; but to-night, I warrant, we'll be something better than our reputation.Kill."
"By the Mass, we shall see fair sport at last!" cried Griff, his face afire with eagerness.
Mistress Wayne laid a hand on Ned's arm as he was following the rest. "I—I want to come with thee," she faltered.
"To come with me?" he cried impatiently. "Thou look'st fitter for thy bed, foolish one."
"Say it is fancy—only take me. I'll not fear the bloodshed—I'll not give one cry—take me, Ned!"
"But, bairn, what should I do with thee?"
"Hast heard what they say in Marshcotes—that I am thy luck, Ned? Thou'lt win to-night if I am near at hand."
He reasoned with her, stormed at her, all to no purpose; for the little woman could be obstinate as himself when she believed that his safety was in case.
"I say thou shalt not come with us," he said. "There's work to be done, bairn, and we want no women-folk to watch."
Yet for all that he would have had her come, for the superstition which he disavowed was quick in him. She was his luck, and he knew it well as she.
"Ned, I never yet asked aught of thee and was refused," she pleaded.
"Hold thy peace, child! I cannot take thee—and I will not."
Her eyes filled with tears; it was as idle, she could see, to turn him from his refusal as to hold him back from Wildwater.
"There! I was harsh with thee. Never heed it, bairn," he said, looking toward the courtyard where already he could hear the fretful pawing of horses, the rattle of scabbards as his folk sprang into the saddle, the gruff cries of the stable-men.
A thought came to him, then. He fingered the dagger at his belt, in absent fashion, and turned to ask Mistress Wayne if the room where Janet was prisoned was easy to be found.
"I could show it to thee if thou would'st take me," she said, with a child's subtlety.
"Wilt make me curse thee, bairn? Where is the room, I say?"
"It—it lies fair on the bridle-way. 'Tis the only chamber on that side the house."
"So Janet learned their secret, and they held her back from warning us," he muttered. "What if the day goes against us? Peste! I never asked myself so mean a question before I had two lives to think for."
"Ned! Where art thou?" cried Rolf from the courtyard. "There's thy mare here, kicking all to splinters because thou wilt not mount her."
But Wayne was already out in the courtyard and had stepped to the roan mare's head. The roan ceased pawing at sight of him, and came and thrust her muzzle close against the master's cheek; and Wayne with one clean vault was in the saddle.
But his step-mother had all the cunning of the fairy-kist. Quick as himself she had followed him into the yard. The flaring torch-light showed her Griff's boyish figure and eager, laughing face on the outskirts of the throng.
"Griff, I must ride with thee to Wildwater," she said, laying a hand on his saddle.
The lad started. He was a little afraid of his step-mother in these latter days, as youngsters are of those they cannot understand.
"Why, Mistress?" he asked bluntly.
"'Tis a whim of mine—nay, 'tis a crying need. Ask no more, Griff; it is for thy brother's sake—and if thou wilt not take me, I'll run beside thy stirrup till I drop."
Puzzled, liking neither to take her nor to refuse a plea so urgent, Griff stooped at last and swung her to his crupper. "The Lord knows how it will fare with you at Wildwater," he muttered, as his brother's call to start rang through the courtyard.
In silence they went up the moor, a score and ten of them. The wind, quiet for awhile, was gathering strength again, and its breath was bitter cold. A blurred round of yellow marked where the moon was fighting with the cloud-wrack over Dead Lad's Rigg. The whole wide moor was dark, and lonely, and afraid. The heather dripped beneath the keen lash of the wind, and over Lostwithens Marsh the blue corpse-candles fluttered.
"Are ye feared, Mistress?" said Griff, stooping to the ear of Mistress Wayne when the journey was half over. His voice was jaunty, but in truth his dread of moor-boggarts was keener for the moment than his zest for the battle that was waiting them up yonder on the stormy hill-crest.
"I fear the moor always, Griff; 'tis pitiless, like those red folk who dwell at Wildwater," whispered Mistress Wayne, clinging more tightly to him.
"Well, there'll be fewer of them by and by, so keep thy courage warm with that."
Nearer and nearer they drew to Wildwater, while Janet Ratcliffe was still kept prisoned in the narrow chamber that overlooked the moor. She had wakened from her swoon in time to hear the last preparations of her folk in the hall behind her, and the Lean Man's voice was in her ears as she lifted her aching head and heavy limbs.
"Do I fit this cursed bier?" he was saying.
"Like a gauntlet, sir," answered Red Ratcliffe.
"Do I look pale enough? Lord knows I need, for the fight to keep old death at bay shows like to break me. Lads, if only my right arm were whole! I'd take my turn with you, 'od rot me, and have one merry sword-cut for my last. What hour is't?"
"'Tis close on ten of the clock. They should be here by now."
"Tie up my chin, then, lest aught be wanting. Poor fools! Poor, courteous fools! To think they come in innocence."
Would the dread farce never end, thought Janet? Or would a hand reach out of the moor—the moor that was her friend—and strike the Lean Man in the midst of his cool-ordered devilry? But still their voices sounded through her prison-wall. She listened more intently now, for old Nicholas was talking of herself.
"When all is over, bring the girl into hall here—the girl who mocked me and played the harlot with my foes. Spare her no drop of agony; bring her to where Wayne of Marsh lies bloody, and tell her that is the bridal I had set my heart on. God, how deep my hate goes! And"—his voice faltered by a hair's-breadth—"and once I loved her."
He loved her still, thought Janet, and the half-confession touched a strange chord in her. A moment since she had burned with hate of her grandfather; yet now, with the obstinacy of her race, a spark of the old love wakened for this crafty rogue who had spent his last hours in working for her misery. Nay, there was a touch of pride in him, because he kept so staunch a spirit to the end.
"Well, time wags. Tie up my chin, I tell thee, Ratcliffe the Red," said the Lean Man after a lengthy silence.
Janet could hear Red Ratcliffe start forward to do the old man's bidding, could hear the awed laughter that followed. Her fleeting love for him died out. She loathed his treachery, and his impious trafficking with death. Sick at heart she got to her feet and began to pace up and down the room. Had Mistress Wayne carried the message to Marsh House? Or had she faltered by the way? She was so slender a bridge to safety that it seemed she must break down.
The wind whistled through the shattered window, and with it came a spit or two of rain. Janet, her senses sharpened by anxiety, heard the least under-sound that came from the hall, the moor, the moaning chimney-stacks. She started on the sudden and put her ear to the casement. Up the path that skirted the house-side came the faintslush-slushof horse-hoofs striking sodden earth.
"They are coming!" she muttered, racked with fear lest her warning had miscarried.
Soon she could see thick shadows crossing the window-space—shadows of men on shadows of horses, outlined against the lesser blackness of the sky beyond. Something struck the ground at her feet; she groped for it and her fingers closed upon a dagger with a curving blade. She knew then that Wayne of Marsh was forewarned—knew, too, the meaning of his quiet message to her. If he should fall he had given her a refuge from dishonour.
Her courage returned. At worst she could die with him; and Wayne's luck in battle did not let her fear the worst. She stood straight in the darkness of her prison, and heard the horsemen turn the corner of the house, and waited.
Wayne of Marsh, meanwhile, led his folk straight in at the Wildwater gates, which stood wide-open in proof that they were welcome guests.
"Now, Mistress, what am I to do with you?" whispered Griff to his step-mother as he pulled up his horse and lifted his frail burden to the ground.
But Mistress Wayne, not answering him, slipped from his side and lost herself amid the darkness. Nor did she know what purpose was in her mind—only, that where Ned was, there must she be also.
Shameless Wayne sprang from the saddle and knocked sharply on the door with a cry of "Ratcliffes, ho! Ratcliffes!"
The door was flung wide. "Welcome, all Waynes who come in peace," cried Red Ratcliffe from the threshold.
"We come to secure peace," said Wayne, and turned in the darkness of the courtyard and whispered, "kill."
The hall was aglow with light as they entered. Candles stood in all the sconces of the walls, on the mantel-shelf, on the great dining-table which was pushed close against the outer wall; and, at the head and foot of the Lean Man's bier, a double row of flames shone yellow on the burial-trappings. Over the mantel were the rude letters of the Ratcliffe motto,We strike, we kill; and Wayne of Marsh smiled as his eyes fell on the device which he and his had ridden hither to disprove.
Red Ratcliffe caught the direction of his glance, and touched him lightly on the shoulder. "'Tis but an outworn saying, yond," he cried. "We neither strike nor kill, now that the dead has bequeathed us fairer days."
He beckoned toward the bier, and Wayne and all his folk drew round it in a ring, looking down upon the closed eyes and wax-white face of their old enemy. Until now they had doubted whether the Lean Man were really dead; but doubts vanished as they saw the still look of him and marked how death had lent its own nobility to the scarred weasel-face.
"His last prayer was for an end to our long feud," said Red Ratcliffe, smooth and grave.
"Ay, was it—and he wept that he had not lived to see us friends," cried one of his fellows.
Shameless Wayne kept his eyes on the dead man, for fear his scorn of all this honeyed speech should show too soon; and he thought, as Red Ratcliffe spoke, that a tremour like the first waking of a smile ran up from the cloth that bound the Lean Man's jaws. But he could not tell; the candle-flames were slanting now in the wind that rustled through the open door, and the fantastic shadows thrown by them across the bier might trick the keenest sight.
"'Twas wondrous how quiet an end he had—the old hate clean forgotten," went on Red Ratcliffe.
"May all his kinsfolk have as quiet an end," said Wayne, and sighed impatiently, wondering when the signal for the onset would free him from all this give-and-take of idle talk.
Yet he would not hurry to the goal; for if the Ratcliffes thought to lull him into security by delay, the self-same logic taught him likewise to be patient. For Shameless Wayne was cool to-night; his aim was not victory alone, and if one Ratcliffe of them all escaped, he would count himself a beaten man.
A silence followed. The Ratcliffes were glancing sideways at each other, as if asking, "When?"—and one of them, stooping to Red Ratcliffe's ear, whispered, "The door! We have forgot to cut off their retreat."
"The night blows shrewd, friends. Let's shut it out," cried Red Ratcliffe boisterously.
He stopped half toward the door, and fetched an oath, then laughed aloud; for there on the threshold stood little Mistress Wayne, shivering from head to foot.
"By the Mass, we entertain a gentle member of your house, friend Wayne," he said. "Enter, Mistress; there's no peace-cup rightly drunk, they say, unless a woman's lips have touched it."
Wayne frowned on her as she stepped timidly into the room and crossed to where he stood. "How com'st thou here?" he asked.
"I could not leave thee—oh, Ned, I could not leave thee," she whispered. "Dear, thou'lt win with me here to watch thee—and—for Our Lady's sake, get done with it, for I'm sick with doubts and fears."
Red Ratcliffe had already shut the door and slipped the bolts into their staples. And Shameless Wayne looked on and nodded; for he, too, was wishful for closed doors. He had taken advantage of the little woman's entry to draw off the Long Waynes of Cranshaw, the Waynes of Hill House, and his four brothers, from the bier;—they had masked themselves, as if by chance, a little apart from the red-headed host of Ratcliffes, and either side looked for awhile at the other, each hiding their sense of the wild humour of the scene.
Red Ratcliffe was smooth and merry as one who dances at a rout. "Od's life," he cried, "what with the wind, and surety that the dead man's ghost walks cold among us, we need strong liquor. Wayne of Marsh, a bumper with you."
The Ratcliffes, following his lead, moved to the table and filled a brimming cup for each one of their guests. And after that they poured measures for themselves; and Janet, listening from the little room behind to all that passed, knew that the time had come for Waynes or Ratcliffes to go under once for all. The instincts of her fighting fathers rose in her; she felt her dagger-edge, there in the darkness of her prison, and yearned to take her part in what was next to chance. But little Mistress Wayne, affrighted by she knew not what, shrank back into the window-niche and prayed.
"Drink, Waynes!" cried Red Ratcliffe on the sudden. "In the name of the dead man, peace between Wayne and Ratcliffe."
The Waynes lifted their goblets high, and ran headlong forward, and dashed them in the faces of the Ratcliffes while yet their blades were only half free of the scabbards.
"Wayne and the Dog!" the cry rang out, and before the red-heads could wipe the wine-stains and the blood from mouth and eyes, the Waynes were on them.
The fight seemed long to Janet, fingering her dagger and longing for a share in it; but it was swift as the moor-wind screaming round the house of Wildwater. The wind was a tempest now; yet its voice was drowned in the blustering yell of "Wayne! Wayne and the Dog!"—-the cry that had driven the Ratcliffes from many a well-fought field.
They had no chance. Surprised, outwitted, blinded by the wine-cups, they struck at random. But the Waynes aimed true and hard. One by one the Ratcliffes dropped, and still Shameless Wayne lifted the feud-cry of his house. Neither courteous nor soft of heart was Wayne of Marsh this night—nor would be till the work was done.
Ten of the foe were down, and the score and five still left were fighting with their backs against the wall. A lad's laugh broke now and then across the groans, the feud-cries, the hiss of leaping steel; for Griff was young to battle, and the two lives he had claimed had maddened him. Shameless Wayne said naught at all; butkillwas graven on his face.
The din of battle had wakened even the dead, it seemed; for on a sudden the Lean Man sat him upright on the bier and watched the fight. A flame was in his eyes, and with one shaking hand he strove to wrench the jaw-cloth loose, and could not. His lips moved with a voiceless cry, as if he would fain have cheered his folk to the attack; but speech and body-strength had failed, and only the brain, the quick, scheming brain, was live in him. Yet none marked his agony, none moved to unwrap the grave-cloth from his jaws.
The Ratcliffes, desperate now, made a last sudden effort just as the Waynes were surest of their victory. With one deep-throated yell they leaped to the attack, and drove the foe back with a rush, and rained in their blows as only men do when the grave is hungry for them. Two of the long Waynes of Cranshaw dropped, and one of the Hill House men. It seemed the Wildwater folk might conquer yet by very fury of the forlorn hope they were leading.
"A Ratcliffe! A Ratcliffe!" roared the on-sweeping band.
"Wayne and the Dog!" came the answer—but feebler now and less assured, for three more Waynes were lying face to the ceiling-timbers.
And then a dread thing chanced. For Mistress Wayne, shrinking close into the window-niche and watching the red pathway of the fight, heard a new note cleave through the uproar. The wind was raving overhead; the cries were loud as ever; but deeper than them all was the low whine that sounded from the courtyard door. She saw no sword-play now, no forward leap or downward crash of men; her gaze was rooted trance-like on the door, and round about her played an ice-cold wind.
Up the long chamber, through the reeking press, a brown and shaggy-coated beast stepped softly—stepped till he reached the Lean Man's bier. But only Mistress Wayne had marked his passing.
She saw the Lean Man cease struggling with the jaw-cloth—saw him turn a haunted face toward the left hand of the bier, while terror glazed his eyes—saw the rough-coated hound set back his shadowy haunches for the spring, and leap, and clutch the Lean Man by the throat.
"God's pity, 'tis the Dog—'tis Barguest!" cried Mistress Wayne.
Her voice, sharp-edged with agony, struck like a sword-thrust into the fight. The Ratcliffes were sweeping all before them; but they stopped for one half moment. Barguest had carried disaster to them always; there was not one of them but dreaded the Brown Hound; and the woman's cry that he was in the room here plucked all the vigour from their sword-arms. The battle was lost and won in that half-moment's pause; for what had daunted the Red Folk had put fresh heart into the Waynes and driven them to the onset with resistless fury.
It was a carnage then. Five Ratcliffes dropped at the first shock, ten at the next onslaught. The rest fled headlong toward the great main door, and tried to open it; but Red Ratcliffe had made the bolts too sure, and they were caught in their own trap. Snarling, they turned at bay, and showed a serried line of faces, lean, vindictive, bright-eyed as the weasel's whom tradition named their ancestor. Those who fell writhed upward from the floor and tried to drive their blades home; and the Waynes, with low, hoarse cries, put each a foot on the skulls of the fallen, and fought on in this wise least the dying, weasel-like to the end, should prove twice as dangerous as those whose limbs were whole.
Janet had followed the battle as best she could. She had heard the feud-calls swell, and weaken, and grow loud again; had heard Mistress Wayne's shrill cry of Barguest. And then her lover's voice rose swift in victory above the growling hum of "Ratcliffe! A Ratcliffe!" And she knew that Wayne of Marsh had wiped his shame clean out at last.
Red Ratcliffe and two others were all who stood upright now, and they were fighting behind a bank of fallen comrades.
"Quarter!" gasped Ratcliffe, full of a fresh stratagem.
"Not again," laughed Wayne. "We courteous fools are out of mood to-night, Red Ratcliffe."
"Quarter! We're defenceless, Wayne. Would'st butcher us?"
"Ay, would I," answered Wayne of Marsh, and cut at Ratcliffe's head-guard, and grazed his scalp as his own blade slid down the other's steel.
"Thou'st made a priest of him!" roared Griff, beside himself with the reek of slaughter. "Look at his bloody tonsure, Ned."
Red Ratcliffe flung his sword in the lad's face, and picked up a dying Ratcliffe in his arms. Fury lent sinew to despair; a moment he staggered under the body, then hurled it full at Shameless Wayne and drove him blundering half across the floor. And then he raced down the pathway he had made, and gained the hinder door, forgotten until now, and clashed it to behind him.
The passage was pitch-dark, with a sharp turn and three unlooked-for steps half down it; and his first thought was to pick off the Waynes who followed as they stumbled in the darkness, and afterward to make good his escape in such rough-ready fashion as the ensuing uproar might suggest. He halted awhile, waiting their coming, while his breath came and went in hard-won sobs; then, as his brain cooled, he bethought him of the narrow, winding passage that branched oft from the one in which he stood and led at one end to a rarely opened door that backed the orchard, at the other to the room where his Cousin Janet lay.
Behind him he could hear the Waynes calling one to another as they blundered out in search of him; some went up the main stairway; others moved cautiously toward him and called to their fellows in hall to bring them candles. He waited for no more, but crept down the narrowed passage, and felt for the door, and had his hand already on the hasp when he remembered Janet. It was his last chance of safety, this, he knew; but, like the greybeard who had schemed his last behind in hall there, he had a desperate courage of his own, and a like remorselessness. Was he to leave Wayne of Marsh to make merry with the maid for whom he had hungered these twelve months past? Nay, for she should share his flight; and Wayne should find the dregs of victory less welcome than he looked for.
His pursuers were moving all about the house; but their thoughts were all of the main doors and plainer ways of escape, and in their hurry they neglected the narrow belt of darkness that marked the opening of the side-passage. Red Ratcliffe laughed softly to himself as he ran to Janet's room; for there was time, and he could yet plant a mortal thrust in Wayne of Marsh.
Janet, with the ring of Wayne's last triumph-shout in her ears, heard steps without her door, and cried, half between tears and laughter, that Ned had come to free her—Ned, who had fought a righteous quarrel to the last bitter end; Ned, who was her master, and the master of her enemies. Ah, God! If he had not saved her from Red Ratcliffe!
The key was turned softly in the lock—too softly, she thought, for an impetuous lover. She put her hands out, felt them prisoned, and with a "Thank Our Lady, Ned, thou'rt safe!" she yielded herself to a hot embrace.
"Ned, take me to the light! I want to see thy face. Is there blood on thee, dear lad? Nay, I care not, so it be not thine own."
Red Ratcliffe's voice came to her through the darkness. "Ay, there's blood on me, cousin—Wayne blood, that it shall be thy work to cleanse. Meanwhile, the hunt is up— Canst not hear them running hot-foot up and down the house? Come with me, girl, or I'll set thumb and finger to thy throat and drop thee where thou stand'st."
She was helpless in his grasp. Bewildered, not knowing where Ned was, nor why Red Ratcliffe was here unharmed, she let herself be carried down the passage, far as the low door that creaked and groaned as Ratcliffe opened it. The cold wind blew on her from without, and on the sudden her senses cleared. This fool whose love she had laughed at thrice a day had trapped her after all. A few more strides, and they would be free of the moor, and Wayne might seek till morning light and never find her. A few more strides, and it would matter little that Wayne of Marsh had fought his way to the very threshold of possession.
The dawn was yet far off, and the moon was hid, or its light might have shown Red Ratcliffe the smile that played about his cousin's face, as her hand slipped to her breast and returned.
"I'll come with thee, cousin, never fear," she whispered softly, and lifted Wayne's dagger in the gloom.
"Lights! Where are your lights, ye fools?" came Wayne's voice from near at hand. "'Twill be gall and madness to me if this worst ruffian of the band escape."
"There's a darksome passage here. Does it lead to a secret way, think ye?" answered Rolf Wayne of Cranshaw.
"Likely; the wind blows shrewdly down it. Quick with the candles there! And keep your blades drawn, for by the Dog I'll kill the one who lets Red Ratcliffe through."
They gained the open door, and on the threshold Janet Ratcliffe stood, with lips half-parted in a smile, and in her eyes the first tremulous self-loathing that comes to women after they have done man's work.
"Do ye seek Red Ratcliffe, sirs?" she asked.
"Ay, show him me—show him me, I say!" roared Shameless Wayne, too hot for any tenderness toward his mistress.
"He is beside me here— Nay, sheathe your swords; he asks no further service of you."
All crowded round, and Wayne of Marsh shaded his candle with one hand and held it low to the face of him who lay close without the door.
"Through the heart," he muttered; "to think the lass should rob me.—Nay, then, the stroke was good; need I grudge it her?"
An arm was laid on his. "Ned, I am sick; take me out of sight of all these men," said Janet.
One last look he gave at Red Ratcliffe. "All—all—dead Wayne of Marsh need never cry again for vengeance," he muttered.
He put an arm about the girl, and led her down the passage, through the knot of kinsmen who were pressing forward for a sight of Red Ratcliffe's body, and through the scattered Waynes who still were searching for the runaway, not knowing he was dead. These last turned wonderingly at seeing Ned no longer in pursuit, and stopped to wipe the sweat of battle from their faces.
"Hast overta'en him, Ned?" they asked.
"Ay, his sleep is sound," answered Shameless Wayne.—"Get ye across to Cranshaw, friends, and tell my sister that her goodman and myself are safe. And tell her—that I've kept the oath she wots of."
They glanced once at the face of Ned's companion, proud yet for all its weariness; and then they got them out into the courtyard. And after Ned had watched them go, he turned to find Janet leaning faint against the wall.
He touched her on the shoulder. "Courage, lass," he muttered roughly.
Comfort he would have given her, such comfort as a man at such a time may give the maid who loves him; but he dared not let his heart go out to her as yet, for there was that in the wide hall to right of them which overmastered love.
She straightened herself at his touch. "Ned," she cried with sudden fierceness, "'twas for thee I killed him; he meant to take my right in thee."
"I know, lass, I know. But would God I had saved thee the stroke."
"Leave me awhile," she whispered, after a silence. "I must go to the moor—the moor is big, and friendly, and it will understand."
He knew her better than to thwart her mood at such a time, and let her go; but while she was crossing to the door, a frail little woman came out from the hall and moved to meet them.
"What, bairn!" said Wayne gently. "We've fought our troubles through together, thou and I; and there'll be none can break our friendship now, I warrant."
"Blood, blood—see how it drips—oh, hurry, hurry! The stain can never be washed out if once it reaches Wayne of Marsh—he lies under the vault-stone yonder—he stares at me with cruel, unrelenting eyes."
And Wayne knew that she had fallen back to the witlessness of that long-buried night when he had watched his cousin fight above the vault-stone. The crash of blows, the bloodshed and the tumult, had touched the hidden spring in her and made her one again with those piteous-happy folk whom Marshcotes gossips called the fairy-kist.
A great awe fell upon him as he watched the milk-soft face under its loosened cloud of hair, as he hearkened over and over to the happenings of a night that was scarce less terrible than this. That was the night which had re-opened the old feud of Wayne and Ratcliffe but this had killed it once for all.
"Will my lover ever come, think'st thou?" said Mistress Wayne. "The post-chaise has been waiting long—the horses fret—the postillion says we shall never gain Saxilton unless Dick Ratcliffe hastens." She paused, and her mind seemed for a space to grapple with the present. "Didst see Barguest steal into the hall?" she whispered. "He came and couched at the bier-side—and then he sprang—come see the teeth-marks in the Lean Man's throat."
She beckoned them so imperiously that they were drawn against their will into the reeking chamber, and between the still heaps of the slain, and up to the bier whereon Nicholas Ratcliffe lay with death stamped livid on his face. Quietly as if it were a usual office, the little woman turned down the shroud and pointed to the sinewy throat; and Janet's eyes met Wayne's across the body of their foe, while they whispered one to the other that Mistress Wayne saw something here which was denied to any save the fairy-kist.
Wayne of Cranshaw came striding into hall, and after him Griff and his brothers, with a press of Hill House folk behind. But Rolf silenced them when he saw the figures by the bier, and led them quiet out into the night.
"Best leave them to it," he muttered to a kinsman. "'Tis an ill knot to unravel, and God knows how 'twill fare with yond sad pair of lovers."
They stayed there for awhile, Wayne and Janet. The battle-heat went from him; passion was stilled; he stood and went over, one by one, the turmoils that were past—stood, and watched the hate of feud shrink, mean and shamed, into the darkness that had bred it—stood, and wondered to what bitter harvesting the aftermath of feud must come.
And Janet watched him, with the dead man's bulk between them—watched him, and sought for a shaft of hope to cross the gloomy hardness of his face.
Shameless Wayne lifted his head by and by and moved to the door to rid him of the spell. "Come where the wind blows cool, girl. There's a taint in every breath we draw," he cried.
In silence she followed him to the threshold of the great main floor and looked with him across the lone reaches of the wilderness. Dark, wide and wet it stretched. The rains seethed earthward from a shrouded sky. There was no wail of moor-birds, no voice save the sob of the failing wind among the ling.
"Is this our wedding-cheer?" said Janet, meeting his glance at last. "And those in hall there—are they the bridal-guests?"
Wayne answered nothing for a space. And then he gave a cry, and took her to him, so close he seemed to dare each whispering ghost of feud to snatch her from him.
"We never sought the thing that's ended yonder," he whispered hoarsely. "We'll shut it out—we'll—Janet, hast no word for me?"
But the Lean Man, quiet on the bier where he had gibed at death, paid little heed to them. The feud was stanched between Wayne and Ratcliffe; yet he had never a word to say, of protest or of sorrow. The feud was stanched; yet Mistress Wayne, while she plucked at the dead man's shroud as if to claim his notice, was sobbing piteously.
"My lover waits me at the kirkyard gate," she faltered; "but I dare not pass the vault-stone. Sir, it drips crimson as the sun that lately set behind Wildwater Pool. And hark! There's Barguest whining down the wind."
The rain still fell without. The clouds came thickening up above the house of Wildwater. And far off across the moor a whining, comfortless and long-drawn-out, fluttered on the brink of silence.