CHAPTER VIIIA STORMY BURIALThe Wayne vault lay open to the April sky, and throstles were singing in the stunted trees, as Sexton Witherlee, infirm of step and dreamy of eye, moved softly over the graveyard stones. He stopped when he reached the vault, set down the ladder he was carrying and stood looking at the clean-swept room below."'Tis a sweet place, a vault, to my thinking," he muttered. "So trim and peaceable the folk lie, each on his appointed shelf, with never a wrong word betwixt 'em th' twelvemonth through. Ay, 'tis quiet ligging, an' th' storms pass overhead, an' ivery now an' again there's what ye mud call a stir among 'em when a new shelf is filled an' a new neighbour earned. Well, I've seen life a bittock, but I wod swop beds wi' ony o' these, that I wod."A robin came and perched on the top rung of the ladder, and eyed Sexton Witherlee sideways with a friendliness which long following after the spade had bred."What, laddie, dost think I'm delving?" said the Sexton, chuckling feebly. "Nay, there's to be a better burying this morn nor raw earth gives a man. 'Tis bricks an' mortar, robin, an' a leaded coffin for sich as Wayne o' Marsh.—Well, then, bide a bit till I've straightened all up down here, an' then I'll scrat thee up a worm or two for thy dinner."He reached down one stiffened leg, twisted the ladder from side to side to make sure that it was safe, and began his slow descent into the vault. He passed his hand lightly over the stone doors that hid the shelves—lightly, and as if he loved each separate entry in this Book of Death. And all the while he talked to himself, soft and slow."There's old Tom Wayne put to bed there—he war a rum 'un an' proper, they say, though he war dead a hundred year afore my time—an' yond's Ralph Wayne's spot—well, he lived hot an' he lived fast, did Ralph Wayne, an' he died at two-score, an' so saved a mort o' sweating an' unthankfulness. An' now there's th' Maister come to join 'em; I mind burying his wife ten years agone—ten years!—an' him to hev lived wi' all his troubles until now. It 'ull by my turn next, I'm thinking—th' young 'uns come an' they go, an' it doan't hold to reason that Sexton Witherlee should be spared to bury 'em for iver."A broom stood in one corner of the vault, fashioned of heather-fagots bound to a stout handle of ash. Witherlee took the broom in his hands, and began to sweep up the rubble that lay about the floor."Moiling an' toiling, that's all a man addles by keeping th' life quick i' him. I'm faired shamed o' living when I come among so many decent, quiet bodies—ay, fair shamed," murmured the Sexton, and rested on his broom, and looked up to find a broad face and a sturdy pair of shoulders hanging over the edge of the vault."How's trade, Sexton?" said the newcomer."Brisk, Jonas, brisk.""Well, what's one man's meat is another man's poison, i' a manner o' speaking. 'Tis how ye look at things, I reckon, an' there's heads an' tails on ivery good piece o' money. So trade's middling, is't?""Oh, ay. Other trades grow slack, but ye cannot do without Sexton Witherlee i' Marshcotes parish. That's what I says to Parson a week come yestermorn. 'Parson,' says I, 'me an' thee hev getten likely trades. Folk allus need prayers, an' they allus need burying. Crops fail time an' time,' I says, 'an' sickness follows at after famine; an' that's money i' a Sexton's breeches pockets,' says I.""Mebbe tha'rt right, Sexton; but I'd liefer live by putting sound liquor down folk's throats nor be shovelling earth a-top of 'em when they've getten past meat an' drink. But we munnot fratch, for we're near neighbours—me at th' Bull, an' thee i' th' kirkyard hard by, an' each to his own trade, says I, choose who hears me say 't.—'Tis a drear business, this o' th' Maister o' Marsh. Th' burying is fixed for twelve o' th' clock, they tell me.""Ay, sure; he'll be ligged i' bed here all ship-shape, will th' owd Maister, come a half hour after nooin.""He's nobbut been laid out two days an' less, hes he? How should that come about, like? 'Tis nobbut decent I allus did say, to give a corpse its full time on th' bier—'specially a gentle-born corpse, that looks for so mich more attention or a common un.""Nay, I've a fancy that they thowt they mud as weel get th' burying done wi' afore th' Ratcliffes war up to ony o' their tricks. Leastways that war what Nanny telled me, an' she war watching th' body all last neet at Marsh. I've been fettling up a bit, an' pondering a bit, an' going ower th' owd days. Eh, Jonas, but we shall see what we war meant to see afore th' winter comes again.""What—fighting, dost think?""Ay, we shall that. I've getten a tidy-parcel o' Waynes down here, an' I can reckon five o' th' Marsh lot, let alone t' others, that fell by Ratcliffe swords an' Ratcliffe pistols, an' there's few knows as I do what a power o' hate ligs 'twixt Wildwater an' Marsh. I tell thee, lad, it maks my owd blood warm to think o' th' brave times coming back.""I can niver stop wondering at thee, Sexton," said Jonas Feather, settling his arms more easifully on his stick. "Tha'rt a little, snipperty chap, as full o' dreaminess as a tummit is full o' waiter; tha's getten th' rheumatiz i' legs an' shoulder-blades, an' ivery winter brings thee browntitus, sure as Christmas. Yet here tha stands, an' I can see thy een fair blaze again when tha talks o' fighting. Hast iver seen owt o' th' sort, or is't just fancy, like?"The Sexton laughed, a dry and feeble laugh. "I've seen part blood-letting, Jonas; an' ivery neet as I sit i' th' settle after th' day's moil is owered wi', I go backard i' my thowts. Small wonder that I'm gay, like, to think that soon there'll be a fight to butter my bread at ivery meal-time.""Well, 'tis best for plain chaps like thee an' me, Sexton, to let 'em settle it among theirselns. Poor folk mun live, I allus did say, an' if tha addles a bit by burying, I willun't grudge it thee.—Will th' burying go forrard peaceable-like, dost think?""Nay, I couldn't tell thee. Like as not there'll be a fight on th' way fro' Marsh to th' kirkyard here.—Now, Jonas, hod th' stee-top while I clamber up," broke off the Sexton, throwing up his broom and setting one foot on the bottom rung of the ladder. "There's this an' there's that to be looked to, an' it's gone eleven a'ready.""Sakes, tha doesn't mean it! An' here I stand cracking wi' thee i'stead o' smartening up th' sarving-wenches down at th' Bull yonder.—I'm noan for saying it doan't breed custom, mind ye, Witherlee, this senseless sort o' fratching 'twixt th' gentlefolk. They'll be coming fro' far an' wide to see th' last o' th' owd man, for all th' moorside war varry friendly to him; an' 'tis nobbut fitting 'at them as comes to mourn should be warmed a bit i' th' innards at after th' job is done wi'.""Well, there's part folk hereabouts who care nowt whether they've getten warm drink or cold or none at all; an' that, mind ye, shows a sight more sense nor us poor shammocky chaps above ground hev to show for ourselns," said Witherlee, as he picked up his broom and cast a lingering glance of affection on his "tidy bits o' graves.""Shameless Wayne is sobered by this time, I'm thinking," dropped Jonas, walking pace for pace with the Sexton down the path that led to the tool-house."He's getten a gooidish heart, hes th' lad, an' this may weel be th' making of him.""Ay, he left me drunk t' other neet, an' he came back i' a two-three minutes after sober; an' when a man gets skifted out o' liquor so speedy like, he gets a sort o' hatred on 't. Leastways, that's what I've noticed more nor once, an' I reckon it hods gooid at most times."The Sexton's robin, seeing the chance of dinner going by in spite of all its shy attempts to claim attention, hopped boldly on to Witherlee's arm."Now look at that, Jonas!" he cried, "I thowt I niver forgot a promise, an' here hev I been so thrang wi' talking o' what's past an' what's to come that I war all but going off without gi'eing robin redbreast his bit o' meat. Look at th' little chap! He fair speaks wi' yond wick een o' hisn, an' his feathers is all piked out to show 'at his belly is cold for hunger. Well, it taks all sorts to mak a world, an' I niver did see 'at redbreasts war ony way less to be thowt on nor us bigger folk; both sorts go on two legs, an' both turn their legs toes-uppermost one day, choose how th' wind blows.""Ay, there isn't much to choose when it comes to th' latter end.""Well, I'll be bidding thee good-day, Jonas," said the Sexton, turning down to the shed. "I mun put th' broom away, for I doan't like to see more tools about a kirkyard nor need be; an' then I'll turn up a two-three worms for th' robin. He allus looks on at a burying, does redbreast, an' I like to think he'll be well lined i' th' innards—it makes a burying more pleasurable, like."Jonas, after nodding a farewell to the Sexton, sauntered down to his tavern, his hands in his pockets, as if there were ample time for everything in this world; and, though he would bestir the maids presently with a rough hand and a rougher tongue, he saw no cause to hurry."Hast been to hev a look at th' vault, Jonas?" said a farmer from over Wildwater way, who was just going in for a mug of ale as the landlord entered."Ay. All's ship-shape, an' as neat as a basket of eggs. We shall see a big stir, I reckon.""A bigger stir nor ye think for, mebbe," said the other. "What dost mean, lad?""Nay, I can't rightly say—only that when I war crossing th' moor ower by Wildwater a while back, I see'd a band o' Ryecollar Ratcliffes come riding up to th' Lean Man's door. Their sword-belts were noan empty, awther, an' they war laughing.""Laughing, war they? There's a saying that when a Ratcliffe laughs, there'll be wark for th' Sexton. How mony strong wod they be, like?""Six or seven, so far as I could reckon 'em up.""Ay, it looks bad—it looks bad, an' I'm noan for denying it. Owd Witherlee war cracking o' summat o' th' sort, too, not mony minutes sin'. Well, there's none i' th' moorside but what wishes well to th' Waynes, if it come to a tussle—though I wodn't hev th' Lean Man hear me say 't."The folk were gathering meanwhile in the graveyard. Some came in by the gate at the village end, others by the wicket that opened on the moor. All wore the air of sober merriment which a burying never fails to bring to the faces of the moor-folk; all clustered about the vault, and chattered like so many magpies, and turned to ask Sexton Witherlee, when he came from feeding his robin, a hundred silly questions as to the disposal of the coffins. These were holiday times for the moorside, and their real sorrow for the sturdy, upright master of Marsh House served only to add a more subtle edge to their enjoyment.They were festivals for Witherlee likewise; and, though the Sexton held that pride became no man, seeing what he must come to in the end, he always bore himself more youthfully at a burial and looked his fellow-men more squarely in the face. This was his workshop, and it pleased him that his lustier fellows, who were proud of their skill at farming or joinering or the like, should see that he, too, man of dreams as he was, could show a deft hand at his trade.Gossip grew rife as the knot of sight-seers increased. One would tell a tale of the old days when Waynes and Ratcliffes fought at every cross-road, and another would cap the narrative with one more fearsome. The women talked of the good deeds that Wayne of Marsh had done, of the tidy bit o' brass his coffin had cost, of the mad pranks that Shameless Wayne had played in times past. The children played hide-and-seek among the graves, or crept to the vault-edge and peered down in awed expectation, awaiting they knew not what of such terrors as their mothers had taught them to associate with the dead. The grown lasses came with lavender in their aprons, and sprinkled the vault-floor with the lovesome herb, and sent up a prayer to the unknown and dreadful God who dwelt amid the peat-wastes and the bogs—a prayer that they might escape this last close prison until wedlock had given them bairns, lest the curse of the women who were buried with empty breasts should light on them."Th' corpse is coming!" some one cried on the sudden.The chatter ceased, and all eyes sought the yew-shadowed turning of the pathway. Shameless Wayne, his cousin Rolf and two others carried the coffin at shoulder height. In front walked the Parson, his white hair ruffled by the breeze; behind them followed a score of kinsmen, the Long Waynes of Cranshaw over-topping all the others by a head; and behind these again walked a line of farm-men and of women-servants."Good sakes, they've getten swords an' pistols!" muttered one of the onlookers, as the crowd made a clear lane to the kirk-porch."By th' Heart, who iver heard tell o' folk coming armed to a burying!" cried another. "There mun be summat more going forrard nor we've ony notion on. Look at Shameless Wayne! God keep me an' mine fro' seeing sich mortal anguish i' a lad's face again! He looks fair mad wi' grief.""He's getten cause. Hast noan heard that he war droughen while Nanny Witherlee war ringing for his father? Nay, he's a slow-to-blush un, an' proper, an' I wonder he's getten grace enough to come sober to th' grave.—Stand back, childer! Willun't ye be telled? Or mun ye bide i' th' gate till they bury ye wi' th' coffin?"The children shrank back, curiosity killed by fright, and the bearers moved slowly up the path until the grey church hid them. Tongues were loosened again, and Jonas Feather, coming up with the information he had gleaned from the farmer from Wildwater way, was beset by a clamorous knot of folk."Ay, I war sure there war summat out o' th' ordinary—see'd th Ryecollar Ratcliffes crossing th' moor, tha says, Jonas?—Well, I mind th' owd days, but there war nowt so outrageous as this shows like to be—theer, hod thy whisht! They're coming fro' th' kirk."Again a lane was formed, from the porch to the vault where Sexton Witherlee was waiting with his ropes. The wind was at peace, and its soft stir among the budding leaves mingled with song of redbreast and love-pipe of the throstles. A faint odour of lavender crept upward from the vault, suggesting quiet and fragrant hopes for better days to come. Yet the hush that settled over the watching crowd had little rest in it, and it was plain by their laboured breathing, as the coffin was lowered by the creaking ropes, that none looked for a peaceful end to a burial that counted sword and pistol as mourners.Amongst his kin, grouped thirty strong about the vault with set faces and hands on sword-hilts, Shameless Wayne stood noticeable; for his head was bent and the tears streamed down his cheeks unheeded. Not until now had the lad reckoned the full total of his past misdoings, nor known how shame can eat the manhood out of bravery."Dust to dust, ashes to ashes," said the Parson, in the ringing voice that seemed a challenge to grim Death himself.But another than Death took up the challenge. Swift out of the moor a cry of "Ratcliffe, Ratcliffe!" answered him, and the crowd gave back on the sudden, leaving the thirty-and-one Waynes to turn face about, whipping their swords free of the scabbards. Down through the wicket-gate trooped a score of Ratcliffes, yelling their name-cry as they came. A moment they halted, for they had looked to find the Waynes unarmed; but the Lean Man cursed them forward.Shameless Wayne looked up at the first cry; his pale face went ruddy, his eyes lit up. It was a welcome intrusion, this, on the sour trend of his thoughts, and he, who had shown most womanish among them, was now the leader of them all."A Wayne! In at them, lads! A Wayne, a Wayne!" he called, and leaped at the Lean Man, and sliced his left ear level with the cheek.Old Nicholas groaned with pain, then forced a laugh and lifted his big two-handled sword above the head of Wayne of Marsh. But the Waynes came pushing upward from behind, and their leader was thrust against a gravestone on the left hand of the path, while a kinsman took the Lean Man's blow on his own uplifted blade. And after that Wayne mixed with Ratcliffe, and Ratcliffe closed with Wayne, all up and down between the graves, till there was no grass-green footway 'twixt the headstones but was rubbed black under the shifting feet of swordsmen. The crowd fell back for fear, or moved a few steps forward for awe according as the fight swept toward them or away. One against one, or one against two, it was, from the church porch to the field-wall, from the moor-wicket to the Bull; there was no space for a massed fight, and each man sought his special foe and followed him in and out until church-wall, or upreared cross, or spiked hedge of thorn, stopped pursuer and pursued and left no issue but the sword.Sexton Witherlee found his youth again as he stood just under shelter of the porch, and watched, and rubbed his shrivelled hands together. The old stuff worked in him, and he, who had seen Wayne fight with Ratcliffe more than once, thanked God that the sweetest moil of all had been kept to lighten his last steps to the grave. His eyes went from group to group, from thrust to nimble parry, until the kirkyard held naught for him save the dancing shimmer of grey steel. The cries redoubled, and "Ratcliffe" went in the teeth of "Wayne" all down the pathway of the breeze; yet the Sexton knew, from the snarl that underlay each Ratcliffe voice, from the crisp fury of the Wayne-cry, that the Wildwater folk were going down like windle-straws before their foes. The Ratcliffes took to their pistols then, and hid behind gravestones, and sent red streaks of flame across the mist of whirling steel; but they had no time to reload, and hurry steered their bullets for the most part amiss, and the Waynes, disdaining powder at all times, hunted them from their cover like rats from out a barley-mow. Above all shouts, of onset or of mortal anguish, a lad's voice struck clear into the blue belly of the sky."No quarter, Waynes! In at them, and rip from heel to crown!"Sexton Witherlee moved forward from his porch. "Yond war Shameless Wayne's voice. God, but he's getten th' fighting-fever as hot as iver I see'd a man tak it. Th' Lean Man 'ull carry a sore head back to Wildwater, I'm thinking—if he's spared.—There th' lad is! Sakes, but he's getten his hands as full as they'll hod, an' no mistak!" he broke off, straining his eyes toward the half-filled strip of graveyard beneath the Parsonage which he was wont to call his "bit o' garden." But Nicholas Ratcliffe was ever prudent in his hottest fury, and he saw that the fight was all against his folk. The long night of anguish was over for Wayne's son of Marsh, and the rebound from it had filled his veins with something more like the light fires that played across the boglands than with slow-moving blood; his pace was the wind's pace, and the fury of his onset put life into the sword-arms of each Wayne that heard his lusty battle-cry. Back and further back the Ratcliffes shrank, till the Lean Man's voice was heard, bidding them retreat fighting to the moor-gate and then escape as best they could."No quarter!" came Shameless Wayne's trumpet-note, as he chased them to the nearest wicket.But pursuit could go no further, for the pursuers were all on foot and a moment saw the Ratcliffes mounted on the horses which they had tethered to the graveyard hedge. Shameless Wayne plucked out his pistol then, and laughed as a yell from one of the retreating redheads followed his quick pulling of the trigger. Then he turned back sharply, for the sound of running feet came up the path; re-entering by the wicket, he was met full by three Ratcliffes, left behind by their fellows in the wild rush for safety.Wayne never halted, but drove down on them, his sword uplifted; and they, three to one, fell back in panic almost on to the points of the upcoming Waynes."Hold off! They're mine," cried Shameless Wayne, waving his folk aside.Up and down he chased them, and up and down they ran, doubling behind gravestones or running hare-footed across open ground; for this lad, whom they had laughed at as a drunkard and a fool, seemed godlike in his fury. The Waynes held every outlet, and all watched the grim chase silently. And then Shameless Wayne's opportunity came; the three were running altogether now, and one tripped up the other, and Wayne was scarce a sword's length from them."I have them—" he began, and lifted his right arm.But the open vault yawned under them before their brute terror showed where this second danger lay. They reeled at the edge and half recovered, then dropped to the paved floor beneath, where the coffin lay where Witherlee had dropped it at the first onset.Shameless Wayne, mad with the swift onset and the crash of blows, stood laughing at the edge and beckoned to two of his folk. "Roof them over, and let them rot there," he cried, kicking the ringed vault-stone with his foot.The crowd shrank back, and even his own people were affrighted by the wild command. None knew—none guessed, save Sexton Witherlee, watching from the porch—what fury of despair, and shame, and bitterness, had gone to the making of this brute mood of the lad's. Nor was he in case to wonder at himself; for the one moment he wished naught in heaven or earth save to see the flat stone ring down on those who would have done honest men to death by treachery."Why do ye draw back, ye fools?" he cried. "Is it a time for maidishness, or do ye want——""Stay, lad! Thou'lt think better of it in a while," said Rolf Wayne of Cranshaw, touching him on the shoulder.While he halted, glowering from his folk to the stone, and from the stone to the Ratcliffes who lay, maimed and dumb with terror, over his father's coffin, a frail little body, robed all in white, stepped quietly to his side."'Tis my wedding-day, Ned," she said piteously, "and all the folk have come to mock at me, pretending 'tis a burial. What art doing here? Surely thou'lt come to church and help me find my lover there. Thou hast ever been kind to me when others mocked."Shameless Wayne was silent for a space; and then, he knew not why, his mood swung round, and grief rushed thick to eyes and throat. He took the shivering woman by the hand, and turned, and led her down the path. "Come home, little bairn; 'tis over late to see thee wed to-day, but by and by we'll see to it," he said.She went with him quietly, her face brightening as she clung close to his arm. And all the folk crossed themselves, and held their peace, and watched the strange pair go out at the churchyard gate."What's to be done with these?" said Wayne of Cranshaw, after a long silence, pointing to the vault."They shall not foul a Wayne vault, at any rate," said a kinsman. "Poor hounds! See how they tremble—they're scarce worth the killing. Up with them, lads, and if they can stand at all, we'll set them free to cross to Wildwater.""Ay, I warrant ye will," murmured Sexton Witherlee, who had moved to the grave-side. "But would the Ratcliffes have done the like to ye in such a case?—Well—pity comes wi' gooid breeding, I reckon, an' 'tis noan for us poorer sort to teach ye better—but these three may live to plague ye yet."All were gone at last—all save Parson and Sexton, who stood and looked, one at the other first, and afterward across the kirkyard. The sun was silver under grey rain-clouds now; a wet drift of mist came with the westward wind; no throstle sang, but the peewits came wheeling, wheeling, crying, crying, from across the moor, and far up above a sentinel vulture flapped wings and watched the unburied dead who lay with their faces to the rain.The Sexton had been round the graveyard once again. His battle-glee had left him, and a soft light was in his face as he leaned against a headstone and watched the Parson, who stood as he had left him, his head bent in prayer."'Tis a drear day's work, Witherlee," said the Parson, lifting his eyes at last."A drear day's wark, Parson—but sweet as honey while it lasted. Praise God there's nobbut one Wayne killed—one o' th' Hill House lot, he is, an' he ligs up by th' wicket yonder. An' praise God, says I, 'at there'll three Ratcliffes niver trouble Marshcotes wi' their tricks again; one of 'em is stretched at th' wall-side there, an' another under th' Parsonage.—I see'd th' stroke that cleft yond last—cleft him fair like a hazel-nut."The Parson eyed his Sexton gravely, and would have spoken; but Witherlee's soft-moving voice crossed his own before the first word was well out."Now, Parson, I can see by th' face on ye that ye wod liefer I read a sarmon nor a frolic i' all this; an' so I do, when I can frame to gi'e my mind to 't. 'Tis noan th' bloodshed itseln 'at pleasures me—for I'm soft wi' pity when I come to see 'em lying cold—but th' blows, Parson! Th' swing o' well-fed thews, an' th' dancing flicker o' live steel, an' a man standing up to death wi' belly-deep laughter i' his throat! I may be wrang, mind ye—there's few as isn't time an' time—but I wod gi'e five years o' life to watch this moil all ower again, and to see Shameless Wayne show how the old breed strikes.""Vanity, Witherlee—all is vanity, save prayer, and chastening of man's pride. Hast pity for the dead, thou say'st? Ay, but that should sober thy zest in what went before.""Yet th' pity is war nor t' other, being foolish altogether," said the Sexton reflectively, "for I allus did say 'at there's greener grass, an' sweeter, grows ower a dead man's grave nor under his living feet. But there's a winding-sheet for all, so we munnot complain.""Soften thy heart, for God's mercy's sake, before the end overtakes thee. Art hard, Witherlee, hard, with never a hope beyond the grave.""We'll noan' fratch, Parson," said Witherlee slowly. "Ye've learned all fro' Heaven and Hell; but I've learned fro' gooid, strong soil—what me an' ye came fro', an' what we mun go back to i' th' end. It sticks, does kneaded earth, an' when ye've lived husband-to-wife wi' 't i' a manner o' speaking, ye get to look no forrarder."The Parson sighed. It was but an old argument with a drear new setting. "Earth holds earth—but it cannot hold the soul," he said, wearily a little, and as if foredoomed to plead in vain."That's as may be," said Witherlee, in the low, even voice that had likewise been taught him by his trade. "I niver hed no dealings, so to say, wi' th' soul; I've knawn buryings but no risings—save when th' ghosties stir up an' down among th' graves, as they will do time an' time. An' th' ghosts 'ud seem to hev won no further off nor Marshcotes kirkyard.""Art full of vain superstition, Witherlee. The soul thou doubtest; but ghosts, in which no God-fearing man need believe——""Theer!" said Witherlee patiently. "I allus said there niver wod be any sort of argreement 'twixt me an' ye, though we jog on together. Ye live nigh th' kirkyard, Parson, but ye doan't liveinit, as I've done—ye hevn't learned th'feelof a graveyard, or ye'd niver say nay to th' soft-footed ghosties. Why, only last back-end, I mind, I see'd——"The Parson shivered. "I am sick, Witherlee, with all that has chanced, and my knees are weak under me. I will bid thee good-day, and wish thee a softer heart," he said, moving up the pathway."Good-day to ye, Parson. I fear I'm ower owd to mend—but I trust ye'll be no war for this day's moil."The Sexton watched him go, a weak and bent old figure, until the Parsonage gate closed behind him. Then he sat him down, and filled a pipe, and forgot to feel for his tinder-box as the memories of the day came back to him. The rain was dropping, and the wind was gathering chill."Begow, 'tis still an' lonesome, at after all th' racket," he murmured. "Poor Parson! He wodn't gladden a pulse-beat, I'll warrant, if all th' lads i' Marshcotes fell to fighting. Well, there's men like that, just as there's men 'at cannot stomach honest liquor—an' Lord help both sorts, say I.—Well, I mun mak th' most o' th' quiet, for they'll come for yond bodies by an' by.—By th' Heart, how Shameless Wayne cut an' hacked! He'll be a long thorn an' a sharp i' Nicholas Ratcliffe's side, will th' lad. Eh' how he clipped th' Lean Man's ear! God rest him!"CHAPTER IXA MOORSIDE COURTSHIPThe last week of March had seen rain, snow and hail; had felt the wind shift from brisk North to snarling Southeast, and from warm, rain-weighted South to an Easterly gale such as nipped the veins in a man's body and daunted the over-hasty green of elderberry and lifted the wet from ploughed fields as speedily as if a July sun had scorched them. From day to day—nay from hour to hour—the farm men had not known whether they would shiver at the hardest work or sweat with the easiest; the moist, untimely heat of one day would plant rheumatism snugly in their joints, and the bitter coldness of the next would weld it in. Nature was dead at heart, it seemed, and whether she showed a dry eye or a tearful, her face wore the dull greyness of despair, as if her thews were too stiffened and too lean with age to rouse themselves for the old labour of bringing buds to leaf, and kine to calving.And now on a sudden all was changed. The wind blew honest from the West, and even in shadowed corners it kept no knife in waiting for man and beast. The sun shone splendid out of a white-flecked, pearly sky. In the lower lands, blackbird and thrush, starling and wren and linnet, broke into one mighty chorus; and on the moors the grouse called less complainingly one to the other, the larks were boisterous, the eagles showed braver plumage to the sun, the very moor-tits added a twittering sort of gaiety to the day. A lusty, upstanding, joyous day, which brought old folk to their doors, to ask each other if there were not some churlish sport of March hid under all this bravery—which set the youngsters thinking of their sweethearts, and brought the sheep to lambing in many an upland pasture scarce free'd of winter snow.But the Lean Man had no eye for the beauty of the day, as he rode through Marshcotes street with Robert, his eldest-born, on the bridle-hand of him. For old Nicholas was thinking how Shameless Wayne, the lad whom he had laughed at and despised, had lately driven the Ratcliffes to hopeless flight. Both horsemen were fully armed, with swords on thigh and pistols in their holsters; and, as they rode, they kept a sharp regard to right and left, lest any of the Waynes should be hidden in ambush. Time and time the Lean Man clapped a hand to his left ear, as if by habit, and his face was no good sight to see as he felt the rounded lump which marked where Wayne's sword-cut—a fortnight old by now—was healing tardily."Could we but meet the lad alone in Marshcotes street here," he muttered to his eldest-born."Ay, but fortune is no friend to us just now," growled Robert; "and there are those who say he'd match the two of us.""There are those who say that hawks breed cuckoos. Art thou weakening, Robert, too, because he has won the first poor skirmish?""Not I. If I find him in the road, I'll have at him—but meanwhile I am free to think my own thoughts.""Well, and what are thy thoughts, sirrah?""That there's witchery in his sword-arm. I saw him fight in the graveyard, and he was something 'twixt man and devil; ay, he fought as if he had the cursed Dog of Marsh to back him."The Lean Man gave a laugh—a laugh with little surety in it. "Thou'rt a maid, Robert, to fall soft at such a baby-tale as that," he sneered."Yet you have heard of the Dog, sir, and now and then you own to a half belief in him," said Robert, meeting the other's glance fairly. "We have had proof of it aforetime, and—see the woman yonder," he broke off, "moving at us from the corner of the lane. What ails her?"They had passed the Bull tavern and were nearing the spot where the lane that led to Witherlee's cottage ran into the Ling Crag highway. The Lean Man turning his head impatiently as Robert spoke and following the direction of his finger, saw that the Sexton's wife was standing at the roadside. Nanny was looking through and through him, and the smile on her dry old lips was scarcely one of welcome. At another time Nicholas would have paid no heed to her; but to-day a small thing had power to touch his spleen, and he pulled up sharp in the middle of the roadway."I'm called Nicholas Ratcliffe, woman, as perchance thou hast forgotten," he said, leaning toward her and half lifting his hairy fist; "and when I see folk mocking me, I am prone to ask them why.""When I mock ye, Maister, ye're free to strike me, an' not afore," answered Nanny. Her tone was quiet almost to contemptuousness; and the smile that had lately rested on her lips was hiding now behind her shrewd black eyes.Nicholas looked at her, a touch of approval in his glance; accustomed as he was to browbeat all who met him, this dried-up little body's unconcern in face of threats half tickled and half angered him."Hark to her, Robert!" he cried. "Free to strike her, am I? Gad, yes, and with no permission asked, I warrant!""An' as for mocking ye," went on Nanny, disregarding his interruption, "what need hev I to step 'twixt ye an' Barguest?"The Lean Man was accounted hardier than most; yet he started at Nanny's mention of the Dog, following so abruptly on Robert's talk of a moment ago. "Barguest. What has he to do with me?" he cried."What hed he to do wi' your folk i' times past? Enough an' to spare, I should reckon. Do ye forget, Nicholas Ratcliffe, how one o' your breed crossed Barguest once on t' threshold of Marsh House? Do ye mind what chanced to him at after?"Nanny's quiet assurance had in it a quality that daunted the Lean Man. Had she grown fiery in denunciation of his sins toward the Waynes—as in her hotter moments she was wont to do—had she drawn wild pictures of the doom awaiting those who crossed the Dog, Nicholas would have knocked her to the roadway and passed on. But her faith was unwavering; she had no doubt at all that the Lean Man had compassed his own end, and voice and gesture both were such as to convince a man against his will.He stared at her, a growing terror in his face. "'Tis an old tale, woman, and one we scarce credit nowadays," he stammered.—"Robert, tell her she's a fool—a rank, stark-witted fool—and I a bigger fool to hearken to her."But Robert was in no case to bolster up his father's dreads. He turned to Nanny sharply. "Where does all this carry us?" he said. "Dost thou mean that one of us has lately crossed the Dog?""Ay, marry. What else should I mean?" said the little old woman."'Tis a child's tale—a child's tale, I say," broke in Nicholas."Well, ye shall try the truth of it by an' by—for ye crossed th' Dog, Nicholas Ratcliffe, when ye came down to nail your token to th' Marsh doorway. I war watching by th' dead man, an' I heard Barguest come whimper-whimper down th' lane; an' then he scratted like a wild thing at th' panels; an' after that he ligged him down on the door-stun."Nanny paused a moment, watching how the Lean Man took it."Ay, and then?" said Nicholas. He would fain have sounded merry, but his voice came dry and harsh."Then a man came riding up o' horseback, an' leaped to ground, an' reached ower th' Brown Dog to nail a man's hand to th' door. An'yewar th' horseman, Nicholas Ratcliffe."Once only the Lean Man glanced at her; then set spurs to his great bay horse and clattered up the street, his son following close behind. At the end of half-a-mile they slackened pace, as if by joint consent; but neither sought the other's eyes."What ails thee, fool?" said Nicholas to his eldest-born."Naught, sir—'twas not I who fled from a crook-backed beldame," sneered the other.The Lean Man turned on him, glad of an excuse for bluster. "Thou dar'st to say I fled?" he cried. "Thou, who wast sucking at the breast while I grew old in fight?—There, lad! 'Twas a madness in the blood that fell on us just now. What's Barguest that he should spoil a bonnie plan? Are we not sending Wayne to his last home to-night?""We have planned as much," said Robert slowly, "but——""Ay, but—and 'but' again in thy teeth. We have him, I tell thee—Red Ratcliffe should be somewhere hereabouts by now, learning what I have sent him out to learn.""We can learn all that, and yet not use the knowledge right," said Robert sullenly. Even yet he could see Nanny's face, could hear her voice, and he was angered by the fear they bred in him."That's as may be," said Nicholas grimly—"but if he brings the news I think he will the devil keep young Wayne of Marsh, for he'll need some such sort of aid.—Who is yond lubberly farm-hind, climbing up the wall this side the road? His slouch is woundily familiar." Like his son, the Lean Man had felt the sting of Nanny's words, though he was minded to make light of it; and no better proof of his humour was needed than the quick ill-tempered eye he had for trifles."It looks like Hiram Hey—one of Wayne's folk, and a pesty fellow with his tongue. We've found him more than once cutting peats from the Wildwater land, and more than once we've fallen foul of him.""Have ye?" said Nicholas quietly. "Well, he did us a service there, may be; and the more peats they coane at Marsh, the better 'twill be for us to-night.—Come, lad; 'tis gallop now, and a truce to that old wife's foolery."Hiram Hey, meanwhile, was going his leisurely way, glancing curiously at the Lean Man as he went by, but not guessing that he was furnishing him with food for talk. He slouched along the pasture-fields stopping at every other step to watch the sport of heifers, to note a broken piece of walling, or to berate some luckless farm-lad whom he found at play."I wodn't call it a fair day, for we've not done wi' 't yet," he murmured. "Nay, I wodn't call it a fair day, an' that's Gospel, till I see how it behaves itseln. We mud varry weel hev snow afore it wears to neet, or else thunner—or both, likely."He leaned over a three-barred gate and eyed the long furrows climbing to the hill-crest—sleek furrows, with dust lying grey on the sun-side of the upturned sods. And while he lazied there, a milking-song came clear and crisp from over the wall that hid the High meadow from him."That's Martha," he cried, brightening on the sudden. "She sings like ony bird, does th' lass. What should she be doing, I wonder, so far fro' Marsh on a working-day?"His step had an unwonted briskness in it, his carriage was almost jaunty, as he moved along the wall-side to the stile at the corner. A milk-pail was showing now above the top step of the stile, with a cherry-ripe face and trim, short skirted figure under it. Martha halted on seeing Hiram Hey, and set two round, brown arms to the pail, and lifted it down to the wall; then leaned with one hand on it while she dropped a saucy curtsey."It's warm," ventured Hiram, picking up a stone from the grass and throwing it aside."Warm? I should reckon it is. Tha'd say so if tha'd carried this pail a-top o' thy head for a mile an' better.—But, Lord, we munnot complain, for 'tis a day i' five-score, this, an' warm as midsummer.""Thee bide a bittock, as I telled young Maister this morn. 'Spring's come again, Hiram,' says he to me. 'Mebbe,' says I, 'but when a man's lived to my years he learns to believe owt o' th' weather—save gooid sense.' That's what I said, for sure.""Tha'rt not so thrang as or'nary, seemingly?" said Martha, after a pause.Hiram glanced at her, as if suspecting mockery. "Nay, I'm allus thrang," he answered, shaking his head in mournful fashion. "I've heard folk say I do nowt just because they've seen me hands-i'-pocket time an' time; but when ye're maister-hand at a farm, there's head-work to be done as weel as body-work.""To be sure—an' 'tis fearful hard, is head-work.""Ay, I oft say to shepherd Jose that th' humbler your station i' this life, th' fewer frets ye hev.""I feel fair pitiful for thee, Hiram," said Martha, glancing softly at him across the pail, "when I see what worries tha hes to put up wi'."Hiram came a step nearer. "Tha mud weel pity me, lass. 'Tis grand to be sich chaps as Jose—all body, i' a way o' speaking, an' no head-piece worth naming to come 'twixt victuals an' their appetites.—Martha, lass, I've oft wondered how tha came to be born a wench.""Would'st hev hed me born a lad?""Nay, begow! but tha's getten so mich sense; that's what I mean. It fair caps me—as if I'd fund apples growing on a thistle-top."Martha had a keen answer on her tongue-tip, but she held it back; for the lads were beginning to pass her by, and it was time she had a goodman. "It's a lot for thee to say, Hiram, is that," she murmured, dropping her eyes. "I iver thowt there war maid i' Marshcotes could come nigh to whatthalooks for i' a wench.""Nor I nawther," said Hiram gravely. "I've said to myseln time an' agen that if I war to keep good company till th' end o' my days, I'd hev to live wi' myseln.""It wod take a good un to be mate to thee."Hiram half lifted his foot to the bottom step of the stile, then withdrew it. "Go slow, lad," he murmured. "If tha taks it at this flairsome speed, where wilt be by to-morn?""I wod tak a varry good un," repeated Martha.But Hiram had taken fright on the sudden. "I seed th' Lean Man go through Marshcotes a while back," he said, with would-be carelessness."Oh, ay? Th' Ratcliffes seem to be up an' about this morn, for I passed Red Ratcliffe i' th' meadow not five minites sin'. Sakes, but he's an ill-favoured un, is Red Ratcliffe! He war for gi'eing me a kiss an' a hug just now, but I let him feel th' wrong side o' my hand i'stead.—An' what did th' Lean Man look like, Hiram, after his fighting o' t' other day?""Nay, I niver stopped to axe; but I noticed he looked queerish where he took yond sword-cut a two-week come yesterday. I'm none for praising th' young Maister, not I, seeing he's shameless by name an' shameless by natur—but I take it kindly of him that he sliced th' Lean Man's ear off clean as a tummit-top. There's none i' th' moorside but wishes his head had followed.""Now whisht, Hiram!" cried Martha. "It's a two-week come yesterday sin' they fought i' th' kirkyard, but I'm sick yet wheniver I call to mind how they came home to Marsh that morn. Th' burial-board war all spread, an' I war agate wi' drawing a jug of October when Nanny Witherlee comes running into th' pantry, as white as a hailstone, an' 'Martha,' say she, 'there'll be a sorry mess on th' hall-floor—an' us to have spent so mich beeswax on't,' says she. 'Why, what's agate?' I says. 'Th' Waynes is back for th' burying-feast,' says Nanny, 'an' they've brought some gaping wounds, my sakes, to sit at meat wi' 'em.'""I warrant they did," assented Hiram, "for I see'd 'em myseln.""Well, I runs a-tip-toe then to th' hall door, an' I screamed out to see th' Waynes standing there. A score or so there mud be, all drinking as if they'd sweated like brocks at grasscutting; an' there war a queer silence among 'em; an' some war binding arms an' legs, an' th' floor, I tell thee, war more slippy under a body's feet nor ony beeswax warranted.""Th' Maister went through it without a scratch, for all that, though they say he fought twice for ivery one o' t' others. Ay, his father war like that when th' owd quarrel war agate—allus i' th' front, yet niver taking so mich as a skin-prick till th' time came for him to dee.""How long ago war that, Hiram? I've heard tell o' th' owd feud, but it mun hev been a long while back.""Longer nor ye can call to mind, lass. 'Twas a sight o' years back, afore tha wert born or thought of."Another soft glance from Martha. "I shouldn't hev thoughttha'dhev remembered it so weel, Hiram," she murmured. "Tha talks as if tha wert owd enough to be a girt-grandfather to sich a little un as me."Hiram saw his error. "Nay, I'm youngish still, Martha," he put in hastily, with a tell-tale pulling of his hat over the widening patch of forehead that showed beneath the brim. "'Tis hard thinking that thins a body's thatch, an' when I call to mind what a power o' sense I've learned sin' being a lad, I wonder I'm not as bald as a moor-tit's egg. Well, tha mud find younger men nor me, but——""I set no store by youngness, Hiram. I allus did say a wise head war th' best thing a man could hev.""Begow, but tha'rt a shrewd un, Martha, as weel as a bonnie un!" cried Hiram, and checked himself. "Yond's a tidy slice o' land," he said, nodding at the dusty furrows in front of them.But Martha knew her own mind. "I'd liefer talk about thee, Hiram, that I wod," she said. "Land's theer ony day we want to look at it!""Well, now, there's summat i' that," he answered, with a shade of uneasiness in his voice. "Where hast been, like, for th' milk, lass? 'Tisn't every day I find thee stirring so far fro' Marsh.""I've been to th' High Farm, for sure. What wi' milk for th' new-weaned calves, an' for churning, an' what not, we shouldn't hev hed a sup i' th' house down at Marsh if I hadn't come a-borrowing.""There's waste somewhere, I'm thinking," said Hiram sadly. "Th' roan cow war niver fuller i' milk nor now, an' yond little dappled beast I bought off Tom o' Dick's o' Windytop is yielding grandly. Nay, nay, there's waste at Marsh! I said how 'twould be when young Maister took hod o' th' reins.""Waste, is there? I'd like thee to hev a week or two at managing, Hiram; tha'd see how far a score quarts o' milk 'ull go, wi' four growing lads an' th' Maister, an' all ye lubbering farm-folk to feed. But theer! Men niver can thoyle to see owt go i' housekeeping; an' I'll be bidding thee good-day, Hiram, as tha's getten no likelier sort o' talk nor that."She made pretence to lift her pail from the top of the stile, and Hiram so far forgot his caution as to put a hand on her dimpled arm."Sakes, lass, I wodn't hev thee go!" he cried."Then don't thee talk about waste and sich-like foolishness; I thowt tha'd more sense, Hiram, that I did. Nawther is young Maister what tha thinks him, let me tell thee; he's stiffening like a good un an' there's them as says he's getten th' whip-hand o' Hiram Hey already.""Stiffening, is he?" cried Hiram, whom the jibe stung more keenly because he could not but admit the truth of it. "Well, there's room an' to spare, for he hes as slack a back as iver I clapped een on. But if tha thinks he can best Hiram Hey, Sunday or week-day——"He stopped and shaded his eyes with both hands as he looked more keenly up the fields. Two figures had topped the crest—one a girl's, the other a man's, loose-built and of a swinging carriage."Nay,Iniver said I thowt as mich," said Martha demurely, not heeding the direction of Hiram's glance. "'Twas shepherd Jose said it yestereen when he stepped down to th' house wi' th' week's lamb.""What, Jose!" cried the other, with an angry cackle. "He niver had a mind aboon sheep, hedn't Jose, an' sheep is poor wastrels when all's said. So tha lets an owd chap like yond come whispering i' thy ear, dost 'a, Martha?""An' who's to say nay to me, I should like to know?" Her voice was combative, but she leaned a little toward Hiram as she spoke, and he all but took the last dire step of all.Very foolish showed Hiram, as he stood looking at the maid, with caution in one eye and in the other a frank admiration of the comeliness which showed so wholesome and so fresh amid the greenery of field and hedgerow. And all the while he was murmuring, "Go slow, lad, go slow, I tell thee," and his lips were moving shiftlessly to the refrain."Thou'rt tongue-tied, Hiram. Who's to say nay to me, I axed thee?" laughed Martha.Hiram rocked the milk pail gently with one hand, and stared up the new-ploughed furrows of the field ahead of him. "Thy own good sense, lass, should say thee nay," he answered guardedly. "Them as tends sheep, an' nowt but sheep, gets witless as an owd bell-wether; an' if I war a lass I'd as lief wed a turnip on a besom-stick as shepherd Jose.""If tha wert a lass, Hiram, tha'd die i' spinsterhood, I'm thinking."Martha's attack was spirited, but she sighed a little as she noted Hiram's far-away regard; his thoughts were with the land, she fancied, when she fain would have brought them nearer home. Yet, as it chanced Hiram Hey was not thinking of farm-matters at the moment; Martha had her back to the ploughed field, and she could not see that the two figures which had lately topped the rise were coming down the field-side toward the stile. And it was plain now to Hiram that one was Janet Ratcliffe, the other Wayne of Marsh."It's queer, is th' way o' things," said Martha presently, loth to go her ways, yet too impatient and too womanly to stand there with no word spoken."Oh, ay? Well, things war niver owt but queer," answered Hiram, startled out of his abstraction."I war thinking o' th' bloody fight i' th' kirkyard. No more nor a two-week back it war, Hiram, an' here we all are, cooking an' weshing an' churning i' th' owd way, when we'd looked for fearsome doings all up an' down th' moorside.""A wench would look for 'em; but I could hev telled thee different if tha'd axed me," said Hiram complacently. "Look at yond puffs o' dust that come ivery two-three minutes over th' furrows—dost think even Shameless Wayne could let a seed-time sich as this go by, while he war agate wi' fighting? Nay, nor th' Ratcliffes nawther. We mun all live by th' land, gentle an' simple, an' afore awther Wayne or Ratcliffes can afford to marlake, they'll hev to addle belly-timber.""There'll nowt o' more come on 't then? Th' Lean Man has been fearful quiet of late, an' there's them as thinks th' fight i' th' graveyard has daunted him for good an' all.""Daunted him, has it?" rejoined Hiram grimly. "Thee bide till th' oats is sown, an' th' hay won in, an' then tha'll see summat. Th' Lean Man is quiet like, tha says? Well, I've known him quiet afore, an' I've known him busy—an' of th' two I'd liefer see him thrang.""Tha'r a good un to flair folk, Hiram! Why would'st liefer see him thrang?""Why? Because when a Ratcliffe says nowt to nobody, but wends abroad wi' a smug face an' watchful een, same as I've seen 'em do lately, ye may be varry sure he's fashioning slier devil's tricks nor iver.—Red Ratcliffe met thee just now, did he, Martha?""I telled thee as mich—he warn't so slow as some folk, Hiram, for he'd no sooner clapped een on me nor he had an arm about my waist."Again Hiram wavered, and again whispered caution to himself. "He showed some mak o' sense there, Martha—but that's not what I war axing thee. What war he doing, like, when tha first comed up wi' him?""Nowt, nobbut mooning up an' down, as if i' search o' somebody.""Well, he war on Wayne land to start wi', an' that wears a queerish look.""Sakes, young Maister is nowhere near, I'm hoping!" cried Martha. "Red Ratcliffe carried his pistols, an' a shot from behind a wall wod suit him better nor a stand-up fight."She still had her back to the ploughed field, and Hiram smiled in sour fashion to think how very near the master was, and what company he was keeping at the moment."Thou'rt fearful jealous for th' young Maister," he said. "I'm thinking there's truth i' what they say i' Marshcotes—that Shameless Wayne allus gets th' soft side of a maid.""An' should do, seeing he's what he is!""Well, I wodn't be a bit surprised if hewari' th' fields this morn. He's farmed for a week, hes th' Maister, an' he knows so mich about it now that he mun be here, theer an' iverywhere, watching that us younger hands do matters right.""Tha can mock as tha likes, Hiram Hey, but he'll teach thee summat afore he's done wi' thee. Poor lad, though, I'm fair pitiful for him! He niver rests save when he's abed, an' not oft then, for I can hear him stirring mony a neet at after he'd earned his sleep.""Thinking of his sins, I reckon," growled Hiram."Well, there's some I know that hasn't mouse-pluck enough for sinning. Besides, that's owered wi'. He's stiffening right enough—yet mony's the time I wish him back to th' owd careless days. He niver hes a gay word for us wenches now, an' to see him wi' his brothers ye mud weel think he war a score year older nor he's ony call to be."Hiram had waited for this moment, chuckling at the overthrow in store for Martha's championship of the master. "Stiffening, is he?" he said, pointing up the field and drawing his lips into a thin curve. "He may be—but he's framing badly for a start."Martha, turning sharp about, saw the two figures come slowly down the wall-side toward the stile. Wayne's head was bent low to Mistress Janet's, as if he were pleading some urgent cause, and neither seemed to guess that they were watched."Well?" said Martha defiantly. "There's nowt wrong i' that, is there? I've known he war soft on Mistress Ratcliffe iver sin' last spring."Hiram stared at her, aghast that she could look so lightly on a grievous matter; and when he spoke there was honest anger in his voice, distinct from his usual carping tone."Nowt wrong?" he said slowly. "What, when a Wayne goes courting a Ratcliffe? I can't picture owt wronger, ony way, seeing what has come between 'em lately an' aforetime.""Hoity-toity! That's been Mistress Nell's way o' looking at it—but 'tisn't mine. Look at 'em, Hiram, an' say if they don't mak a bonnie couple.""What's bonniness to do wi' 't? They're a bad stock, root an' branch, is th' Ratcliffes, an' it 'ull be a sore day for Marsh when th' Maister brings sich as yond to th' owd house. Besides, he has sworn to kill her folk.""Well, ye cannot cut young hearts i' two wi' kinship, an' that's what I'm telling thee. Mistress Ratcliffe hes nawther father nor brother living, an' them she dwells wi' up at Wildwater are nowt so near to her but what a good lad's love is nearer.""Hod thy whisht, lass!" cried Hiram on the sudden. "Th' Maister is looking this way at last. Begow, but he mun hev had summat deep to say to her, or he'd have seen us afore this."Shameless Wayne reddened on seeing the occupants of the stile, and whispered to Janet, and the two of them turned quickly about, taking a cross-line back toward the moor."Flaired to be spoken to by honest folk," said Hiram."Flaired o' thy sour face, more like," snapped Martha.Hiram was about to make one of his slow, exasperating responses when he clutched Martha by the arm and again pointed over the stile—not up the ploughed field this time, but across the pasture-land abutting on it."We shall know by an' by what Red Ratcliffe has in mind," he muttered; "dost see him yonder, Martha, crossing th' pasture? Ay, an' now he's following 'em up th' wallside.""So he is. There's no mistaking that red thatch o' hisn—'twill set th' sun afire one bonnie day, I'm thinking. Does he mean to do th' Maister a hurt, think ye, Hiram?"Hiram stretched himself with the air of a man who has work to do. "He's too far off yet for a pistol-shot; but he's quickening pace a bit, an' Lord knows what he's bent on. I reckon I'll just clamber ower th' wall here, Martha, an' wend down t' other side, and get a word wi' him as if 'twar chance like.""Tak care o' thyseln, Hiram. There are some of us wod ill like to see harm come to thee."But Hiram was deaf to blandishments. He had gone far enough for one morning, and, all else apart, he was no whit sorry to slip out of temptation's way."There's no telling when a Ratcliffe is about," he said, putting one leg over the low wall, "an' th' Maister is so throttle-deep i' foolishness just now that he's ripe-ready to fall into ony snare that's laid for him. Begow, Martha, but I don't know what th' world wod come to if there war no Hiram Hey to straighten it now and again!"Martha sighed for the interrupted wooing as she lifted her pail from the stile. Hiram Hey moved surely, it might be, but life seemed short for such masterly painstaking slowness."It's war nor driving pigs to market, is getting Hiram to speak plain," she said to herself, setting off for home.—"Tha'll be back to thy dinner, Hiram?" she added over her shoulder."For sure I will. There's more nor dinner to tempt me down to Marsh," he cried, his rashness gaining on him now that he stood on the far side of the wall.On no point save wedlock, however, did Hiram fail to know his purpose. He might have much to say about the young Master, but he had no mind to see harm come to him; and so he moved with a steady swing across the field, then turned sharp and crossed to the wall behind which Red Ratcliffe was creeping at a point some ten-score yards from the stile. He stopped then and leaned a pair of careless arms over the wall and looked everywhere but at the object of his manoeuvres, whose progress he had guessed to a nicety."Why, is't ye, Maister Ratcliffe?" he cried, letting his eyes fall at last on the tall, lean figure that stood not two yards away on the far side of the wall.Ratcliffe glanced at him, but could not guess whether Hiram's stolid face hid any deeper thought than an idle wish to chatter. "'Tis I, plain enough," he growled."Nay, doan't fly at me—on a grand day like this, an' all. I thowt mebbe ye'd stepped on to th' Marsh land just to pick up a two-three wrinkles about farming. 'Tis not oft we're favoured wi' a sight o' ye down here.""Dost think I need come here to learn any point of tillage?" laughed the other angrily."Well, I thowt it showed good sense i' ye. We're a tidy lot at Marsh, so folk say, an' I'm none blaming ye at Wildwater, ye understand for knawing a bit less about farming nor us. Your land's high, for one thing, an' lean as a scraped flint—I warrant it does your een good to see sich lovesome furrows as them, ye're walking ower.""If speech can earn thee a cracked crown, thou'lt not long go whole of head," snapped Ratcliffe, beginning to move forward."Theer, theer! Th' gentry's allus so hot when a plain man strives to talk pleasant like to 'em. But it's live an' let live, I allus did say, an' sich fair spring weather as this hes a trick o' setting my tongue wagging." A sly glance at the other's back told him that Red Ratcliffe must be fetched up sharp if he were to be prevented from following Wayne of Marsh and Janet. "It sets other folk's tongues agate, too, seemingly," he added, glancing toward the hill-crest over which his Master and the girl were disappearing; "they mak a fine couple, doan't they, Maister, him an' Mistress Ratcliffe?"Ratcliffe faced about. "Palsy take thee!" he cried. "Art thou a fool, only, Hiram Hey, or dost think to jest with thy betters?""Nay, I'm nobbut a fool, I reckon," said Hiram, shaking his head mournfully. "I can't say owt to please ye, 'twould seem, choose what, so I'd better hod my whisht. When I see a bonnie lass, an' th' finest lad i' th' moorside beside her—why, I thowt it could do no harm just to speak on 't, like.""The finest lad in the moorside?" sneered Ratcliffe. "Since when did Wayne the Shameless earn his new title?""What, ye've not heard his praises then? I may hev my own opinion—ivery man hes a right to that—but Marshcotes an' Ling Crag can find nowt too good to say about him nowadays. Oh, ay, they all grant 'at th' Wayne land is th' best on th' moor, an' ots Maister th' handiest chap wi' sword or farming-tools. 'Tis sad, for sure, that there's such bad blood 'twixt ye an' th' Waynes; but this courtship 'ull mebbe cure it.—Nay, now, doan't be so hasty! I speak according to my lights; they may be poor uns, as Blind Tom o' Trawdon says, but they're all I've getten to go by."Not a muscle of Hiram's face told how he was enjoying this skirmish with his enemy; only an added watchfulness of eye told that he half expected the other to strike him. His Master was out of sight now, and there was so much gained, whatever chanced to himself. But Ratcliffe lost his anger on the sudden, and turned to Hiram with something near to good-nature in his tone."Well, thou'rt dry, Hiram, with a shrewd wit of thy own, but I warn thee for thy own sake not to couple any Wayne with Mistress Ratcliffe in thy gossip.—Ay, and that calls another thing to mind; they say ye Wayne folk cut peats on the Wildwater land last summer, and ever since I've been seeking a chance to tell thee we'll have no more of that."Hiram, wondering what lay under this change of front, answered slowly. "We're no thiefs, Maister; an' if our peat beds lie foot-to-heel wi' yourn, is that to say we'd ower-step th' boundary? Besides, we've no call to; our side o' th' bed yields better peats——""Well, I judge by what I'm told, and our farm-folk told us further that ye had carted some of their own peats as they lay up-ended for the drying.""Begow, that's a likely tale!" cried Hiram, roused at last. "When we worked noon an' neet for a week, cutting an' drying an' carting, to be telled we——""There! Thou'rt honest, Hiram, and I'll take thy word for it," laughed Ratcliffe. "So the peats have lasted, have they? Ours are all but done after this cursed winter.""Now, what's he at?" muttered Hiram. "When th' Ratcliffe breed hatches a civil word, they allus want stiff payment for 't.—Our peats are lasting fine, an' thankee," he said. "'Tis all a matter o' forethought, an' some fowk hesn't mich o' that. Oh, ay, we've getten a shed-full next to th' mistals, let alone th' stack at th' far-side o' th' yard; an' it's April now, so I reckon we shall see th' winter through. Ye niver catch us tripping down at Marsh.""Not oft," said Ratcliffe, with a crafty smile.—"Faith, though, thy boasting would move better if it had less to carry, Hiram. We're all at fault once in a while, and I warrant that, if the peats will last, your bedding—bracken and the like,—has fallen short.""Then ye'll warrant to little purpose," put in Hiram, with triumph, "they lig side by side, th' peats an' th' bedding—an' if ye'll step down an' tak a look at Marsh ye'll find a fairish heap o' both sorts."He laughed at the humour of the invitation, and Red Ratcliffe followed suit as he turned on his heel."Another day, Hiram, and meanwhile I'll take word back to Wildwater, that we've all to learn yet from the wise men who dwell at Marsh.""Scoff as ye will, ye're varry right there," muttered Hiram, as he too, went his way. "But I'd like to know what made ye frame to speak so civil all at once."Red Ratcliffe was already moving across the field, with a light step and a face that was full of cunning glee; nor did he slacken pace until, half toward Wildwater, he saw Shameless Wayne parting from Janet at the corner of the crossroads. His face darkened for a moment, then cleared as he watched Shameless Wayne pass down the road to Marsh.
CHAPTER VIII
A STORMY BURIAL
The Wayne vault lay open to the April sky, and throstles were singing in the stunted trees, as Sexton Witherlee, infirm of step and dreamy of eye, moved softly over the graveyard stones. He stopped when he reached the vault, set down the ladder he was carrying and stood looking at the clean-swept room below.
"'Tis a sweet place, a vault, to my thinking," he muttered. "So trim and peaceable the folk lie, each on his appointed shelf, with never a wrong word betwixt 'em th' twelvemonth through. Ay, 'tis quiet ligging, an' th' storms pass overhead, an' ivery now an' again there's what ye mud call a stir among 'em when a new shelf is filled an' a new neighbour earned. Well, I've seen life a bittock, but I wod swop beds wi' ony o' these, that I wod."
A robin came and perched on the top rung of the ladder, and eyed Sexton Witherlee sideways with a friendliness which long following after the spade had bred.
"What, laddie, dost think I'm delving?" said the Sexton, chuckling feebly. "Nay, there's to be a better burying this morn nor raw earth gives a man. 'Tis bricks an' mortar, robin, an' a leaded coffin for sich as Wayne o' Marsh.—Well, then, bide a bit till I've straightened all up down here, an' then I'll scrat thee up a worm or two for thy dinner."
He reached down one stiffened leg, twisted the ladder from side to side to make sure that it was safe, and began his slow descent into the vault. He passed his hand lightly over the stone doors that hid the shelves—lightly, and as if he loved each separate entry in this Book of Death. And all the while he talked to himself, soft and slow.
"There's old Tom Wayne put to bed there—he war a rum 'un an' proper, they say, though he war dead a hundred year afore my time—an' yond's Ralph Wayne's spot—well, he lived hot an' he lived fast, did Ralph Wayne, an' he died at two-score, an' so saved a mort o' sweating an' unthankfulness. An' now there's th' Maister come to join 'em; I mind burying his wife ten years agone—ten years!—an' him to hev lived wi' all his troubles until now. It 'ull by my turn next, I'm thinking—th' young 'uns come an' they go, an' it doan't hold to reason that Sexton Witherlee should be spared to bury 'em for iver."
A broom stood in one corner of the vault, fashioned of heather-fagots bound to a stout handle of ash. Witherlee took the broom in his hands, and began to sweep up the rubble that lay about the floor.
"Moiling an' toiling, that's all a man addles by keeping th' life quick i' him. I'm faired shamed o' living when I come among so many decent, quiet bodies—ay, fair shamed," murmured the Sexton, and rested on his broom, and looked up to find a broad face and a sturdy pair of shoulders hanging over the edge of the vault.
"How's trade, Sexton?" said the newcomer.
"Brisk, Jonas, brisk."
"Well, what's one man's meat is another man's poison, i' a manner o' speaking. 'Tis how ye look at things, I reckon, an' there's heads an' tails on ivery good piece o' money. So trade's middling, is't?"
"Oh, ay. Other trades grow slack, but ye cannot do without Sexton Witherlee i' Marshcotes parish. That's what I says to Parson a week come yestermorn. 'Parson,' says I, 'me an' thee hev getten likely trades. Folk allus need prayers, an' they allus need burying. Crops fail time an' time,' I says, 'an' sickness follows at after famine; an' that's money i' a Sexton's breeches pockets,' says I."
"Mebbe tha'rt right, Sexton; but I'd liefer live by putting sound liquor down folk's throats nor be shovelling earth a-top of 'em when they've getten past meat an' drink. But we munnot fratch, for we're near neighbours—me at th' Bull, an' thee i' th' kirkyard hard by, an' each to his own trade, says I, choose who hears me say 't.—'Tis a drear business, this o' th' Maister o' Marsh. Th' burying is fixed for twelve o' th' clock, they tell me."
"Ay, sure; he'll be ligged i' bed here all ship-shape, will th' owd Maister, come a half hour after nooin."
"He's nobbut been laid out two days an' less, hes he? How should that come about, like? 'Tis nobbut decent I allus did say, to give a corpse its full time on th' bier—'specially a gentle-born corpse, that looks for so mich more attention or a common un."
"Nay, I've a fancy that they thowt they mud as weel get th' burying done wi' afore th' Ratcliffes war up to ony o' their tricks. Leastways that war what Nanny telled me, an' she war watching th' body all last neet at Marsh. I've been fettling up a bit, an' pondering a bit, an' going ower th' owd days. Eh, Jonas, but we shall see what we war meant to see afore th' winter comes again."
"What—fighting, dost think?"
"Ay, we shall that. I've getten a tidy-parcel o' Waynes down here, an' I can reckon five o' th' Marsh lot, let alone t' others, that fell by Ratcliffe swords an' Ratcliffe pistols, an' there's few knows as I do what a power o' hate ligs 'twixt Wildwater an' Marsh. I tell thee, lad, it maks my owd blood warm to think o' th' brave times coming back."
"I can niver stop wondering at thee, Sexton," said Jonas Feather, settling his arms more easifully on his stick. "Tha'rt a little, snipperty chap, as full o' dreaminess as a tummit is full o' waiter; tha's getten th' rheumatiz i' legs an' shoulder-blades, an' ivery winter brings thee browntitus, sure as Christmas. Yet here tha stands, an' I can see thy een fair blaze again when tha talks o' fighting. Hast iver seen owt o' th' sort, or is't just fancy, like?"
The Sexton laughed, a dry and feeble laugh. "I've seen part blood-letting, Jonas; an' ivery neet as I sit i' th' settle after th' day's moil is owered wi', I go backard i' my thowts. Small wonder that I'm gay, like, to think that soon there'll be a fight to butter my bread at ivery meal-time."
"Well, 'tis best for plain chaps like thee an' me, Sexton, to let 'em settle it among theirselns. Poor folk mun live, I allus did say, an' if tha addles a bit by burying, I willun't grudge it thee.—Will th' burying go forrard peaceable-like, dost think?"
"Nay, I couldn't tell thee. Like as not there'll be a fight on th' way fro' Marsh to th' kirkyard here.—Now, Jonas, hod th' stee-top while I clamber up," broke off the Sexton, throwing up his broom and setting one foot on the bottom rung of the ladder. "There's this an' there's that to be looked to, an' it's gone eleven a'ready."
"Sakes, tha doesn't mean it! An' here I stand cracking wi' thee i'stead o' smartening up th' sarving-wenches down at th' Bull yonder.—I'm noan for saying it doan't breed custom, mind ye, Witherlee, this senseless sort o' fratching 'twixt th' gentlefolk. They'll be coming fro' far an' wide to see th' last o' th' owd man, for all th' moorside war varry friendly to him; an' 'tis nobbut fitting 'at them as comes to mourn should be warmed a bit i' th' innards at after th' job is done wi'."
"Well, there's part folk hereabouts who care nowt whether they've getten warm drink or cold or none at all; an' that, mind ye, shows a sight more sense nor us poor shammocky chaps above ground hev to show for ourselns," said Witherlee, as he picked up his broom and cast a lingering glance of affection on his "tidy bits o' graves."
"Shameless Wayne is sobered by this time, I'm thinking," dropped Jonas, walking pace for pace with the Sexton down the path that led to the tool-house.
"He's getten a gooidish heart, hes th' lad, an' this may weel be th' making of him."
"Ay, he left me drunk t' other neet, an' he came back i' a two-three minutes after sober; an' when a man gets skifted out o' liquor so speedy like, he gets a sort o' hatred on 't. Leastways, that's what I've noticed more nor once, an' I reckon it hods gooid at most times."
The Sexton's robin, seeing the chance of dinner going by in spite of all its shy attempts to claim attention, hopped boldly on to Witherlee's arm.
"Now look at that, Jonas!" he cried, "I thowt I niver forgot a promise, an' here hev I been so thrang wi' talking o' what's past an' what's to come that I war all but going off without gi'eing robin redbreast his bit o' meat. Look at th' little chap! He fair speaks wi' yond wick een o' hisn, an' his feathers is all piked out to show 'at his belly is cold for hunger. Well, it taks all sorts to mak a world, an' I niver did see 'at redbreasts war ony way less to be thowt on nor us bigger folk; both sorts go on two legs, an' both turn their legs toes-uppermost one day, choose how th' wind blows."
"Ay, there isn't much to choose when it comes to th' latter end."
"Well, I'll be bidding thee good-day, Jonas," said the Sexton, turning down to the shed. "I mun put th' broom away, for I doan't like to see more tools about a kirkyard nor need be; an' then I'll turn up a two-three worms for th' robin. He allus looks on at a burying, does redbreast, an' I like to think he'll be well lined i' th' innards—it makes a burying more pleasurable, like."
Jonas, after nodding a farewell to the Sexton, sauntered down to his tavern, his hands in his pockets, as if there were ample time for everything in this world; and, though he would bestir the maids presently with a rough hand and a rougher tongue, he saw no cause to hurry.
"Hast been to hev a look at th' vault, Jonas?" said a farmer from over Wildwater way, who was just going in for a mug of ale as the landlord entered.
"Ay. All's ship-shape, an' as neat as a basket of eggs. We shall see a big stir, I reckon."
"A bigger stir nor ye think for, mebbe," said the other. "What dost mean, lad?"
"Nay, I can't rightly say—only that when I war crossing th' moor ower by Wildwater a while back, I see'd a band o' Ryecollar Ratcliffes come riding up to th' Lean Man's door. Their sword-belts were noan empty, awther, an' they war laughing."
"Laughing, war they? There's a saying that when a Ratcliffe laughs, there'll be wark for th' Sexton. How mony strong wod they be, like?"
"Six or seven, so far as I could reckon 'em up."
"Ay, it looks bad—it looks bad, an' I'm noan for denying it. Owd Witherlee war cracking o' summat o' th' sort, too, not mony minutes sin'. Well, there's none i' th' moorside but what wishes well to th' Waynes, if it come to a tussle—though I wodn't hev th' Lean Man hear me say 't."
The folk were gathering meanwhile in the graveyard. Some came in by the gate at the village end, others by the wicket that opened on the moor. All wore the air of sober merriment which a burying never fails to bring to the faces of the moor-folk; all clustered about the vault, and chattered like so many magpies, and turned to ask Sexton Witherlee, when he came from feeding his robin, a hundred silly questions as to the disposal of the coffins. These were holiday times for the moorside, and their real sorrow for the sturdy, upright master of Marsh House served only to add a more subtle edge to their enjoyment.
They were festivals for Witherlee likewise; and, though the Sexton held that pride became no man, seeing what he must come to in the end, he always bore himself more youthfully at a burial and looked his fellow-men more squarely in the face. This was his workshop, and it pleased him that his lustier fellows, who were proud of their skill at farming or joinering or the like, should see that he, too, man of dreams as he was, could show a deft hand at his trade.
Gossip grew rife as the knot of sight-seers increased. One would tell a tale of the old days when Waynes and Ratcliffes fought at every cross-road, and another would cap the narrative with one more fearsome. The women talked of the good deeds that Wayne of Marsh had done, of the tidy bit o' brass his coffin had cost, of the mad pranks that Shameless Wayne had played in times past. The children played hide-and-seek among the graves, or crept to the vault-edge and peered down in awed expectation, awaiting they knew not what of such terrors as their mothers had taught them to associate with the dead. The grown lasses came with lavender in their aprons, and sprinkled the vault-floor with the lovesome herb, and sent up a prayer to the unknown and dreadful God who dwelt amid the peat-wastes and the bogs—a prayer that they might escape this last close prison until wedlock had given them bairns, lest the curse of the women who were buried with empty breasts should light on them.
"Th' corpse is coming!" some one cried on the sudden.
The chatter ceased, and all eyes sought the yew-shadowed turning of the pathway. Shameless Wayne, his cousin Rolf and two others carried the coffin at shoulder height. In front walked the Parson, his white hair ruffled by the breeze; behind them followed a score of kinsmen, the Long Waynes of Cranshaw over-topping all the others by a head; and behind these again walked a line of farm-men and of women-servants.
"Good sakes, they've getten swords an' pistols!" muttered one of the onlookers, as the crowd made a clear lane to the kirk-porch.
"By th' Heart, who iver heard tell o' folk coming armed to a burying!" cried another. "There mun be summat more going forrard nor we've ony notion on. Look at Shameless Wayne! God keep me an' mine fro' seeing sich mortal anguish i' a lad's face again! He looks fair mad wi' grief."
"He's getten cause. Hast noan heard that he war droughen while Nanny Witherlee war ringing for his father? Nay, he's a slow-to-blush un, an' proper, an' I wonder he's getten grace enough to come sober to th' grave.—Stand back, childer! Willun't ye be telled? Or mun ye bide i' th' gate till they bury ye wi' th' coffin?"
The children shrank back, curiosity killed by fright, and the bearers moved slowly up the path until the grey church hid them. Tongues were loosened again, and Jonas Feather, coming up with the information he had gleaned from the farmer from Wildwater way, was beset by a clamorous knot of folk.
"Ay, I war sure there war summat out o' th' ordinary—see'd th Ryecollar Ratcliffes crossing th' moor, tha says, Jonas?—Well, I mind th' owd days, but there war nowt so outrageous as this shows like to be—theer, hod thy whisht! They're coming fro' th' kirk."
Again a lane was formed, from the porch to the vault where Sexton Witherlee was waiting with his ropes. The wind was at peace, and its soft stir among the budding leaves mingled with song of redbreast and love-pipe of the throstles. A faint odour of lavender crept upward from the vault, suggesting quiet and fragrant hopes for better days to come. Yet the hush that settled over the watching crowd had little rest in it, and it was plain by their laboured breathing, as the coffin was lowered by the creaking ropes, that none looked for a peaceful end to a burial that counted sword and pistol as mourners.
Amongst his kin, grouped thirty strong about the vault with set faces and hands on sword-hilts, Shameless Wayne stood noticeable; for his head was bent and the tears streamed down his cheeks unheeded. Not until now had the lad reckoned the full total of his past misdoings, nor known how shame can eat the manhood out of bravery.
"Dust to dust, ashes to ashes," said the Parson, in the ringing voice that seemed a challenge to grim Death himself.
But another than Death took up the challenge. Swift out of the moor a cry of "Ratcliffe, Ratcliffe!" answered him, and the crowd gave back on the sudden, leaving the thirty-and-one Waynes to turn face about, whipping their swords free of the scabbards. Down through the wicket-gate trooped a score of Ratcliffes, yelling their name-cry as they came. A moment they halted, for they had looked to find the Waynes unarmed; but the Lean Man cursed them forward.
Shameless Wayne looked up at the first cry; his pale face went ruddy, his eyes lit up. It was a welcome intrusion, this, on the sour trend of his thoughts, and he, who had shown most womanish among them, was now the leader of them all.
"A Wayne! In at them, lads! A Wayne, a Wayne!" he called, and leaped at the Lean Man, and sliced his left ear level with the cheek.
Old Nicholas groaned with pain, then forced a laugh and lifted his big two-handled sword above the head of Wayne of Marsh. But the Waynes came pushing upward from behind, and their leader was thrust against a gravestone on the left hand of the path, while a kinsman took the Lean Man's blow on his own uplifted blade. And after that Wayne mixed with Ratcliffe, and Ratcliffe closed with Wayne, all up and down between the graves, till there was no grass-green footway 'twixt the headstones but was rubbed black under the shifting feet of swordsmen. The crowd fell back for fear, or moved a few steps forward for awe according as the fight swept toward them or away. One against one, or one against two, it was, from the church porch to the field-wall, from the moor-wicket to the Bull; there was no space for a massed fight, and each man sought his special foe and followed him in and out until church-wall, or upreared cross, or spiked hedge of thorn, stopped pursuer and pursued and left no issue but the sword.
Sexton Witherlee found his youth again as he stood just under shelter of the porch, and watched, and rubbed his shrivelled hands together. The old stuff worked in him, and he, who had seen Wayne fight with Ratcliffe more than once, thanked God that the sweetest moil of all had been kept to lighten his last steps to the grave. His eyes went from group to group, from thrust to nimble parry, until the kirkyard held naught for him save the dancing shimmer of grey steel. The cries redoubled, and "Ratcliffe" went in the teeth of "Wayne" all down the pathway of the breeze; yet the Sexton knew, from the snarl that underlay each Ratcliffe voice, from the crisp fury of the Wayne-cry, that the Wildwater folk were going down like windle-straws before their foes. The Ratcliffes took to their pistols then, and hid behind gravestones, and sent red streaks of flame across the mist of whirling steel; but they had no time to reload, and hurry steered their bullets for the most part amiss, and the Waynes, disdaining powder at all times, hunted them from their cover like rats from out a barley-mow. Above all shouts, of onset or of mortal anguish, a lad's voice struck clear into the blue belly of the sky.
"No quarter, Waynes! In at them, and rip from heel to crown!"
Sexton Witherlee moved forward from his porch. "Yond war Shameless Wayne's voice. God, but he's getten th' fighting-fever as hot as iver I see'd a man tak it. Th' Lean Man 'ull carry a sore head back to Wildwater, I'm thinking—if he's spared.—There th' lad is! Sakes, but he's getten his hands as full as they'll hod, an' no mistak!" he broke off, straining his eyes toward the half-filled strip of graveyard beneath the Parsonage which he was wont to call his "bit o' garden." But Nicholas Ratcliffe was ever prudent in his hottest fury, and he saw that the fight was all against his folk. The long night of anguish was over for Wayne's son of Marsh, and the rebound from it had filled his veins with something more like the light fires that played across the boglands than with slow-moving blood; his pace was the wind's pace, and the fury of his onset put life into the sword-arms of each Wayne that heard his lusty battle-cry. Back and further back the Ratcliffes shrank, till the Lean Man's voice was heard, bidding them retreat fighting to the moor-gate and then escape as best they could.
"No quarter!" came Shameless Wayne's trumpet-note, as he chased them to the nearest wicket.
But pursuit could go no further, for the pursuers were all on foot and a moment saw the Ratcliffes mounted on the horses which they had tethered to the graveyard hedge. Shameless Wayne plucked out his pistol then, and laughed as a yell from one of the retreating redheads followed his quick pulling of the trigger. Then he turned back sharply, for the sound of running feet came up the path; re-entering by the wicket, he was met full by three Ratcliffes, left behind by their fellows in the wild rush for safety.
Wayne never halted, but drove down on them, his sword uplifted; and they, three to one, fell back in panic almost on to the points of the upcoming Waynes.
"Hold off! They're mine," cried Shameless Wayne, waving his folk aside.
Up and down he chased them, and up and down they ran, doubling behind gravestones or running hare-footed across open ground; for this lad, whom they had laughed at as a drunkard and a fool, seemed godlike in his fury. The Waynes held every outlet, and all watched the grim chase silently. And then Shameless Wayne's opportunity came; the three were running altogether now, and one tripped up the other, and Wayne was scarce a sword's length from them.
"I have them—" he began, and lifted his right arm.
But the open vault yawned under them before their brute terror showed where this second danger lay. They reeled at the edge and half recovered, then dropped to the paved floor beneath, where the coffin lay where Witherlee had dropped it at the first onset.
Shameless Wayne, mad with the swift onset and the crash of blows, stood laughing at the edge and beckoned to two of his folk. "Roof them over, and let them rot there," he cried, kicking the ringed vault-stone with his foot.
The crowd shrank back, and even his own people were affrighted by the wild command. None knew—none guessed, save Sexton Witherlee, watching from the porch—what fury of despair, and shame, and bitterness, had gone to the making of this brute mood of the lad's. Nor was he in case to wonder at himself; for the one moment he wished naught in heaven or earth save to see the flat stone ring down on those who would have done honest men to death by treachery.
"Why do ye draw back, ye fools?" he cried. "Is it a time for maidishness, or do ye want——"
"Stay, lad! Thou'lt think better of it in a while," said Rolf Wayne of Cranshaw, touching him on the shoulder.
While he halted, glowering from his folk to the stone, and from the stone to the Ratcliffes who lay, maimed and dumb with terror, over his father's coffin, a frail little body, robed all in white, stepped quietly to his side.
"'Tis my wedding-day, Ned," she said piteously, "and all the folk have come to mock at me, pretending 'tis a burial. What art doing here? Surely thou'lt come to church and help me find my lover there. Thou hast ever been kind to me when others mocked."
Shameless Wayne was silent for a space; and then, he knew not why, his mood swung round, and grief rushed thick to eyes and throat. He took the shivering woman by the hand, and turned, and led her down the path. "Come home, little bairn; 'tis over late to see thee wed to-day, but by and by we'll see to it," he said.
She went with him quietly, her face brightening as she clung close to his arm. And all the folk crossed themselves, and held their peace, and watched the strange pair go out at the churchyard gate.
"What's to be done with these?" said Wayne of Cranshaw, after a long silence, pointing to the vault.
"They shall not foul a Wayne vault, at any rate," said a kinsman. "Poor hounds! See how they tremble—they're scarce worth the killing. Up with them, lads, and if they can stand at all, we'll set them free to cross to Wildwater."
"Ay, I warrant ye will," murmured Sexton Witherlee, who had moved to the grave-side. "But would the Ratcliffes have done the like to ye in such a case?—Well—pity comes wi' gooid breeding, I reckon, an' 'tis noan for us poorer sort to teach ye better—but these three may live to plague ye yet."
All were gone at last—all save Parson and Sexton, who stood and looked, one at the other first, and afterward across the kirkyard. The sun was silver under grey rain-clouds now; a wet drift of mist came with the westward wind; no throstle sang, but the peewits came wheeling, wheeling, crying, crying, from across the moor, and far up above a sentinel vulture flapped wings and watched the unburied dead who lay with their faces to the rain.
The Sexton had been round the graveyard once again. His battle-glee had left him, and a soft light was in his face as he leaned against a headstone and watched the Parson, who stood as he had left him, his head bent in prayer.
"'Tis a drear day's work, Witherlee," said the Parson, lifting his eyes at last.
"A drear day's wark, Parson—but sweet as honey while it lasted. Praise God there's nobbut one Wayne killed—one o' th' Hill House lot, he is, an' he ligs up by th' wicket yonder. An' praise God, says I, 'at there'll three Ratcliffes niver trouble Marshcotes wi' their tricks again; one of 'em is stretched at th' wall-side there, an' another under th' Parsonage.—I see'd th' stroke that cleft yond last—cleft him fair like a hazel-nut."
The Parson eyed his Sexton gravely, and would have spoken; but Witherlee's soft-moving voice crossed his own before the first word was well out.
"Now, Parson, I can see by th' face on ye that ye wod liefer I read a sarmon nor a frolic i' all this; an' so I do, when I can frame to gi'e my mind to 't. 'Tis noan th' bloodshed itseln 'at pleasures me—for I'm soft wi' pity when I come to see 'em lying cold—but th' blows, Parson! Th' swing o' well-fed thews, an' th' dancing flicker o' live steel, an' a man standing up to death wi' belly-deep laughter i' his throat! I may be wrang, mind ye—there's few as isn't time an' time—but I wod gi'e five years o' life to watch this moil all ower again, and to see Shameless Wayne show how the old breed strikes."
"Vanity, Witherlee—all is vanity, save prayer, and chastening of man's pride. Hast pity for the dead, thou say'st? Ay, but that should sober thy zest in what went before."
"Yet th' pity is war nor t' other, being foolish altogether," said the Sexton reflectively, "for I allus did say 'at there's greener grass, an' sweeter, grows ower a dead man's grave nor under his living feet. But there's a winding-sheet for all, so we munnot complain."
"Soften thy heart, for God's mercy's sake, before the end overtakes thee. Art hard, Witherlee, hard, with never a hope beyond the grave."
"We'll noan' fratch, Parson," said Witherlee slowly. "Ye've learned all fro' Heaven and Hell; but I've learned fro' gooid, strong soil—what me an' ye came fro', an' what we mun go back to i' th' end. It sticks, does kneaded earth, an' when ye've lived husband-to-wife wi' 't i' a manner o' speaking, ye get to look no forrarder."
The Parson sighed. It was but an old argument with a drear new setting. "Earth holds earth—but it cannot hold the soul," he said, wearily a little, and as if foredoomed to plead in vain.
"That's as may be," said Witherlee, in the low, even voice that had likewise been taught him by his trade. "I niver hed no dealings, so to say, wi' th' soul; I've knawn buryings but no risings—save when th' ghosties stir up an' down among th' graves, as they will do time an' time. An' th' ghosts 'ud seem to hev won no further off nor Marshcotes kirkyard."
"Art full of vain superstition, Witherlee. The soul thou doubtest; but ghosts, in which no God-fearing man need believe——"
"Theer!" said Witherlee patiently. "I allus said there niver wod be any sort of argreement 'twixt me an' ye, though we jog on together. Ye live nigh th' kirkyard, Parson, but ye doan't liveinit, as I've done—ye hevn't learned th'feelof a graveyard, or ye'd niver say nay to th' soft-footed ghosties. Why, only last back-end, I mind, I see'd——"
The Parson shivered. "I am sick, Witherlee, with all that has chanced, and my knees are weak under me. I will bid thee good-day, and wish thee a softer heart," he said, moving up the pathway.
"Good-day to ye, Parson. I fear I'm ower owd to mend—but I trust ye'll be no war for this day's moil."
The Sexton watched him go, a weak and bent old figure, until the Parsonage gate closed behind him. Then he sat him down, and filled a pipe, and forgot to feel for his tinder-box as the memories of the day came back to him. The rain was dropping, and the wind was gathering chill.
"Begow, 'tis still an' lonesome, at after all th' racket," he murmured. "Poor Parson! He wodn't gladden a pulse-beat, I'll warrant, if all th' lads i' Marshcotes fell to fighting. Well, there's men like that, just as there's men 'at cannot stomach honest liquor—an' Lord help both sorts, say I.—Well, I mun mak th' most o' th' quiet, for they'll come for yond bodies by an' by.—By th' Heart, how Shameless Wayne cut an' hacked! He'll be a long thorn an' a sharp i' Nicholas Ratcliffe's side, will th' lad. Eh' how he clipped th' Lean Man's ear! God rest him!"
CHAPTER IX
A MOORSIDE COURTSHIP
The last week of March had seen rain, snow and hail; had felt the wind shift from brisk North to snarling Southeast, and from warm, rain-weighted South to an Easterly gale such as nipped the veins in a man's body and daunted the over-hasty green of elderberry and lifted the wet from ploughed fields as speedily as if a July sun had scorched them. From day to day—nay from hour to hour—the farm men had not known whether they would shiver at the hardest work or sweat with the easiest; the moist, untimely heat of one day would plant rheumatism snugly in their joints, and the bitter coldness of the next would weld it in. Nature was dead at heart, it seemed, and whether she showed a dry eye or a tearful, her face wore the dull greyness of despair, as if her thews were too stiffened and too lean with age to rouse themselves for the old labour of bringing buds to leaf, and kine to calving.
And now on a sudden all was changed. The wind blew honest from the West, and even in shadowed corners it kept no knife in waiting for man and beast. The sun shone splendid out of a white-flecked, pearly sky. In the lower lands, blackbird and thrush, starling and wren and linnet, broke into one mighty chorus; and on the moors the grouse called less complainingly one to the other, the larks were boisterous, the eagles showed braver plumage to the sun, the very moor-tits added a twittering sort of gaiety to the day. A lusty, upstanding, joyous day, which brought old folk to their doors, to ask each other if there were not some churlish sport of March hid under all this bravery—which set the youngsters thinking of their sweethearts, and brought the sheep to lambing in many an upland pasture scarce free'd of winter snow.
But the Lean Man had no eye for the beauty of the day, as he rode through Marshcotes street with Robert, his eldest-born, on the bridle-hand of him. For old Nicholas was thinking how Shameless Wayne, the lad whom he had laughed at and despised, had lately driven the Ratcliffes to hopeless flight. Both horsemen were fully armed, with swords on thigh and pistols in their holsters; and, as they rode, they kept a sharp regard to right and left, lest any of the Waynes should be hidden in ambush. Time and time the Lean Man clapped a hand to his left ear, as if by habit, and his face was no good sight to see as he felt the rounded lump which marked where Wayne's sword-cut—a fortnight old by now—was healing tardily.
"Could we but meet the lad alone in Marshcotes street here," he muttered to his eldest-born.
"Ay, but fortune is no friend to us just now," growled Robert; "and there are those who say he'd match the two of us."
"There are those who say that hawks breed cuckoos. Art thou weakening, Robert, too, because he has won the first poor skirmish?"
"Not I. If I find him in the road, I'll have at him—but meanwhile I am free to think my own thoughts."
"Well, and what are thy thoughts, sirrah?"
"That there's witchery in his sword-arm. I saw him fight in the graveyard, and he was something 'twixt man and devil; ay, he fought as if he had the cursed Dog of Marsh to back him."
The Lean Man gave a laugh—a laugh with little surety in it. "Thou'rt a maid, Robert, to fall soft at such a baby-tale as that," he sneered.
"Yet you have heard of the Dog, sir, and now and then you own to a half belief in him," said Robert, meeting the other's glance fairly. "We have had proof of it aforetime, and—see the woman yonder," he broke off, "moving at us from the corner of the lane. What ails her?"
They had passed the Bull tavern and were nearing the spot where the lane that led to Witherlee's cottage ran into the Ling Crag highway. The Lean Man turning his head impatiently as Robert spoke and following the direction of his finger, saw that the Sexton's wife was standing at the roadside. Nanny was looking through and through him, and the smile on her dry old lips was scarcely one of welcome. At another time Nicholas would have paid no heed to her; but to-day a small thing had power to touch his spleen, and he pulled up sharp in the middle of the roadway.
"I'm called Nicholas Ratcliffe, woman, as perchance thou hast forgotten," he said, leaning toward her and half lifting his hairy fist; "and when I see folk mocking me, I am prone to ask them why."
"When I mock ye, Maister, ye're free to strike me, an' not afore," answered Nanny. Her tone was quiet almost to contemptuousness; and the smile that had lately rested on her lips was hiding now behind her shrewd black eyes.
Nicholas looked at her, a touch of approval in his glance; accustomed as he was to browbeat all who met him, this dried-up little body's unconcern in face of threats half tickled and half angered him.
"Hark to her, Robert!" he cried. "Free to strike her, am I? Gad, yes, and with no permission asked, I warrant!"
"An' as for mocking ye," went on Nanny, disregarding his interruption, "what need hev I to step 'twixt ye an' Barguest?"
The Lean Man was accounted hardier than most; yet he started at Nanny's mention of the Dog, following so abruptly on Robert's talk of a moment ago. "Barguest. What has he to do with me?" he cried.
"What hed he to do wi' your folk i' times past? Enough an' to spare, I should reckon. Do ye forget, Nicholas Ratcliffe, how one o' your breed crossed Barguest once on t' threshold of Marsh House? Do ye mind what chanced to him at after?"
Nanny's quiet assurance had in it a quality that daunted the Lean Man. Had she grown fiery in denunciation of his sins toward the Waynes—as in her hotter moments she was wont to do—had she drawn wild pictures of the doom awaiting those who crossed the Dog, Nicholas would have knocked her to the roadway and passed on. But her faith was unwavering; she had no doubt at all that the Lean Man had compassed his own end, and voice and gesture both were such as to convince a man against his will.
He stared at her, a growing terror in his face. "'Tis an old tale, woman, and one we scarce credit nowadays," he stammered.—"Robert, tell her she's a fool—a rank, stark-witted fool—and I a bigger fool to hearken to her."
But Robert was in no case to bolster up his father's dreads. He turned to Nanny sharply. "Where does all this carry us?" he said. "Dost thou mean that one of us has lately crossed the Dog?"
"Ay, marry. What else should I mean?" said the little old woman.
"'Tis a child's tale—a child's tale, I say," broke in Nicholas.
"Well, ye shall try the truth of it by an' by—for ye crossed th' Dog, Nicholas Ratcliffe, when ye came down to nail your token to th' Marsh doorway. I war watching by th' dead man, an' I heard Barguest come whimper-whimper down th' lane; an' then he scratted like a wild thing at th' panels; an' after that he ligged him down on the door-stun."
Nanny paused a moment, watching how the Lean Man took it.
"Ay, and then?" said Nicholas. He would fain have sounded merry, but his voice came dry and harsh.
"Then a man came riding up o' horseback, an' leaped to ground, an' reached ower th' Brown Dog to nail a man's hand to th' door. An'yewar th' horseman, Nicholas Ratcliffe."
Once only the Lean Man glanced at her; then set spurs to his great bay horse and clattered up the street, his son following close behind. At the end of half-a-mile they slackened pace, as if by joint consent; but neither sought the other's eyes.
"What ails thee, fool?" said Nicholas to his eldest-born.
"Naught, sir—'twas not I who fled from a crook-backed beldame," sneered the other.
The Lean Man turned on him, glad of an excuse for bluster. "Thou dar'st to say I fled?" he cried. "Thou, who wast sucking at the breast while I grew old in fight?—There, lad! 'Twas a madness in the blood that fell on us just now. What's Barguest that he should spoil a bonnie plan? Are we not sending Wayne to his last home to-night?"
"We have planned as much," said Robert slowly, "but——"
"Ay, but—and 'but' again in thy teeth. We have him, I tell thee—Red Ratcliffe should be somewhere hereabouts by now, learning what I have sent him out to learn."
"We can learn all that, and yet not use the knowledge right," said Robert sullenly. Even yet he could see Nanny's face, could hear her voice, and he was angered by the fear they bred in him.
"That's as may be," said Nicholas grimly—"but if he brings the news I think he will the devil keep young Wayne of Marsh, for he'll need some such sort of aid.—Who is yond lubberly farm-hind, climbing up the wall this side the road? His slouch is woundily familiar." Like his son, the Lean Man had felt the sting of Nanny's words, though he was minded to make light of it; and no better proof of his humour was needed than the quick ill-tempered eye he had for trifles.
"It looks like Hiram Hey—one of Wayne's folk, and a pesty fellow with his tongue. We've found him more than once cutting peats from the Wildwater land, and more than once we've fallen foul of him."
"Have ye?" said Nicholas quietly. "Well, he did us a service there, may be; and the more peats they coane at Marsh, the better 'twill be for us to-night.—Come, lad; 'tis gallop now, and a truce to that old wife's foolery."
Hiram Hey, meanwhile, was going his leisurely way, glancing curiously at the Lean Man as he went by, but not guessing that he was furnishing him with food for talk. He slouched along the pasture-fields stopping at every other step to watch the sport of heifers, to note a broken piece of walling, or to berate some luckless farm-lad whom he found at play.
"I wodn't call it a fair day, for we've not done wi' 't yet," he murmured. "Nay, I wodn't call it a fair day, an' that's Gospel, till I see how it behaves itseln. We mud varry weel hev snow afore it wears to neet, or else thunner—or both, likely."
He leaned over a three-barred gate and eyed the long furrows climbing to the hill-crest—sleek furrows, with dust lying grey on the sun-side of the upturned sods. And while he lazied there, a milking-song came clear and crisp from over the wall that hid the High meadow from him.
"That's Martha," he cried, brightening on the sudden. "She sings like ony bird, does th' lass. What should she be doing, I wonder, so far fro' Marsh on a working-day?"
His step had an unwonted briskness in it, his carriage was almost jaunty, as he moved along the wall-side to the stile at the corner. A milk-pail was showing now above the top step of the stile, with a cherry-ripe face and trim, short skirted figure under it. Martha halted on seeing Hiram Hey, and set two round, brown arms to the pail, and lifted it down to the wall; then leaned with one hand on it while she dropped a saucy curtsey.
"It's warm," ventured Hiram, picking up a stone from the grass and throwing it aside.
"Warm? I should reckon it is. Tha'd say so if tha'd carried this pail a-top o' thy head for a mile an' better.—But, Lord, we munnot complain, for 'tis a day i' five-score, this, an' warm as midsummer."
"Thee bide a bittock, as I telled young Maister this morn. 'Spring's come again, Hiram,' says he to me. 'Mebbe,' says I, 'but when a man's lived to my years he learns to believe owt o' th' weather—save gooid sense.' That's what I said, for sure."
"Tha'rt not so thrang as or'nary, seemingly?" said Martha, after a pause.
Hiram glanced at her, as if suspecting mockery. "Nay, I'm allus thrang," he answered, shaking his head in mournful fashion. "I've heard folk say I do nowt just because they've seen me hands-i'-pocket time an' time; but when ye're maister-hand at a farm, there's head-work to be done as weel as body-work."
"To be sure—an' 'tis fearful hard, is head-work."
"Ay, I oft say to shepherd Jose that th' humbler your station i' this life, th' fewer frets ye hev."
"I feel fair pitiful for thee, Hiram," said Martha, glancing softly at him across the pail, "when I see what worries tha hes to put up wi'."
Hiram came a step nearer. "Tha mud weel pity me, lass. 'Tis grand to be sich chaps as Jose—all body, i' a way o' speaking, an' no head-piece worth naming to come 'twixt victuals an' their appetites.—Martha, lass, I've oft wondered how tha came to be born a wench."
"Would'st hev hed me born a lad?"
"Nay, begow! but tha's getten so mich sense; that's what I mean. It fair caps me—as if I'd fund apples growing on a thistle-top."
Martha had a keen answer on her tongue-tip, but she held it back; for the lads were beginning to pass her by, and it was time she had a goodman. "It's a lot for thee to say, Hiram, is that," she murmured, dropping her eyes. "I iver thowt there war maid i' Marshcotes could come nigh to whatthalooks for i' a wench."
"Nor I nawther," said Hiram gravely. "I've said to myseln time an' agen that if I war to keep good company till th' end o' my days, I'd hev to live wi' myseln."
"It wod take a good un to be mate to thee."
Hiram half lifted his foot to the bottom step of the stile, then withdrew it. "Go slow, lad," he murmured. "If tha taks it at this flairsome speed, where wilt be by to-morn?"
"I wod tak a varry good un," repeated Martha.
But Hiram had taken fright on the sudden. "I seed th' Lean Man go through Marshcotes a while back," he said, with would-be carelessness.
"Oh, ay? Th' Ratcliffes seem to be up an' about this morn, for I passed Red Ratcliffe i' th' meadow not five minites sin'. Sakes, but he's an ill-favoured un, is Red Ratcliffe! He war for gi'eing me a kiss an' a hug just now, but I let him feel th' wrong side o' my hand i'stead.—An' what did th' Lean Man look like, Hiram, after his fighting o' t' other day?"
"Nay, I niver stopped to axe; but I noticed he looked queerish where he took yond sword-cut a two-week come yesterday. I'm none for praising th' young Maister, not I, seeing he's shameless by name an' shameless by natur—but I take it kindly of him that he sliced th' Lean Man's ear off clean as a tummit-top. There's none i' th' moorside but wishes his head had followed."
"Now whisht, Hiram!" cried Martha. "It's a two-week come yesterday sin' they fought i' th' kirkyard, but I'm sick yet wheniver I call to mind how they came home to Marsh that morn. Th' burial-board war all spread, an' I war agate wi' drawing a jug of October when Nanny Witherlee comes running into th' pantry, as white as a hailstone, an' 'Martha,' say she, 'there'll be a sorry mess on th' hall-floor—an' us to have spent so mich beeswax on't,' says she. 'Why, what's agate?' I says. 'Th' Waynes is back for th' burying-feast,' says Nanny, 'an' they've brought some gaping wounds, my sakes, to sit at meat wi' 'em.'"
"I warrant they did," assented Hiram, "for I see'd 'em myseln."
"Well, I runs a-tip-toe then to th' hall door, an' I screamed out to see th' Waynes standing there. A score or so there mud be, all drinking as if they'd sweated like brocks at grasscutting; an' there war a queer silence among 'em; an' some war binding arms an' legs, an' th' floor, I tell thee, war more slippy under a body's feet nor ony beeswax warranted."
"Th' Maister went through it without a scratch, for all that, though they say he fought twice for ivery one o' t' others. Ay, his father war like that when th' owd quarrel war agate—allus i' th' front, yet niver taking so mich as a skin-prick till th' time came for him to dee."
"How long ago war that, Hiram? I've heard tell o' th' owd feud, but it mun hev been a long while back."
"Longer nor ye can call to mind, lass. 'Twas a sight o' years back, afore tha wert born or thought of."
Another soft glance from Martha. "I shouldn't hev thoughttha'dhev remembered it so weel, Hiram," she murmured. "Tha talks as if tha wert owd enough to be a girt-grandfather to sich a little un as me."
Hiram saw his error. "Nay, I'm youngish still, Martha," he put in hastily, with a tell-tale pulling of his hat over the widening patch of forehead that showed beneath the brim. "'Tis hard thinking that thins a body's thatch, an' when I call to mind what a power o' sense I've learned sin' being a lad, I wonder I'm not as bald as a moor-tit's egg. Well, tha mud find younger men nor me, but——"
"I set no store by youngness, Hiram. I allus did say a wise head war th' best thing a man could hev."
"Begow, but tha'rt a shrewd un, Martha, as weel as a bonnie un!" cried Hiram, and checked himself. "Yond's a tidy slice o' land," he said, nodding at the dusty furrows in front of them.
But Martha knew her own mind. "I'd liefer talk about thee, Hiram, that I wod," she said. "Land's theer ony day we want to look at it!"
"Well, now, there's summat i' that," he answered, with a shade of uneasiness in his voice. "Where hast been, like, for th' milk, lass? 'Tisn't every day I find thee stirring so far fro' Marsh."
"I've been to th' High Farm, for sure. What wi' milk for th' new-weaned calves, an' for churning, an' what not, we shouldn't hev hed a sup i' th' house down at Marsh if I hadn't come a-borrowing."
"There's waste somewhere, I'm thinking," said Hiram sadly. "Th' roan cow war niver fuller i' milk nor now, an' yond little dappled beast I bought off Tom o' Dick's o' Windytop is yielding grandly. Nay, nay, there's waste at Marsh! I said how 'twould be when young Maister took hod o' th' reins."
"Waste, is there? I'd like thee to hev a week or two at managing, Hiram; tha'd see how far a score quarts o' milk 'ull go, wi' four growing lads an' th' Maister, an' all ye lubbering farm-folk to feed. But theer! Men niver can thoyle to see owt go i' housekeeping; an' I'll be bidding thee good-day, Hiram, as tha's getten no likelier sort o' talk nor that."
She made pretence to lift her pail from the top of the stile, and Hiram so far forgot his caution as to put a hand on her dimpled arm.
"Sakes, lass, I wodn't hev thee go!" he cried.
"Then don't thee talk about waste and sich-like foolishness; I thowt tha'd more sense, Hiram, that I did. Nawther is young Maister what tha thinks him, let me tell thee; he's stiffening like a good un an' there's them as says he's getten th' whip-hand o' Hiram Hey already."
"Stiffening, is he?" cried Hiram, whom the jibe stung more keenly because he could not but admit the truth of it. "Well, there's room an' to spare, for he hes as slack a back as iver I clapped een on. But if tha thinks he can best Hiram Hey, Sunday or week-day——"
He stopped and shaded his eyes with both hands as he looked more keenly up the fields. Two figures had topped the crest—one a girl's, the other a man's, loose-built and of a swinging carriage.
"Nay,Iniver said I thowt as mich," said Martha demurely, not heeding the direction of Hiram's glance. "'Twas shepherd Jose said it yestereen when he stepped down to th' house wi' th' week's lamb."
"What, Jose!" cried the other, with an angry cackle. "He niver had a mind aboon sheep, hedn't Jose, an' sheep is poor wastrels when all's said. So tha lets an owd chap like yond come whispering i' thy ear, dost 'a, Martha?"
"An' who's to say nay to me, I should like to know?" Her voice was combative, but she leaned a little toward Hiram as she spoke, and he all but took the last dire step of all.
Very foolish showed Hiram, as he stood looking at the maid, with caution in one eye and in the other a frank admiration of the comeliness which showed so wholesome and so fresh amid the greenery of field and hedgerow. And all the while he was murmuring, "Go slow, lad, go slow, I tell thee," and his lips were moving shiftlessly to the refrain.
"Thou'rt tongue-tied, Hiram. Who's to say nay to me, I axed thee?" laughed Martha.
Hiram rocked the milk pail gently with one hand, and stared up the new-ploughed furrows of the field ahead of him. "Thy own good sense, lass, should say thee nay," he answered guardedly. "Them as tends sheep, an' nowt but sheep, gets witless as an owd bell-wether; an' if I war a lass I'd as lief wed a turnip on a besom-stick as shepherd Jose."
"If tha wert a lass, Hiram, tha'd die i' spinsterhood, I'm thinking."
Martha's attack was spirited, but she sighed a little as she noted Hiram's far-away regard; his thoughts were with the land, she fancied, when she fain would have brought them nearer home. Yet, as it chanced Hiram Hey was not thinking of farm-matters at the moment; Martha had her back to the ploughed field, and she could not see that the two figures which had lately topped the rise were coming down the field-side toward the stile. And it was plain now to Hiram that one was Janet Ratcliffe, the other Wayne of Marsh.
"It's queer, is th' way o' things," said Martha presently, loth to go her ways, yet too impatient and too womanly to stand there with no word spoken.
"Oh, ay? Well, things war niver owt but queer," answered Hiram, startled out of his abstraction.
"I war thinking o' th' bloody fight i' th' kirkyard. No more nor a two-week back it war, Hiram, an' here we all are, cooking an' weshing an' churning i' th' owd way, when we'd looked for fearsome doings all up an' down th' moorside."
"A wench would look for 'em; but I could hev telled thee different if tha'd axed me," said Hiram complacently. "Look at yond puffs o' dust that come ivery two-three minutes over th' furrows—dost think even Shameless Wayne could let a seed-time sich as this go by, while he war agate wi' fighting? Nay, nor th' Ratcliffes nawther. We mun all live by th' land, gentle an' simple, an' afore awther Wayne or Ratcliffes can afford to marlake, they'll hev to addle belly-timber."
"There'll nowt o' more come on 't then? Th' Lean Man has been fearful quiet of late, an' there's them as thinks th' fight i' th' graveyard has daunted him for good an' all."
"Daunted him, has it?" rejoined Hiram grimly. "Thee bide till th' oats is sown, an' th' hay won in, an' then tha'll see summat. Th' Lean Man is quiet like, tha says? Well, I've known him quiet afore, an' I've known him busy—an' of th' two I'd liefer see him thrang."
"Tha'r a good un to flair folk, Hiram! Why would'st liefer see him thrang?"
"Why? Because when a Ratcliffe says nowt to nobody, but wends abroad wi' a smug face an' watchful een, same as I've seen 'em do lately, ye may be varry sure he's fashioning slier devil's tricks nor iver.—Red Ratcliffe met thee just now, did he, Martha?"
"I telled thee as mich—he warn't so slow as some folk, Hiram, for he'd no sooner clapped een on me nor he had an arm about my waist."
Again Hiram wavered, and again whispered caution to himself. "He showed some mak o' sense there, Martha—but that's not what I war axing thee. What war he doing, like, when tha first comed up wi' him?"
"Nowt, nobbut mooning up an' down, as if i' search o' somebody."
"Well, he war on Wayne land to start wi', an' that wears a queerish look."
"Sakes, young Maister is nowhere near, I'm hoping!" cried Martha. "Red Ratcliffe carried his pistols, an' a shot from behind a wall wod suit him better nor a stand-up fight."
She still had her back to the ploughed field, and Hiram smiled in sour fashion to think how very near the master was, and what company he was keeping at the moment.
"Thou'rt fearful jealous for th' young Maister," he said. "I'm thinking there's truth i' what they say i' Marshcotes—that Shameless Wayne allus gets th' soft side of a maid."
"An' should do, seeing he's what he is!"
"Well, I wodn't be a bit surprised if hewari' th' fields this morn. He's farmed for a week, hes th' Maister, an' he knows so mich about it now that he mun be here, theer an' iverywhere, watching that us younger hands do matters right."
"Tha can mock as tha likes, Hiram Hey, but he'll teach thee summat afore he's done wi' thee. Poor lad, though, I'm fair pitiful for him! He niver rests save when he's abed, an' not oft then, for I can hear him stirring mony a neet at after he'd earned his sleep."
"Thinking of his sins, I reckon," growled Hiram.
"Well, there's some I know that hasn't mouse-pluck enough for sinning. Besides, that's owered wi'. He's stiffening right enough—yet mony's the time I wish him back to th' owd careless days. He niver hes a gay word for us wenches now, an' to see him wi' his brothers ye mud weel think he war a score year older nor he's ony call to be."
Hiram had waited for this moment, chuckling at the overthrow in store for Martha's championship of the master. "Stiffening, is he?" he said, pointing up the field and drawing his lips into a thin curve. "He may be—but he's framing badly for a start."
Martha, turning sharp about, saw the two figures come slowly down the wall-side toward the stile. Wayne's head was bent low to Mistress Janet's, as if he were pleading some urgent cause, and neither seemed to guess that they were watched.
"Well?" said Martha defiantly. "There's nowt wrong i' that, is there? I've known he war soft on Mistress Ratcliffe iver sin' last spring."
Hiram stared at her, aghast that she could look so lightly on a grievous matter; and when he spoke there was honest anger in his voice, distinct from his usual carping tone.
"Nowt wrong?" he said slowly. "What, when a Wayne goes courting a Ratcliffe? I can't picture owt wronger, ony way, seeing what has come between 'em lately an' aforetime."
"Hoity-toity! That's been Mistress Nell's way o' looking at it—but 'tisn't mine. Look at 'em, Hiram, an' say if they don't mak a bonnie couple."
"What's bonniness to do wi' 't? They're a bad stock, root an' branch, is th' Ratcliffes, an' it 'ull be a sore day for Marsh when th' Maister brings sich as yond to th' owd house. Besides, he has sworn to kill her folk."
"Well, ye cannot cut young hearts i' two wi' kinship, an' that's what I'm telling thee. Mistress Ratcliffe hes nawther father nor brother living, an' them she dwells wi' up at Wildwater are nowt so near to her but what a good lad's love is nearer."
"Hod thy whisht, lass!" cried Hiram on the sudden. "Th' Maister is looking this way at last. Begow, but he mun hev had summat deep to say to her, or he'd have seen us afore this."
Shameless Wayne reddened on seeing the occupants of the stile, and whispered to Janet, and the two of them turned quickly about, taking a cross-line back toward the moor.
"Flaired to be spoken to by honest folk," said Hiram.
"Flaired o' thy sour face, more like," snapped Martha.
Hiram was about to make one of his slow, exasperating responses when he clutched Martha by the arm and again pointed over the stile—not up the ploughed field this time, but across the pasture-land abutting on it.
"We shall know by an' by what Red Ratcliffe has in mind," he muttered; "dost see him yonder, Martha, crossing th' pasture? Ay, an' now he's following 'em up th' wallside."
"So he is. There's no mistaking that red thatch o' hisn—'twill set th' sun afire one bonnie day, I'm thinking. Does he mean to do th' Maister a hurt, think ye, Hiram?"
Hiram stretched himself with the air of a man who has work to do. "He's too far off yet for a pistol-shot; but he's quickening pace a bit, an' Lord knows what he's bent on. I reckon I'll just clamber ower th' wall here, Martha, an' wend down t' other side, and get a word wi' him as if 'twar chance like."
"Tak care o' thyseln, Hiram. There are some of us wod ill like to see harm come to thee."
But Hiram was deaf to blandishments. He had gone far enough for one morning, and, all else apart, he was no whit sorry to slip out of temptation's way.
"There's no telling when a Ratcliffe is about," he said, putting one leg over the low wall, "an' th' Maister is so throttle-deep i' foolishness just now that he's ripe-ready to fall into ony snare that's laid for him. Begow, Martha, but I don't know what th' world wod come to if there war no Hiram Hey to straighten it now and again!"
Martha sighed for the interrupted wooing as she lifted her pail from the stile. Hiram Hey moved surely, it might be, but life seemed short for such masterly painstaking slowness.
"It's war nor driving pigs to market, is getting Hiram to speak plain," she said to herself, setting off for home.—"Tha'll be back to thy dinner, Hiram?" she added over her shoulder.
"For sure I will. There's more nor dinner to tempt me down to Marsh," he cried, his rashness gaining on him now that he stood on the far side of the wall.
On no point save wedlock, however, did Hiram fail to know his purpose. He might have much to say about the young Master, but he had no mind to see harm come to him; and so he moved with a steady swing across the field, then turned sharp and crossed to the wall behind which Red Ratcliffe was creeping at a point some ten-score yards from the stile. He stopped then and leaned a pair of careless arms over the wall and looked everywhere but at the object of his manoeuvres, whose progress he had guessed to a nicety.
"Why, is't ye, Maister Ratcliffe?" he cried, letting his eyes fall at last on the tall, lean figure that stood not two yards away on the far side of the wall.
Ratcliffe glanced at him, but could not guess whether Hiram's stolid face hid any deeper thought than an idle wish to chatter. "'Tis I, plain enough," he growled.
"Nay, doan't fly at me—on a grand day like this, an' all. I thowt mebbe ye'd stepped on to th' Marsh land just to pick up a two-three wrinkles about farming. 'Tis not oft we're favoured wi' a sight o' ye down here."
"Dost think I need come here to learn any point of tillage?" laughed the other angrily.
"Well, I thowt it showed good sense i' ye. We're a tidy lot at Marsh, so folk say, an' I'm none blaming ye at Wildwater, ye understand for knawing a bit less about farming nor us. Your land's high, for one thing, an' lean as a scraped flint—I warrant it does your een good to see sich lovesome furrows as them, ye're walking ower."
"If speech can earn thee a cracked crown, thou'lt not long go whole of head," snapped Ratcliffe, beginning to move forward.
"Theer, theer! Th' gentry's allus so hot when a plain man strives to talk pleasant like to 'em. But it's live an' let live, I allus did say, an' sich fair spring weather as this hes a trick o' setting my tongue wagging." A sly glance at the other's back told him that Red Ratcliffe must be fetched up sharp if he were to be prevented from following Wayne of Marsh and Janet. "It sets other folk's tongues agate, too, seemingly," he added, glancing toward the hill-crest over which his Master and the girl were disappearing; "they mak a fine couple, doan't they, Maister, him an' Mistress Ratcliffe?"
Ratcliffe faced about. "Palsy take thee!" he cried. "Art thou a fool, only, Hiram Hey, or dost think to jest with thy betters?"
"Nay, I'm nobbut a fool, I reckon," said Hiram, shaking his head mournfully. "I can't say owt to please ye, 'twould seem, choose what, so I'd better hod my whisht. When I see a bonnie lass, an' th' finest lad i' th' moorside beside her—why, I thowt it could do no harm just to speak on 't, like."
"The finest lad in the moorside?" sneered Ratcliffe. "Since when did Wayne the Shameless earn his new title?"
"What, ye've not heard his praises then? I may hev my own opinion—ivery man hes a right to that—but Marshcotes an' Ling Crag can find nowt too good to say about him nowadays. Oh, ay, they all grant 'at th' Wayne land is th' best on th' moor, an' ots Maister th' handiest chap wi' sword or farming-tools. 'Tis sad, for sure, that there's such bad blood 'twixt ye an' th' Waynes; but this courtship 'ull mebbe cure it.—Nay, now, doan't be so hasty! I speak according to my lights; they may be poor uns, as Blind Tom o' Trawdon says, but they're all I've getten to go by."
Not a muscle of Hiram's face told how he was enjoying this skirmish with his enemy; only an added watchfulness of eye told that he half expected the other to strike him. His Master was out of sight now, and there was so much gained, whatever chanced to himself. But Ratcliffe lost his anger on the sudden, and turned to Hiram with something near to good-nature in his tone.
"Well, thou'rt dry, Hiram, with a shrewd wit of thy own, but I warn thee for thy own sake not to couple any Wayne with Mistress Ratcliffe in thy gossip.—Ay, and that calls another thing to mind; they say ye Wayne folk cut peats on the Wildwater land last summer, and ever since I've been seeking a chance to tell thee we'll have no more of that."
Hiram, wondering what lay under this change of front, answered slowly. "We're no thiefs, Maister; an' if our peat beds lie foot-to-heel wi' yourn, is that to say we'd ower-step th' boundary? Besides, we've no call to; our side o' th' bed yields better peats——"
"Well, I judge by what I'm told, and our farm-folk told us further that ye had carted some of their own peats as they lay up-ended for the drying."
"Begow, that's a likely tale!" cried Hiram, roused at last. "When we worked noon an' neet for a week, cutting an' drying an' carting, to be telled we——"
"There! Thou'rt honest, Hiram, and I'll take thy word for it," laughed Ratcliffe. "So the peats have lasted, have they? Ours are all but done after this cursed winter."
"Now, what's he at?" muttered Hiram. "When th' Ratcliffe breed hatches a civil word, they allus want stiff payment for 't.—Our peats are lasting fine, an' thankee," he said. "'Tis all a matter o' forethought, an' some fowk hesn't mich o' that. Oh, ay, we've getten a shed-full next to th' mistals, let alone th' stack at th' far-side o' th' yard; an' it's April now, so I reckon we shall see th' winter through. Ye niver catch us tripping down at Marsh."
"Not oft," said Ratcliffe, with a crafty smile.—"Faith, though, thy boasting would move better if it had less to carry, Hiram. We're all at fault once in a while, and I warrant that, if the peats will last, your bedding—bracken and the like,—has fallen short."
"Then ye'll warrant to little purpose," put in Hiram, with triumph, "they lig side by side, th' peats an' th' bedding—an' if ye'll step down an' tak a look at Marsh ye'll find a fairish heap o' both sorts."
He laughed at the humour of the invitation, and Red Ratcliffe followed suit as he turned on his heel.
"Another day, Hiram, and meanwhile I'll take word back to Wildwater, that we've all to learn yet from the wise men who dwell at Marsh."
"Scoff as ye will, ye're varry right there," muttered Hiram, as he too, went his way. "But I'd like to know what made ye frame to speak so civil all at once."
Red Ratcliffe was already moving across the field, with a light step and a face that was full of cunning glee; nor did he slacken pace until, half toward Wildwater, he saw Shameless Wayne parting from Janet at the corner of the crossroads. His face darkened for a moment, then cleared as he watched Shameless Wayne pass down the road to Marsh.