Chapter XV: Part 15

"Peace, I say!--Whenever I die, girl, be it to-day or when it will, do thou take the news to Wayne of Marsh and bid him to the lyke-wake with all his kin. Wilt do this much, Janet?"

"I will do it gladly, sir."

"It may be to-night, Janet. Art prepared?--Yet, Lord, I doubt they will not come! Girl, will they come, think'st thou?"

"Grandfather, what ails you? Is't not enough that you have righted this evil quarrel? You rode down to Marsh, at a time when you had scarce strength to sit the saddle; you showed Ned that he could trust you; you won him to the side of peace. What then? Lie back on your pillow, sir, and rest content."

"Rest? There's no rest," he muttered. "Fears crowd thick about a dying man; fears are carrion crows, girl, that never swoop until a man is past his strength. I fear everything, I tell thee--everything."

"I'll not wait, sir; let me go see Wayne of Marsh this moment--'twill ease thee to know I 'have told him how hour by hour your eagerness for peace grows hotter."

"Ay, go! Have thy mare saddled, and ride with the wind's heels. Tell Wayne to be prepared against my death--the death his folk are watching for. Bid him come to the lyke-wake on peril of his soul, for the curses of the dead are no light load to bear. Bid him in God's name or the devil's----"

His voice tripped for very feverishness; his eyes burned with a sombre fire; there was no doubting that this last whim of his had grown to be an overmastering passion.

"I will persuade him, grandfather, have never a fear of that," said Janet, as she went to do his bidding.

She turned at the door, and saw that he was following her with his eyes; and she stopped for a moment, spellbound by the scene. The wind was raving overhead; the light that filtered through the panes was leaden, streaked with a storm-red; the gurgle of rain, the hiss of hail, came never-ceasing from across the moor; it was as if the earth were riven asunder, and all the waters of the earth were gathering to a head. And there, silent amid the uproar, lay the Lean Man of Wildwater, with the fire-scars on his face, and the red lump that stood for his left ear, and the strained look that comes when the one-half of a man is palsied.

"How drear it is, how drear!" murmured Janet, and looked at the Lean Man again, and saw that a bitter sadness had come into his face--a sadness whose depth she could not fathom.

"Come back," whispered the Lean Man, beckoning feebly to her.--"Thou hast loved me well, Janet," he went on, as she stooped above him.

"I have loved you well, grandfather--better than ever you knew of."

"But less than Wayne of Marsh--Wayne, who thwarted me at every turn--who--there, lass! What am I saying? That is wiped out, and haply I like him none the worse because he gave shrewd blows. God, to think how fain I am to see thee wed to him--safely wed to him."

He dwelt on the last words, repeating them with a vehemence half grim, half childish. And then he pointed to the door, and not till Janet's footfall sounded on the stair did he break silence.

"The lad has thwarted me, and I forgive him," said the Lean Man slowly. "Janet has played me false, and I make her the messenger of peace. 'Tis fitting; the old hatred was an ill comrade for grey hairs."

And then he lay back, listening to the _spit-spit_ of the rain, the falling cadence of the wind. And a smile, as of hardly-won content, played round about his hollow face.

Red Ratcliffe was waiting at the stair-foot when Janet came down into the hall.

"How goes it with the dotard?" he cried.

She made no answer, but brushed past him toward the door.

"Ay, go where thou wilt," sneered Ratcliffe, watching her put on cloak and hood; "so long as the Lean Man lives, I'll lay no finger on thee, for there's a devil in him that only the grave can kill. But what after that?"

"After that, Ratcliffe the Red," she cried, turning suddenly to face him, "after that I shall put my safety in the keeping of one thou know'st."

"Wayne of Marsh, I take it? Shameless Wayne, who drank his own father's quarrel away, who----"

"Who goes abroad with a cry of _Wayne and the Dog_. Hast ever heard the cry, Red Ratcliffe?"

He winced, remembering how often he had fled panic-stricken with the cry behind him; and Janet, turning from him in disdain, crossed to the stables through the misty drizzle that was scattered from the skirts of the late storm.

It might be a half-hour later, as she dipped down the Ling Crag hill, that she met Shameless Wayne galloping hard up the stiff rise. He checked on seeing her and brought his mare on to her haunches.

"I was riding to thee, Janet. What brings thee here? No ill news, is't?" he cried.

"Nay, Ned--save that grandfather is not like to live the day through."

"There's no danger threatens thee?"

"Never less, Ned. Whither wast galloping so hard, and why dost look so tempest-driven?"

"What hast done to me, Janet?" he cried. "I'm full of dreads since winning thee; and just because Mistress Wayne saw thee last night in a vision, I needs must come helter-skelter to learn if thou wast safe."

"If the vision foretold disaster, Ned, methinks it erred--and, by that token, it is well we met, for I have a message to thee."

"What, from Wildwater?"

"Ay. Grandfather, like thee, is full of doubts--but his are a sick man's terrors. His fury I know, and his tenderness--ay, I have seen him panic-stricken, too--but I cannot tell what ails him now. His talk is all of peace between our houses; and yet, when he speaks of my wedding thee, he scarce knows whether to jest or scowl."

"I was a youngster, and chance gave me the better of the fight," said Wayne quietly. "Canst wonder he grudges it a little?"

"It must be so--and, Ned, we've happiness to thank him for. His message was that, soon as he is dead, you are to come with your folk to wake beside the body. My kinsmen are rough, Ned, but they know grandfather's wish, and when ye stand beside the bier with them, be sure the thought of death will soften them to the truce."

"I promised him as much a week since, and I'll keep faith, dear lass--for thy sake, if for no other."

"Yet he fears the Cranshaw Waynes will still hold back. Ned, canst make sure of them? 'Tis his last wish, and I would not have him thwarted.--And now, dear, fare thee well. I dare not be away from Wildwater, lest he be wanting aught, or--lest he die, Ned, without my hand in his."

Wayne turned about. "I'll ride to Hill House now, and then to Cranshaw. They shall come with me, Janet; trust me to persuade them."

"Ned! 'Twill be--'twill be to-night, I think. To look at him, he cannot live through the day."

"Then to-night shall find us ready.--Why, child, what is't?"

She brushed the quick-rising tears away. "Naught--'twas naught--only, Ned, I've no friend in the world but thou when grandfather has gone."

She was gone with that, and Wayne, after seeing her gallop into the mists, turned his mare's head and made across the moor to Hill House, where he told them of the Lean Man's message and the nearness of his end. Some were in favour of the truce, others refused to abandon their settled mistrust of Nicholas Ratcliffe; and last of all they rode with him to Cranshaw, there to take counsel of the Long Waynes. At Cranshaw it was the same; some were on Shameless Wayne's side, others were hot against his plan; and Nell herself was the first to resist his counsel.

"It seems the Lean Man's dying wish is more to thee than father's," she cried; "but, for my part, I can hear no talk of peace for the cry that rings day-long in my ears. No quarter, Ned--dost mind the cry?"

"We have followed it far enough," he answered. "Has wedlock taught thee so little, Nell, that peace shows not worth the gaining?"

"As I told thee,--neither wedlock nor aught else can wipe one picture out."

"Well, I for one, Nell, am fain to see the end of all this blood-letting," cried her husband.

"And art thou fain," she answered bitterly, "to see him wedded to this Ratcliffe girl?"

"Ay, even that I'd welcome, though 'tis not long since I thought ill of it. But it should help to heal the feud--and, besides, they say she is no Ratcliffe in her honesty."

"Have it as ye will. Mistress Janet is leagued with her kin, doubtless--but men do not believe these matters when their logic is a bonnie face."

"Mistress Janet is well enough; all the moorside has a kindly word for her," put in one of the Waynes of Hill House; "but what if the Lean Man has not done yet with his accursed trickeries?"

"Then we are armed, and in full force," said Shameless Wayne. "Would the Lean Man have bidden all of us to the feast, think'st thou, if he had meant trickery?"

"Ned is right," put in Rolf; "we will go to the lyke-wake, and if the feud is to be staunched above his body, there'll many a wife go happier to bed than she has done since the spring came in."

Nell held out against them still; but they overruled her, and one by one the malcontents agreed to follow the counsel of those they counted as their leaders.

"He'll not last through the day, so Janet told me," said Shameless Wayne. "Best come with me to Marsh forthwith, and wait the messenger."

"So thou'lt marry this daughter of the Ratcliffes?" said Nell, as she stood at the gate and watched her brother get to horse.

"God willing, Nell--and one day thou wilt love her near as much as I."

"Nay, I have done with loving. Ride on, Ned, and if they tell thee I have cared for thee--why, say they lie."

He touched his horse and rode slowly out; and all the way to Marsh his thoughts were busy with this sister's love that would fain have kept him close in prison. It was not the feud only then, that warped her nature. _I have done with loving_, she had said; and dimly he understood that even her husband had no place beside him in her heart.

"Od's life, these women! Who framed them at the start?" he muttered, as he gained the steep down-hill that led to Marsh.

And then he remembered little Mistress Wayne, and wondered if she had rid her of the needless fears which had driven him out this morning in search of Janet.

But his step-mother had left Marsh House and was already nearing the lane-top that took her to the moors. All morning she had wandered from room to room, from house to courtyard, to see if Ned were coming home. Why had she listened to her dreams, she asked herself? Why told him how Janet had stood on the verge of Wildwater Pool, entreating help? Visions might play her false and had done as much a score of times. Yet--what of Barguest? He at least was real; he at least--

She put her hands against the gate to steady herself, and looked up the lane; for the sound of pattering feet was in her ears once more, and there was a coldness in the wind more shrewd than any that blew off the moors. And not only the sound of feet, and icy, upward moving breeze--for a dun and shaggy-coated hound crept out of the empty road, and swung up toward the heath.

Mistress Wayne halted no longer now. There were many who had heard the Dog in Marshcotes, but none save she to whom he showed himself. It must be as she feared; Ned was in peril at Wildwater, and the Dog was leading her to him. Not once did she halt to ask what service she could render him; it was enough that he was in danger, and that Barguest sought her aid.

The dun mist hugged the moor as she made forward. The clouds were grey as hopelessness, and everywhere the sound of moorland brooks, flushed by the heavy rains, was like a doom-song in her ears. Underfoot the peat oozed black at every step. The further hills were blotted out, the nearer rises showed unsubstantial, wan and ghoulish; the very grouse were wearied into silence. The shaggy-coated beast that had led her here had vanished into the drifting mists; but still she pressed on, her whole mind bent on reaching Wildwater.

She would have been lost at the first mile had she brought reason to help her find the track to Wildwater; but instinct guided her more surely, and presently the black house in the wilderness showed swart among the mists. So dark it looked, so evil, that once she half turned back; but Ned had need of her--and she would go to the house-door and knock, and ask what they had done with him. And if they killed her--well, it would not matter.

On and on she went. And now she had reached the outer-most intake; and now she had crossed the lank grass, and gone through the gate at the top, and reached the bare house-side that looked from its solitary window on to the path which led to the courtyard. Mistress Wayne caught her breath, and stopped, and listened; but the house was still as death. Her resolution faltered; she looked up and down the wall, with the rain-lines shimmering grey from the gable-end to the rustling weeds at its foot--looked, and saw nothing for awhile--looked, with the absent gaze of those who wander in their sleep, until a shadow crossed the window-pane, a shadow that took substance.

Then there was a crash, the falling of broken glass, and Mistress Wayne had wit neither to scream nor flee. She could but follow the hand that beckoned through the broken pane.

*CHAPTER XXVII*

*HOW THE LEAN MAN FORGOT THE FEUD*

Janet, soon as she reached Wildwater after bidding farewell to Shameless Wayne, went up to the Lean Man's room to tell him how she had fulfilled her errand and to see if he were in need of anything. But the sound of voices met her when she gained the stair-head, and she stopped irresolute. The pity that she felt for her grandfather was such as to make her shrink from showing it to the rude eyes of her kinsmen, and she would wait until the Lean Man and she could be alone together.

The door was wide open, and as she turned to go downstairs again Red Ratcliffe's voice sounded harshly across the landing. "By the Heart, sir, we judged you all amiss! We thought the fight was dead in you, and now----"

"Dead? The fight will die, lad, when I do," chuckled the Lean Man. "Tell me, is it not bravely planned?"

Janet crept close to the door, her eyes wide-open with dismay.

"Bravely, sir," went on Red Ratcliffe. "Peste! We have them in the hollow of our hands, and yond Wayne of Marsh will learn, as his father did, whither courteous foolery leads a man. He drank in your tale, then, when you went to him that night at Marsh?"

"Ay, did he; and God knows how I kept my laughter in when I saw him falling into the wonted softness of his race. How could he refuse an old man's plea? How could he be less than courteous when I fetched a tear or so and babbled of my failing strength?"

Janet leaned against the wall, sick and nerveless. The blow had fallen on her like a thunder-bolt, and as yet she could not realise that the Lean Man on his very death-bed was playing so grim a part.

"I would have had them ride up this afternoon," went on Nicholas, "because I feared to die before the good hour came. But the Waynes of Cranshaw are less guileless, it would seem, than him of Marsh, and they would trust me not a stiver till the breath was cold in me. What, then? Ye shall lay me out in state in the great hall below us, and I will show death that I am ready to play his game before he calls me--ay, but I'll not die, call he never so, before I have sat me up on my bier and cheered you to the fight."

"You'll look so reverend, I warrant, that the sight of you will disarm them altogether," laughed Red Ratcliffe boisterously. "We shall pledge your soul with such sorrow, we Wildwater folk, and they'll be eyeing us so steadfastly, that our blades will be clean through them before they have got hand to hilt. Courage, grandfather! You'll see the end of every Wayne that steps before you leave us."

"If fortune holds. I bade them all to the feast--all, lest one should be lacking from the tally of dead men. Lord God, I must live until the dawn!"

"And Janet was your messenger? A bonnie stroke, to make the stock-dove lure the wild goose into bowshot."

The Lean Man rose from his pillows, and his voice was terrible to hear. "Janet?" he cried. "She played me false, she let my foe wanton with her in sight of all the moorside; she killed my love, I tell thee, and I hate her more than I hate Wayne of Marsh. From the first moment that I learned it, I cursed her by the Dog; and to my last breath I'll curse her. I all but killed her on the first impulse; but then I thought better of it, and planned to tear her heart in two by making her the bait for Wayne--and the plan will carry--the plan will carry, lad!"

"Ay, it will carry, sir. But she must guess naught of it, or by the Mass she'll find a way to warn them. Where is she now?"

Again the feeble, hollow laugh. "With Shameless Wayne, lad, to be sure. I sent her to him, saying I was like to die this night and bidding him be ready for the lyke-wake."

"Christ pity me! It was I who sent him for his kinsfolk," murmured Janet.

She was dazed yet from the shock; the wall against which she leaned seemed to turn round and round her; love, faith and honour, so sure a moment since, were empty phantoms now; nothing was real, save these two evil voices, of the youngster she had hated and the old man she had loved.

"And they'll be fondling one another," cried Red Ratcliffe, after a silence, "and saying how all is made straight for them at last.--Look ye, sir," he broke off fiercely. "I claim Janet after this night's bloody work is done."

"And shalt have her, Red-pate, if for no other reason than that she loathes the sight of thee. Ay, she shall learn the price a Ratcliffe asks when he is thwarted."

The colour was returning to Janet's face. She had been stunned by the first shock of discovery; but now that they threatened--threatened death to Wayne, and worse than death to her whom Wayne had mastered--her face went hard of purpose as the Lean Man's own. She rallied quickly, stood for a moment with one ear turned toward the door, then moved on tip-toe to the stairs.

"What's that?" she heard Red Ratcliffe say. "Didst hear a footfall on the landing, sir?"

"Not I. Tush, lad, I begin to think thou'rt feared of what's to come."

"I'm feared of naught, save treachery."

"Then why dost grow pale because a puff of wind sets doorways creaking? As for treachery--Janet is at Marsh, I tell thee; she cannot have got there and back by now."

Janet held her breath and started down the steps, slowly, with a thief's tread. One step, two--all was well. But the stones were slippery with the wet mud that Red Ratcliffe had brought up with him from the stable-yard, and at the third step she slipped and would have fallen but for the oaken rail that protected the stairway from the well. There was a pause and then she heard the sound of heavy feet crossing the floor above.

"'Tis Janet, I say! Who else would be spying up and down the steps?" cried Red Ratcliffe, running to the stairhead.

Janet, reckless of another fall, sped down the steps, and on along the gloomy passage. Red Ratcliffe, heedless likewise of his neck, leaped after her. She reached the side-door leading to the orchard, and wrenched the bolts back; but the wood was swollen by the rain, and she could not move it. Red Ratcliffe was close behind her now; she tugged at the heavy door, but still it would not yield, though her fingers bled and the nails were broken half-way down.

"Not again, pretty one!" laughed Red Ratcliffe, as he caught her by the arms.

"Let me go. I--I will not have thee hurt me so."

"Thou'lt have what I think good for thee in future," he answered, tightening his grip until she screamed for pain. "Thou didst hear, doubtless, that the Lean Man gave thee to me just now? Well, 'tis best to show who is master at the start."

"Master!" she cried. "Thou dar'st to call thyself my master?"

The word was like a knife-thrust to the girl. This lewd, red-headed fool to claim the title which belonged to Shameless Wayne! And then she remembered that Wayne's safety and her own depended, not upon passion, but on coolness now. She turned as Red Ratcliffe loosed his hold, and eyed him very softly.

"Cousin," she said, "thou wast wont to prate of thy love for me."

"I'll prove it by and by."

"Nay, prove it now--by gentleness. I only ask a moment's freedom--just to the garden-gate and back again, to cool my feverishness. This house-air stifles me. Cousin, be kind this once, and I will--will love thee for it."

"Thou hast fooled me so oft, lass, that it seems the fondest lie is reckoned deep enough to take me now. How far is't, tell me, from the garden-gate to Marsh?"

"Wayne is not at Marsh," she broke in. "Why should I want to go there?"

"So thou hast persuaded him to ride to Cranshaw? My thanks for the news, pretty one. The sport speeds better than I hoped for when I found thee returning over-soon from thy errand. Didst meet him by the way, then?"

She rued her hastiness; for she saw by Red Ratcliffe's face that no turn of speech or eye could cozen him; and she had confessed, all for naught, that Shameless Wayne would come to the lyke-wake when they bade him.

"Cousin, let me have speech of grandfather," she said, making a last effort. "I--I can explain all to him----"

"Doubtless," answered the other grimly. "Old liking is hard to kill, Janet, and I would not trust thee with him--nay, not though he hates thee now. Thou would'st be soft with him, letting thy lashes melt upon thy cheeks. God, yes, I can see thee at thy antics!--A murrain on thee!" he broke off. "Is there so little to be done that I must needs stand chattering here? Follow me, girl."

"I will not follow thee," she answered stubbornly.

For answer he set his arms about her and half carried, half dragged her to the little room at the bottom of the passage where once he had prisoned Nell Wayne; then pulled the door to and turned the key sharply in the lock.

Janet, left to herself, gave way utterly. She had no heart to lift herself from the floor, but sat there, her head bowed upon her knees, and pictured what was so soon to follow in the great hall that lay just behind her prison-chamber. And by and by her mind began to wander idly down strange paths of thought, as she recalled each speech and glance of her grandfather's at their last meeting. All that had puzzled her in his air grew clear--the touch of remorse, the look of pity that came into his face at parting. For the one moment he had wavered, remembering his love for her; why had she not known, not guessed what he was planning? For then she might have over-ridden his purpose.

Too late! There was nothing to be done now. The thought maddened her. Springing to her feet, she crossed to the one small window of the room and stood looking out upon the mist-swept greyness of the heath. But there was no chance of escape, for a child could not creep through it--she must wait, then, watching the hours slip ghostly past this strip of moor--watching the dark come stealthily from the sky-edge--listening to the noise of men about the house and knowing the reason of their gaiety.

And she had led Wayne here. In a flash she recalled that other day when she had sought to save him from going to Bents Farm in face of peril; now as then her very care for him had been his undoing. If he were here now--if she could have one poor five minutes with him before the end he would never doubt her love again.

Then she could bear her thoughts no longer, and she threw herself time after time against the door, striving to beat it down. That brought weariness, and welcome pain of body, to her aid, and she sank into a sort of numb heedlessness that yet was nothing kin to sleep.

She was roused by the sound of feet, slow-moving down the stair as if some heavy burden were being carried from an upper room. The house, empty of all furniture save such as the rough needs of their life demanded, re-echoed every sound. Janet could hear the very shuffle of the men's boots as they halted at the stair-foot. Then, slowly, with measured burial-tread, the footfalls came down and down the passage, halted at the rearward door of the hall, made forward again until they sounded close beside the wall of Janet's prison. What were they doing, she asked herself? And then the Lean Man's voice sounded from the other side of the wall, and she understood the grim business that they had on hand.

"Ay, well in the corner, lads," said the Lean Man. "Custom bids me lie in state in the middle of the hall--but I should ill like to cumber fighting-ground. Say, is there room for all of you--ourselves and all the Waynes in Cranshaw and in Marshcotes?"

"Room and to spare, sir," answered Red Ratcliffe. "God rest the builder of the hall for giving it such width."

"Well, remember to strike swift at the word. Fill up your glasses and lift them to the cry, 'In the name of the dead man--peace between Wayne and Ratcliffe.' And then--on to them while they drink, and the dead man on the bier will lift himself to watch."

A subdued hum of laughter followed, broken by the Lean Man's voice.

"I warrant ye found the carrying of me no light work. By the Mass, the sweat drips from under your red thatches like rain from mistal-eaves!"

Janet shuddered to hear his gaiety. This man was dying, and yet by sheer force of hate he was keeping the life in him until--but she dared not think what followed that "until."

"A messenger has gone to bid the Ryecollar Ratcliffes to the wake," said another voice presently.

"'Tis well. And Wayne of Marsh?"

"He will be gladdening at your death by this time, sir; for Ralph here, who rode down to Marsh, as thou badest him, to tell them of thy death----"

"Returns," put in Ralph, "with Wayne's greeting to my kin, and his pledged word that he and his will come to the lyke-wake after sundown."

"Lord Harry, what a night 'twill be!" cried the Lean Man. "Do ye wonder, lads, that I was eager to get me to the bier before I need? I like the feel of it; I like to meet yond dotard death half-way and show him that I have scant respect for him. Death? What is death, when I shall see the sweep of swords on splintering skulls before I leave? Come, wrap the cere-cloths round me; they'll be softer bedfellows than any wife I ever lay beside."

Janet listened to it all and wondered if her wits were playing her false. This man, who could rest on his own bier and play with the death which was already overwatching him--was he the grandfather she had loved, or some bog-begotten thing that had come from out the moor and claimed his body? It might be so, for strange tales were told of what chanced to men who halted between this world and the next. Again she turned to the window, striving to keep her wits by deadening sense and hearing to what was passing on the other side of the wall. Without, grey clouds were hiding the last edge of sunset, and a grey mist was trailing up the pathway of the wind. Oh, for a moment's freedom! No more--for not the wind itself could race as she would race to warn the Ratcliffes' enemies.

She passed a hand across her eyes, thinking that in sober truth she was going mad at last. For out of the mist-wreaths a figure--a frail figure, with wet, wind-scattered hair--was coming toward the house of Wildwater. Janet, awe-stricken, watched it draw near and nearer yet; and then, with a rush of hope that was almost agony, she saw that it was no phantom, this, but Mistress Wayne of Marsh--Ned's stepmother, and his constant friend. Clenching her fist she drove it through the window-pane with one clean blow.

"Quick! I've a word for you, Mistress Wayne," she stammered, dreading lest one of her folk should come to learn the meaning of the crash.

"Yond is the pretty traitor," she heard Red Ratcliffe say. "Let her break every shred of glass the window holds--not even her slim body can win through the opening."

Mistress Wayne, startled out of the lonely musings that had kept her company across the moor, turned about as if to flee; but terror held her to the spot.

"'Tis I--Janet Ratcliffe--Ned's sweetheart--do you not know me, Mistress?" cried Janet, feverishly.

The little woman drew near a step or two and eyed her gravely. "I remember--yes, you are Janet Ratcliffe--why did you fright me so?" she whimpered.

"Mary Mother, must our safety rest with such a want-wit babe as this," muttered Janet.--"Come closer, Mistress!" she went on peremptorily.

Mistress Wayne obeyed the stronger will, though still she was afraid of she knew not what.

"Go back to Marsh and tell them there is treachery," whispered Janet. "Tell them, if come they will--and Ned, I know, will do no less--that they must come with swords loose in the scabbards. The signal is, 'In the name of the dead man, peace between Wayne and Ratcliffe.' Now, hasten, Mistress--hasten, I tell you, unless you wish to see Ned killed at Wildwater; for see, the sun sinks fast, and sundown is the time appointed."

Not at once did Mistress Wayne learn her message; she had to repeat it, child-like, over and over until she had it letter-perfect, while all the time Janet could scarce get the words out for impatience. But one thing the little woman understood--.that Barguest had not led her up the moor for naught, that Ned was in instant peril, that only she could save him by hurrying back to Marsh.

Janet watched her, when at last her lesson was well learned, fade ghost-like into the darkening banks of mist. And then she dropped to the floor, and lay there forgetful of the preparations that were afoot behind her in the hall, heedless of the rattle of swords, the interchange of pleasantries between the Lean Man and his folk, the chink of flagons on the lyke-wake board. And afterward she found cause to thank Our Lady for the swoon which gave her so merciful a breathing-space between what had chanced and what was yet to follow.

Mistress Wayne never halted until she had gained the door of Marsh. Shameless Wayne himself answered her knocking; his mind seemed bent on weightier matters for he scarce noticed her after the first quick glance of surprise, but led her into hall, where thirty of his kinsfolk were gathered in chattering knots about the hearth, or in the window-nooks, or round about the supper-table. Griff and the three lads stood together in one corner, whispering and trying the edges of their swords.

"There's no place for trickery, I tell thee," Rolf Wayne of Cranshaw was saying as she entered. "Why should they send a messenger to say that the Lean Man is dead? Why should they press us to go drink in amity above his body?"

"Because they've hatched some pesty stratagem," answered his fellow, whose doubts had reawakened during the suspense of waiting. "They'll find it easier to fight at home than in the open."

"Pish! We've eyes and swords to help us," cried Shameless Wayne, turning sharp round from his step-mother. "If they want peace, they shall have it; and if war, then they shall have that likewise. But 'tis peace, I tell you, for the Lean Man had repented of his hate before he died."

None answered him, for all had turned as Mistress Wayne came in. And Shameless Wayne turned then and scanned her up and down; yet, startled as he was to see her in this plight, he asked her no question, but filled a wine-cup to the brim and set it to her lips.

"Wast ever kind to me, Ned," she whispered brokenly. "None knows, I think, how thou hast watched to give me my least need."

"Thy needs are no great burden for a man's back," he answered, in the old kindly tone that he kept for her alone.--"Does the company fright thee, bairn? Why, then, we'll none of them. Come to the parlour and tell me all thou hast to say."

She shook her head, and stood with one hand in his, and looked from one to another of the swart, sinewy men who kept so mute a watch on her.

"There's treason," she said simply, and stopped till she could gather the scattered items of her message.

Wayne looked at Wayne, but none spoke. The silence that foreruns a storm held one and all of them.

"I--I went to Wildwater--in search of Ned," went on the little woman. "He was long a-coming, and I feared for him."

"Why, what could'st thou have done to help?" muttered Shameless Wayne.

"I did not know--only, that Barguest had called me to thy aid. I crossed the moor, and it was very dreary, and I was frightened. But I saw the Dog go footing it up the lane before me, and I went on--on--until I reached the black house of the Ratcliffes."

Still no word, not a murmur, from the listening group. All eyes were on the little figure by the table, but she stood with clasped hands and far-away regard, as if she were looking at some other scene.

"I passed close to the one end of the house--the end that has a little window looking on the moor--and I grew lonely, so lonely, that I wished to turn and run back home to Marsh. And then I saw a hand beckoning me from behind the window--and there was a crash--and, when I had found my wits again, Janet Ratcliffe was whispering to me through the broken pane. A long tale she told me, and I learned it all by heart, and--nay, it has gone! There's but one word in my ears--and it sings so loudly that I cannot hear the rest."

"What is the word?" asked her step-son gently.

"Treason--treason--treason. But there was more--some--some signal. Oh, what will Janet say when she knows I have forgotten my lesson!"

The strain was over great for her; her face worked piteously, her hands clasped and unclasped each other in the effort to remember. And Shameless Wayne, dumbfounded as he was to know he had been the Lean Man's dupe, knew well that they must humour this poor waif if they were to get her tale from her.

"Come, little bairn," he said, "thou hast told enough. Rest thyself awhile, and never heed the finish of thy tale."

"Oh, but I must! It touches thee so nearly, Ned." Her face cleared on the sudden. "I know now," she went on still with the same grave simplicity. "They have asked you to wake with them in token that the feud is healed. They will fill your goblets and their own, and lift them to the cry, 'In the name of the dead man, peace between Wayne and Ratcliffe.' And then, while ye are drinking, they will kill you with their swords."

The storm was let loose now. The Long Waynes of Cranshaw had their say, and the Waynes of Hill House; Griff and his brothers watched from their corner, with eager faces that showed how they were spoiling for a fight. The Lean Man's name flew hither and thither through the clamour; none doubted that the plot was his, and they cursed him by the Brown Dog of Marsh.

Shameless Wayne stood aloof from all until the din had lessened; and when at last he spoke his voice was rough and hard.

"Waynes, are ye ready for the lyke-wake? 'Tis time we got to saddle," he said.

"Art mad?" cried one. "Is the warning to go for naught, that we should put our necks into so trim a noose?"

"Let be, Ned. Wildwater is no good drinking-house for us," said another.

"Would'st ride thy luck till it floundered?" snarled a third.

Shameless Wayne beckoned to his four brothers. "Come hither, lads," he said quietly.

They came and ranged themselves about him, facing the noisy throng.

"Will ye ride with me to Wildwater?" he asked.

"Ay, if thou mean'st to fight," answered Griff. And, "Ay, will we!" cried the rest.

"Then saddle.--Who goes with us?" he went on, turning to his kinsfolk.

They glanced at each other, angrily, sheepishly. If Griff and his stripling brothers were fain to follow this bog-o'-lanthorn chase, could they hold back?

"Think twice about it, Ned, and keep thy strength to meet them in the open," said one of the Long Waynes of Cranshaw.

"I go, and the lads go, whoever follows.--Hark ye, Waynes! These swine have fooled us; they have twice broken hospitality--once in drinking with me here, and once in offering us a friendly cup at Wildwater. Will our sword's rest light in the scabbard, think ye, if we hold back for one single day?"

"Ned is right," struck in Wayne of Cranshaw; "and we shall take them at unawares. They count us unprepared. The first blow will be ours."

He crossed to his cousin's side, and others with him; and those who still thought the enterprise foolhardy could not for shame's sake stand aloof.

"Waynes," said Ned grimly, as they clattered to the door, "they think us over-gentle, these Ratcliffes; but to-night, I warrant, we'll be something better than our reputation. _Kill_."

"By the Mass, we shall see fair sport at last!" cried Griff, his face afire with eagerness.

Mistress Wayne laid a hand on Ned's arm as he was following the rest. "I--I want to come with thee," she faltered.

"To come with me?" he cried impatiently. "Thou look'st fitter for thy bed, foolish one."

"Say it is fancy--only take me. I'll not fear the bloodshed--I'll not give one cry--take me, Ned!"

"But, bairn, what should I do with thee?"

"Hast heard what they say in Marshcotes--that I am thy luck, Ned? Thou'lt win to-night if I am near at hand."

He reasoned with her, stormed at her, all to no purpose; for the little woman could be obstinate as himself when she believed that his safety was in case.

"I say thou shalt not come with us," he said. "There's work to be done, bairn, and we want no women-folk to watch."

Yet for all that he would have had her come, for the superstition which he disavowed was quick in him. She was his luck, and he knew it well as she.

"Ned, I never yet asked aught of thee and was refused," she pleaded.

"Hold thy peace, child! I cannot take thee--and I will not."

Her eyes filled with tears; it was as idle, she could see, to turn him from his refusal as to hold him back from Wildwater.

"There! I was harsh with thee. Never heed it, bairn," he said, looking toward the courtyard where already he could hear the fretful pawing of horses, the rattle of scabbards as his folk sprang into the saddle, the gruff cries of the stable-men.

A thought came to him, then. He fingered the dagger at his belt, in absent fashion, and turned to ask Mistress Wayne if the room where Janet was prisoned was easy to be found.

"I could show it to thee if thou would'st take me," she said, with a child's subtlety.

"Wilt make me curse thee, bairn? Where is the room, I say?"

"It--it lies fair on the bridle-way. 'Tis the only chamber on that side the house."

"So Janet learned their secret, and they held her back from warning us," he muttered. "What if the day goes against us? Peste! I never asked myself so mean a question before I had two lives to think for."

"Ned! Where art thou?" cried Rolf from the courtyard. "There's thy mare here, kicking all to splinters because thou wilt not mount her."

But Wayne was already out in the courtyard and had stepped to the roan mare's head. The roan ceased pawing at sight of him, and came and thrust her muzzle close against the master's cheek; and Wayne with one clean vault was in the saddle.

But his step-mother had all the cunning of the fairy-kist. Quick as himself she had followed him into the yard. The flaring torch-light showed her Griff's boyish figure and eager, laughing face on the outskirts of the throng.

"Griff, I must ride with thee to Wildwater," she said, laying a hand on his saddle.

The lad started. He was a little afraid of his step-mother in these latter days, as youngsters are of those they cannot understand.

"Why, Mistress?" he asked bluntly.

"'Tis a whim of mine--nay, 'tis a crying need. Ask no more, Griff; it is for thy brother's sake--and if thou wilt not take me, I'll run beside thy stirrup till I drop."

Puzzled, liking neither to take her nor to refuse a plea so urgent, Griff stooped at last and swung her to his crupper. "The Lord knows how it will fare with you at Wildwater," he muttered, as his brother's call to start rang through the courtyard.

In silence they went up the moor, a score and ten of them. The wind, quiet for awhile, was gathering strength again, and its breath was bitter cold. A blurred round of yellow marked where the moon was fighting with the cloud-wrack over Dead Lad's Rigg. The whole wide moor was dark, and lonely, and afraid. The heather dripped beneath the keen lash of the wind, and over Lostwithens Marsh the blue corpse-candles fluttered.

"Are ye feared, Mistress?" said Griff, stooping to the ear of Mistress Wayne when the journey was half over. His voice was jaunty, but in truth his dread of moor-boggarts was keener for the moment than his zest for the battle that was waiting them up yonder on the stormy hill-crest.

"I fear the moor always, Griff; 'tis pitiless, like those red folk who dwell at Wildwater," whispered Mistress Wayne, clinging more tightly to him.

"Well, there'll be fewer of them by and by, so keep thy courage warm with that."

Nearer and nearer they drew to Wildwater, while Janet Ratcliffe was still kept prisoned in the narrow chamber that overlooked the moor. She had wakened from her swoon in time to hear the last preparations of her folk in the hall behind her, and the Lean Man's voice was in her ears as she lifted her aching head and heavy limbs.

"Do I fit this cursed bier?" he was saying.

"Like a gauntlet, sir," answered Red Ratcliffe.

"Do I look pale enough? Lord knows I need, for the fight to keep old death at bay shows like to break me. Lads, if only my right arm were whole! I'd take my turn with you, 'od rot me, and have one merry sword-cut for my last. What hour is't?"

"'Tis close on ten of the clock. They should be here by now."

"Tie up my chin, then, lest aught be wanting. Poor fools! Poor, courteous fools! To think they come in innocence."

Would the dread farce never end, thought Janet? Or would a hand reach out of the moor--the moor that was her friend--and strike the Lean Man in the midst of his cool-ordered devilry? But still their voices sounded through her prison-wall. She listened more intently now, for old Nicholas was talking of herself.

"When all is over, bring the girl into hall here--the girl who mocked me and played the harlot with my foes. Spare her no drop of agony; bring her to where Wayne of Marsh lies bloody, and tell her that is the bridal I had set my heart on. God, how deep my hate goes! And"--his voice faltered by a hair's-breadth--"and once I loved her."

He loved her still, thought Janet, and the half-confession touched a strange chord in her. A moment since she had burned with hate of her grandfather; yet now, with the obstinacy of her race, a spark of the old love wakened for this crafty rogue who had spent his last hours in working for her misery. Nay, there was a touch of pride in him, because he kept so staunch a spirit to the end.

"Well, time wags. Tie up my chin, I tell thee, Ratcliffe the Red," said the Lean Man after a lengthy silence.

Janet could hear Red Ratcliffe start forward to do the old man's bidding, could hear the awed laughter that followed. Her fleeting love for him died out. She loathed his treachery, and his impious trafficking with death. Sick at heart she got to her feet and began to pace up and down the room. Had Mistress Wayne carried the message to Marsh House? Or had she faltered by the way? She was so slender a bridge to safety that it seemed she must break down.

The wind whistled through the shattered window, and with it came a spit or two of rain. Janet, her senses sharpened by anxiety, heard the least under-sound that came from the hall, the moor, the moaning chimney-stacks. She started on the sudden and put her ear to the casement. Up the path that skirted the house-side came the faint _slush-slush_ of horse-hoofs striking sodden earth.

"They are coming!" she muttered, racked with fear lest her warning had miscarried.

Soon she could see thick shadows crossing the window-space--shadows of men on shadows of horses, outlined against the lesser blackness of the sky beyond. Something struck the ground at her feet; she groped for it and her fingers closed upon a dagger with a curving blade. She knew then that Wayne of Marsh was forewarned--knew, too, the meaning of his quiet message to her. If he should fall he had given her a refuge from dishonour.

Her courage returned. At worst she could die with him; and Wayne's luck in battle did not let her fear the worst. She stood straight in the darkness of her prison, and heard the horsemen turn the corner of the house, and waited.

Wayne of Marsh, meanwhile, led his folk straight in at the Wildwater gates, which stood wide-open in proof that they were welcome guests.

"Now, Mistress, what am I to do with you?" whispered Griff to his step-mother as he pulled up his horse and lifted his frail burden to the ground.

But Mistress Wayne, not answering him, slipped from his side and lost herself amid the darkness. Nor did she know what purpose was in her mind--only, that where Ned was, there must she be also.

Shameless Wayne sprang from the saddle and knocked sharply on the door with a cry of "Ratcliffes, ho! Ratcliffes!"

The door was flung wide. "Welcome, all Waynes who come in peace," cried Red Ratcliffe from the threshold.

"We come to secure peace," said Wayne, and turned in the darkness of the courtyard and whispered, "_kill_."

The hall was aglow with light as they entered. Candles stood in all the sconces of the walls, on the mantel-shelf, on the great dining-table which was pushed close against the outer wall; and, at the head and foot of the Lean Man's bier, a double row of flames shone yellow on the burial-trappings. Over the mantel were the rude letters of the Ratcliffe motto, _We strike, we kill_; and Wayne of Marsh smiled as his eyes fell on the device which he and his had ridden hither to disprove.

Red Ratcliffe caught the direction of his glance, and touched him lightly on the shoulder. "'Tis but an outworn saying, yond," he cried. "We neither strike nor kill, now that the dead has bequeathed us fairer days."

He beckoned toward the bier, and Wayne and all his folk drew round it in a ring, looking down upon the closed eyes and wax-white face of their old enemy. Until now they had doubted whether the Lean Man were really dead; but doubts vanished as they saw the still look of him and marked how death had lent its own nobility to the scarred weasel-face.

"His last prayer was for an end to our long feud," said Red Ratcliffe, smooth and grave.

"Ay, was it--and he wept that he had not lived to see us friends," cried one of his fellows.

Shameless Wayne kept his eyes on the dead man, for fear his scorn of all this honeyed speech should show too soon; and he thought, as Red Ratcliffe spoke, that a tremour like the first waking of a smile ran up from the cloth that bound the Lean Man's jaws. But he could not tell; the candle-flames were slanting now in the wind that rustled through the open door, and the fantastic shadows thrown by them across the bier might trick the keenest sight.

"'Twas wondrous how quiet an end he had--the old hate clean forgotten," went on Red Ratcliffe.

"May all his kinsfolk have as quiet an end," said Wayne, and sighed impatiently, wondering when the signal for the onset would free him from all this give-and-take of idle talk.

Yet he would not hurry to the goal; for if the Ratcliffes thought to lull him into security by delay, the self-same logic taught him likewise to be patient. For Shameless Wayne was cool to-night; his aim was not victory alone, and if one Ratcliffe of them all escaped, he would count himself a beaten man.

A silence followed. The Ratcliffes were glancing sideways at each other, as if asking, "When?"--and one of them, stooping to Red Ratcliffe's ear, whispered, "The door! We have forgot to cut off their retreat."

"The night blows shrewd, friends. Let's shut it out," cried Red Ratcliffe boisterously.

He stopped half toward the door, and fetched an oath, then laughed aloud; for there on the threshold stood little Mistress Wayne, shivering from head to foot.

"By the Mass, we entertain a gentle member of your house, friend Wayne," he said. "Enter, Mistress; there's no peace-cup rightly drunk, they say, unless a woman's lips have touched it."

Wayne frowned on her as she stepped timidly into the room and crossed to where he stood. "How com'st thou here?" he asked.

"I could not leave thee--oh, Ned, I could not leave thee," she whispered. "Dear, thou'lt win with me here to watch thee--and--for Our Lady's sake, get done with it, for I'm sick with doubts and fears."

Red Ratcliffe had already shut the door and slipped the bolts into their staples. And Shameless Wayne looked on and nodded; for he, too, was wishful for closed doors. He had taken advantage of the little woman's entry to draw off the Long Waynes of Cranshaw, the Waynes of Hill House, and his four brothers, from the bier;--they had masked themselves, as if by chance, a little apart from the red-headed host of Ratcliffes, and either side looked for awhile at the other, each hiding their sense of the wild humour of the scene.

Red Ratcliffe was smooth and merry as one who dances at a rout. "Od's life," he cried, "what with the wind, and surety that the dead man's ghost walks cold among us, we need strong liquor. Wayne of Marsh, a bumper with you."