CHAPTER XIII

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*APRIL SNOW*

After a fortnight's softness, with mist winds and child-like trustfulness of breaking apple-blossom, the season had swung back to winter. North to Northwest the wind blew, and its touch was like a stab. The sun, shining day-long out of blue skies, seemed rather a mocking comrade of the wind, for his warmth in shaded corners served only to set a keener edge to the blast that lay in waiting at the next turn. Fields and roads were parched once more, and the dust lay thick as June.

Even Bet Earnshaw, the idle-bones and by-word of Marshcotes village, had been moved to do a spell of work this morning, by way of driving some sort of warmth into her veins; but habit had proved too strong for her, and toward noon she slipped into the Sexton's cottage next door to learn the current gossip from Nanny Witherlee. The wind was at its coldest up the narrow lane that ran between the graveyard and the cottages, and Bet was fain to throw her brown cotton apron over her head as she ran across the few yards that separated door from door. She found Nanny standing at the table, her sleeves rolled up to her elbow and a delf bowl in front of her.

"Well, Nanny, making dumplings?" she said, lifting a corner of her apron and showing a true slattern's face, big, red and empty of the least line of care.

Nanny looked up, still moving her hands briskly among the contents of the bowl. "Ay, we're allus making summat, us mortals--awther food for our bellies or food for th' daisies ower yonder. Step in, Bet, an' for th' Lord's sake shut yond door to."

"Nay, I'm noan for stopping. There's a lot to be done i' a house, but I war that perished I thowt I'd run across, like, an' see if I could find onybody else as cowd as myseln; there's comfort i' that, I've found. Begow, Nanny, 'tis a wonder we're all alive."

"I reckon it is. That's one o' God's miracles, I says, seeing we're tossed fro' winter to summer an' back again, all while th' clock is striking twelve. They tell me there war th' keenest frost last neet we've hed for a twelvemonth."

"'Tis cruel, cruel," said Bet, moving with her usual zigzag shiftlessness toward the settle and spreading her hands out to the fire. "I war fair capped to see thy man Witherlee crossing to the kirkyard a while back. He's too bone-thin, is Witherlee, to stand up agen a wind like this."

"Ay, he's getten a peffing cough that ye could hear fro' this to Lancashire, but he willun't be telled. He like as he cannot bide still onywhere out o' touch wi' his graves.--How's yond bairn o' thine, Bet?"

"She's nobbut poorly. Th' wind hes nipped her fair as if it hed set finger an' thumb to her innards. Eh, but I fear for th' little un, that I do!"

"What does th' leech say, like?"

"What does leeches say? She mud get weel again, an' she mud dee. As if I couldn't hev telled him as mich myseln. I allus did say there war no brass so easy addled as what them leeches put i' their breeches pockets."

Nanny turned from her baking-bowl. "Leeches is nobbut mortal, same as me an' thee. How should they be ony mak o' use? But there's healing goes wi' them as is fairy-kist, and axe Mistress Wayne to come an touch th' bairn--she'll do more nor all th' leeches 'at iver swopped big words for brass."

"Well, I've thowt on 't mony a time sin' yesterday; but I feared she'd tak it amiss, like, if I axed her. I war aye chary a' th' gentlefolk whether they've getten full wits or none at all."

"I've no call to speak a gooid word for Mistress Wayne, seeing what she did to th' owd Maister; but I will say this, Bet--she's getten no mucky pride about her now. She's that friendly wi' Witherlee they mud hev shared th' same porridge-bowl sin' being babbies, an' I warrant she'll heal that bairn o' thine as sooin as axe her."

"I'll tak thy word for 't, Nanny, that I will; an' th' first chance I get, I'll slip me dahn to Marsh."

"That's like thee!" cried the other sharply. "Th' first chance tha gets! Niver thinking th' little un may dee while tha'rt standing havy-cavy 'twixt will an' willun't.--There's somebody coming up th' loin. Now who mud it be, I wonder?"

Nanny's table stood just underneath the window, lest she should miss any detail of the life that passed her door. She craned her neck forward as the rumble of a cart came up the lane, and Bet the slattern ran to peep behind her shoulder.

"Why, if there isn't Hiram Hey!" cried the Sexton's wife, as the cart pulled up at the door and Hiram's knobby face, pinched now and tightened by the cold, peered in through the dusty glass.

"By th' Heart, his face looks foul enough to break th' window-panes. Eh, eh, he's a rum un, is Hiram. They say i' Marshcotes there's nobbut one can match thee, Nanny, an' that's Hiram Hey."

"They'll say owt i' Marshcotes. What should he be stopping here for, think'st 'a, Bet?"

Hiram ceased peering in at the window and opened the door as guardedly as if he feared an ambush.

"I've brought thee some peats fro' Marsh," he said, letting a stream of cold air in with him.

"Ay, an' tha's brought a mort o' cold air, an' all," cried Nanny.

"Well, th' peats 'ull cure that, willun't they?" retorted Hiram.

Nanny went to the cart and turned over the topmost sods; for in Marshcotes they always looked a gift horse in the mouth. "I allus did say th' young Maister war more thowtful-like nor ony lad I've happened on afore. I war dahn at Marsh yestreen, an' I chanced to say summat about being short o' peats----"

"If nobbut shows his want o' sense," growled Hiram. "We shall be short afore we've done wi' this mucky weather. Just like th' Maister, just! Th' Ratcliffes came a two-week sin', an' wasted th' fuel summat fearful by piling it agen th' doors; an' so, thinks th' Maister, when th' shed is nigh empty he cannot find a better time to go scattering peats all up an' dahn th' moorside."

"They say it war Hiram Hey hisseln that telled Red Ratcliffe where to find th' peats," put in the Sexton's wife.

"Begow, who telled thee, Nanny? I thowt I'd kept a close mouth on 't."

"Well, news goes wi' th' wind, as they say, an' it's all ower th' parish by now how wise Hiram war fooled by a Ratcliffe."

Hiram moved to the door. "Dang it, I wish folk hed as mich to do as me, an' then they'd hev no time for gossip," he growled.--"Where mun I stack thy peats, Nanny?"

"I' th' cellar-hole, for sure. Where else?--But tha'd mebbe like a sup o' home-brewed, Hiram, afore tha unloads 'em?"

"I doan't care so mich if I do. I'm nowt at drinking myseln, but there's a time for all things, an' 'tis a body's plain duty to keep th' cowd out on a day like this. Gi'e us hod o' them tatie-sacks, Nanny; it'll be th' death o' yond owd hoss if he's left wi' niver a coat to his back."

Hiram was never gentle save with horses; but he covered the thick thewed beast as carefully as if it were an ailing good-wife.

"Tha daft owd fooil!" he muttered with rough tenderness. "'Twould niver do to let thee catch Browntitus, wod it, now?"

"'Tis nowt whether we catch th' 'Titus, seemingly," cried Nanny from within. "I'll get thee thy sup of ale this minute, lad, if tha'll nobbut shut th' door to."

Hiram did as he was bidden, and came and leaned over the lang-settle while he watched Nanny draw the ale from the barrel standing against the dresser. "If this fine spring weather 'ull nobbut skift afore, say th' back-end o' July," he went on, "we may hev crops enough to keep us wick. But I doubt it--ay, I doubt it."

And then, having shot his bolt at the old enemy, he settled himself placidly enough to his mug of home-brewed.

"Well, tha'll be well fund i' peats, Nanny," said Bet the slattern presently.

"It's varry thowtful, like, o' th' Maister," repeated the Sexton's wife, with another glance at the waiting cart.

"Ay, he's thowtful," put in Hiram grimly. "What dost think he did last week? I war so pinched wi' th' cowd, an' th' rheumatiz hed getten hod o' me so, what wi' sweating i' th' sun an' shivering at after i' th' wind, 'at I left a bit o' ploughing i' one o' th' high-fields. But, hoity-toity, that wodn't do for this keen young Maister, that didn't knaw oats fro' wheat a six-month sin'. I war up an' about th' next day; an' when I gets to th' field, thinking I'd look round a bit afore fetching th' plough, what should I find but th' Maister hisseln ploughing----"

"My sakes!" cried Nanny, lifting her floury hands. "They mud weel say i' Marshcotes that summat hes come to th' lad. Did he drive a straight furrow, like?"

"Well, he did," Hiram admitted grudgingly. "Eh, but I war mad! He nobbut looked at me once, an' he said niver a word, but went up an' dahn th' furrows, up an' dahn, till I could hev clouted him i' th' lugs. That's his way lately; he willun't rate me, or say 'at he wants this doing or wants that--he just taks hod hisseln, an' shames me into doing twice th' wark I did for his father."

"Where did he learn it all? He studied nowt save th' inside of a pewter-pot afore th' trouble began," said Betsy.

"That's what worrits me. I mind that as a lad he war all about th' fields, doing a bit here an' a bit there for sport when th' fancy took him; but he mun be a wick un to frame as he does at jobs nowadays. That's where 'tis; I think nowt on him, I allus hev said, an' he's no business to go farming like an owd hand."

"He's sticking at Marsh, seemingly, spite of all I've dinned at him to go to Cranshaw, where his cousins wod be glad to gi'e him shelter," said Nanny.

Hiram chuckled. "Well, if he stood up agen thy nattering, he mun be a staunch un. An' I will say this for th' lad--he's showing th' right sperrit there. There's none at Marsh but wod hev thowt less on him if he'd turned tail, choose what's to come."

"There's none at Marsh wi' a feather-weight o' wit, then," returned Nanny briskly. "Warn't it enough 'at they nigh burned th' house dahn----"

"A miss is as gooid as a mile. Ye may tak my word for 't, we'll see th' Waynes come a-top when th' moil is sattled. Th' young uns, Maister Griff an' t' others, is stiffening fine, an' all."

"I've heard as mich," said Bet. "They like as they saved th' owd place t' other neet, so I war telled."

"Eh, it war worth a load o' clover to hear how yond lad picked up one o' th' gate-stuns an' skifted th' Lean Man wi' 't. I war i' th' courtyard next morn, an' Shameless Wayne taks th' ball i' his hands an' turns it ower; an' I never see'd ony chap look so pleased-like an' proud as he looks at me. 'Hiram,' says he, ''tis a tidy weight to lift, this. I warrant yond lad couldn't do it again in a cool moment.' ''Tis a pity he hedn't a bit more strength,' says I, 'an' then he'd hev bruk th' Lean Man his backbone,' I says.--Well, tis a two-week sin' an' better, an' we've heard nowt no more fro' Wildwater. They got a bellyful that neet, I'm thinking."

"Ye can think too sooin, as th' saying is," put in Nanny. "Th' Lean Man is like them crawly hundred-legs 'at ye find i' th' walls--th' more bits ye cut him into, th' more bits there is to wriggle--each wi' bits o' legs of its own, an' all, to carry it into mischief."

"Ay, but they say he wears a daunted look," put in the slattern, stirring the peats with her foot. "Jonas Feather at th' Bull see'd him riding through Marshcotes awhile back, an' he niver stayed for a wet-your-whistle--just rode wi' slouched shoulders, an' a sort o' looseness i' his knees, an' ivery now an' then a speedy backard look ower his shoulders, as if----"

Nanny turned suddenly, a queer smile pinching her thin old face. "As if th' Dog war after him," she finished. "I knew how 'twould be--ay, I knew."

"Well, I niver see'd Barguest myseln, an' I doan't fancy I iver shall," said Hiram drily. "But there's a change come to th' Lean Man, for sure, an' iverybody is beginning to tak notice o' 't. Sometimes he's his old self, an' sometimes he fair dithers--an' by that token he's i' Marshcotes this morn, for I catched a sight of his back as I cam up th' hill."

"I may hev my own opinion o' th' Lean Man," broke in Bet Earnshaw, "but my man Earnshaw hes part work fro' Wildwater this winter, an' there'll mebbe be another spell i' store for him, now 'at there's so mich walling to be done on th' new intaken land."

"Earnshaw get work? Why, whativer would he do wi' 't, if he got it?" cried Hiram, with well-feigned amazement. "He'd drop it, I'm thinking, same as if 'twere a ferret, for fear it 'ud bite him."

"Now, Hiram--" began Bet.

But Hiram looked at her with large and fatherly contempt over the edge of his pewter, and his low deep voice vanquished the other's thinner note. "Well, th' young Maister is weel out o' what chanced to-neet at Marsh," he went on. "Yond bother all came of his marlaking wi' a Ratcliffe wench, an' I said to myseln afore iver th' Ratcliffes come. 'There'll be a judgment follow on sich light ways,' I says."

"A bonnie un tha art to talk," said Nanny. "What's this about thee an' Martha?"

Hiram fidgetted from one foot to the other. "What should there be?" he said.

"Nay, that's for thee to say. It's all ower Marshcotes 'at tha'rt looking after her; an' some says she willun't hev thee, being keen set on shepherd Jose."

"Owd fooil! She's niver looked twice his way--no, nor will do while Hiram Hey stands i' th' forefront of her een."

"Oh, so there's summat in 't, then?" said Nanny sharply.

Hiram, driven to bay, scratched his thinning crown and muttered that he was "allus backard i' coming forrard."

"Begow, there's little Mistress Wayne!" cried Nanny on the sudden as her busy eyes caught sight of a cloaked figure going past her window to the graveyard. "What a day for th' likes o' her to be out o' doors. There's snow coming up wi' th' wind, an' fond as she is to hev her bit of a crack wi' Witherlee, she mud better hev stopped i' th' house to-day. It'll save thee going to Marsh, howsiver, Bet; tha can axe her what tha wants, an' nowt no more about it."

"Tha'rt right, Nanny. I'll watch for her coming back--she willun't be long, I warrant, on sich a day as this. They say she spends a lot o' time i' th' kirkyard, poor soul."

"Ay, Witherlee an' her is birds of a feather--fuller o' dreams nor life, an' i' touch, so to say, wi' th' ghosties. He tells her tales by th' hour together o' what he's seen i' th' kirkyard; an' she listens like a bairn, saying a word now an' then, but mostly sitting dumb-like wi' her een fixed on his face."

Hiram went to the door and watched Mistress Wayne go through the graveyard wicket; then shook his head soberly. "A man has little left to believe in when he gets to my years," he said, "an' ghosts an' sich like is nowt i' my way; but 'tis gooid for th' young Maister 'at yond poor soul cleaves like a lapdog to him--they bring luck, there's no denying it, to them as they tak a fancy to."

"They bring luck, an' they bring healing," said the Sexton's wife with a glance at her neighbour.

"Now, Nanny," cried the farm-man, setting down his mug. "Dost think I've getten all th' morning to waste on thee an' thy peats? There's nowt like wenches for hindering wark; an' time's like milk--tha cannot pick it up again when 'tis spilled."

"Well, tha canst win forrard," said the Sexton's wife. "There's nobody hindering thee, is there?"

While Hiram settled to the work of unloading the peats and storing them in the roomy cellar that underlay Nanny's cottage, Mistress Wayne was wandering up and down the churchyard in search of Sexton Witherlee. The Sexton came out of his tool-house presently, and his eyes were exceedingly friendly as they fell on the little figure moving through the snowflakes.

"What, Mistress!" he cried. "Ye're noan flaired o' wind an' weather, seemingly."

"Good-morrow, Sexton. I've brought thee the first of the primroses," said Mistress Wayne, drawing a tiny bunch of half-opened buds from under her cloak.

"Now, that's varry kindly o' ye, Mistress, varry kindly," murmured Witherlee, laying the flowers in his open palm. "By th' Heart, but 'tis a queer world these little chaps hes oppened on to; thowt it war spring, they did, wi' winds as soft as butter--an' then, just as they've getten nicely unwrapped, like, th' winter is dahn on 'em again wi' a snarl. Ay, ay, th winter is allus carred behind some corner, like a cat wi' a mouse, ready to pounce on sich frail things as these." He glanced from the primroses to Mistress Wayne, as if she and they came under the one head of frailty.

"They were better gathered, Sexton; I found them in a sheltered nook of the Marsh garden--but oh, 'twas cold even there--they were better gathered, were they not?"

"To be sure, to be sure. We're all better gathered nor standing on our stems, as these quiet bodies under sod could tell ye if they'd getten tongues.--Theer, Mistress! Ye're shaking like a reed. Come ye wi' me under th' Parsonage yonder, if ye mun bide a bit; 'tis out o' th' wind."

"Oh, yes, 'tis warmer here--much warmer," she said, seating herself on a flat tombstone that stood against the wall and making a pretty motion to the Sexton that he should sit beside her.

The snow fell sparsely out of the blue, and the sun was bright; but overhead the peewits wheeled in narrowing circles, and prophecy of storm was in their cries.

"Tell me," began Mistress Wayne, after a long silence. "The folk sleeping here--if they had tongues, thou said'st, Sexton; have they not, then? I thought--" she stopped, and lifted two puzzled eyes to his.

The Sexton's face grew wrapt, and his voice came dreamily. "Ye thowt--nay, ye knew--that they could frame to talk as weel as me an' ye? An' so they can, Mistress. Hark to th' peewits up aboon us! There's a dead maid's sperrit wakes i' each o' yon drear birds. White breasts they've getten, for maidenhood, an' black cloaks i' sign o' sorrow niver-ending."

The little woman shivered and put her hand more closely into his. "The dead are rested, Sexton? Is't not so?" she whispered.

"Well, men sleep sound, body an' sperrit, i' a general way, an' so do wedded women: 'tis the lassies who died afore wedlock, wanting it that cannot rest; ay, poor bairns, they like as they hunger an' thirst for what they lacked, an' nowt 'ull do for 'em. See ye, Mistress! How th' teewits wheel an' wheel, niver resting. An' hark ye! There's Mary Mother's own wild sorrow i' their screams."

Mistress Wayne watched the birds glance white and black across the sun-rays. A score of them there might be, but each followed its own path, lonely, untiring, inconsolable. A strange light came into the little woman's eyes, and after it a cloud of tears; like the voice of fellow-captives, in life's prison-house, the plover's cry struck home to her, disentangling memory from phantasy. Still as the graveyard stones she sat, and the Sexton, stealing a glance at her, knew that this woman stood, like himself, on the thin edge of life, seeing both worlds yet finding a resting-place in neither.

"Will they never find peace, those white-breasted ghosts up yonder?" she whispered. "Is there no God to take pity on them? Sexton, is there no God in Heaven?"

"I've heard tell on Him," said Witherlee slowly, "but I niver hed speech nor sign fro' Him. Th' slim ghosts I knaw, an' th' solid look o' grave-planking I knaw--but I'm dim, Mistress, dim, when ye axe me of owt else. Nay, I've heard th' teewits fret iver sin' I war out o' th' cradle, an' they're fretting still; an' when there comes a fresh Sexton to Marshcotes--I'll be th' first to mak him sweat at grave-digging, likely--why, there'll be teewits wheeling still aboon his head."

Her eyes were lifted piteously to his. "'Tis that keeps them sleeping--to die before wedlock, and never to feel a bairn's mouth soft against their own. I shall be one of them soon, Sexton--very soon; it was to have been my wedding-day--" she passed a hand across her forehead, striving to pick up the thread that seemed for ever slipping from her grasp.

"Happen--happen there's a God hid somewhere," said Witherlee, in the tone of one who tells a fairy-story to a child. "I reckon, if there be, He'll look thy way, Mistress, afore so long. Tak heart, an'--"

The clue was coming nearer to her. "Nay, there's no God up there, Sexton," she broke in. "I left Him--years ago, surely--down in the sweet valley-lands. There were woods, and streams, and kine knee-deep among the swaying grasses; and the winds were warm, Sexton, and God was very kind. I was happy then, I think--but some one came and took me away--nay, it has gone again!" She paused and looked wistfully across the hills.

"I've heard o' th' Low Country," murmured Witherlee. "They say there's more warmth an' ease dahn there, but th' fowk is nobbut frail-like wi' it all, I fancy. Ay, an' I war telled, by one 'at hed been i' them furrin parts an' come back to Marshcotes, that th' meadow-grass there, for all it grows so thick, is rank an' noan so sweet as our hard-won crops up here. Well, well, there's some mun live lower nor Marshcotes, just as there's some mun carry weakly bodies their lives through."

Mistress Wayne did not hear him. Her eyes were still on the field climbing far-off to the sky, with their black walls and the white lines of snow that lay on the windward side of them. "It was like that, Sexton, when first I came here," she went on presently, pointing with her finger. "Naught but black walls, and white drifts of snow, and drear houses that seemed to scowl at you each time you crossed the threshold. And the people were all so rough and hard, and fierce--they frightened me--Sexton, shall I never again get down to the meadows and the nightingales and the sweetbriar hedges under which the violets grow?"

"To be sure ye will, sooin as th' weather 'ull let ye travel," said Witherlee kindly.--"An' now ye've stayed still long enough, Mistress, an' th' snaw is coming dahn i' earnest this time. Mebbe ye'll step inside wi' me till it's owered wi', an' Nanny shall mak ye a sup o' summat warm."

Hiram Hey, meanwhile, had just finished stacking Nanny's peats for her, and was beginning to back his horse down the narrow lane, when there came such a fury of wind and snow together that he was fain to shelter in the doorway.

"Look out o' window, Nanny," he cried, "for ye'll noan see th' like again for a week o' years. Sun an' wind--an' th' dust so thick among th' snowflakes 'at it turns 'em grey. By th' Heart, I nobbut once see'd dust an' snaw so thick together, an' that war a score year back, on th' varry day when th' Ratcliffes first set on th' Waynes as they war riding back fro' Saxilton market. Ay, 'tis a sign as sure as I stand here wi' th' wind cutting me to th' bone."

"April snow," muttered Bet the slattern. "They say it means drear happenings."

"'Tis a fearsome sight, whativer it bodes," said Nanny, peeping from under Hiram's arm.--"Here's Witherlee been driven home by it, an' it taks a lot to skift him, I tell ye. What, an' he's bringing th' little fairy-kist un, an' all? Well, she's paid a stiffish price, poor bairn, an' it's noan for me to grudge her shelter."

Hiram, after a curt nod to Witherlee, went to his horse's head. "There'll be enough to fill Nanny's kitchen without me, I'm thinking," he muttered; "an' I niver could bide so many women all dickering together--nay, begow, I'd liefer hev snow an' dust an' all th' winds i' th' sky."

A horseman came trotting round the bend of the street, and shouted to Hiram to cease backing his horse and leave him room to pass. But the farm-man could be as deaf as a stone when it suited his purpose; he had seen the rust-grey head and lean body of the horseman, and he kept on his way, backing the cart more slowly than was needful until he gained the open high-road.

The Lean Man was holding his big bay horse on the curb and scarce could keep him in. "Art deaf, fellow?" he snapped, swinging the butt of his riding whip toward the other's head.

Hiram went quietly to the other side of his horse and looked across at the Lean Man of Wildwater. "My hearing is noan what it war, Maister. War it ye shouting to me up th' loin?"

"Ay, was it. Dost think I'm minded on such a day as this, to stand shivering at the lane-end while thou block'st the way?--So, 'tis thou, is it?" he broke off, with a sharper glance at Hiram. "I thought that slouch of thine was woundily familiar. Art minded to boast of the great store of peats ye have at Marsh, as thou didst not long since to my grandson?"

Hiram winced, for it was bitter to him still to think how easily Red Ratcliffe had outwitted him, and Nanny's late banter had rubbed an old wound raw. "We've fewer peats, Maister," he said slowly--"but th' owd house stands, I've noticed. Ay, 'tis proof agen fire an' sword, they say."

Old Nicholas could make nothing of the farm-man's stolid front. "Cherish that belief, and teach it to thy Master," he said.

"Nay, he needs no teaching. He knaws, weel as I can tell him, that a Brown Dog ligs on th' threshold, an'----"

The Lean Man loosed the curb on a sudden and rode into the snowstorm that blew dusty up the lane.

"I thowt he wodn't stay to hear no more," said Hiram to his horse. "Get on, old lad, an' if we find Shameless Wayne at Marsh, we'll tell him what we said to Nicholas Weasel-toppin. He's flaired is th' Lean Man--flaired."

Bet the slattern had moved to the cottage-door soon as she saw Mistress Wayne come through the churchyard gate with Witherlee.

"There's summat I want to axe of ye, Mistress," she said, twisting an apron-corner in her feckless hands. "I've getten a little un as is like to dee o' th' Brown Titus, an' I thowt mebbe ye'd step in next door here an' gi'e th' bairn a touch o' your hand--they like as they pike up, so to say, when they feel a softer hand on 'em nor us that wark for our bread hev getten."

The same half-troubled, half-eager look came into Mistress Wayne's face as when she had lately talked with the Sexton of children and the childless women. Cold as she was, and anxious for the warmth of the peat fire which showed through Nanny's open door, she turned on the threshold.

"If 'twill comfort the child, I'll come with thee and gladly," she said.

"Ay, an' ye'll cure her, Mistress," put in Witherlee, with quiet assurance.

"Why do all the folk come running to me, Sexton, when their friends are sick?" asked Mistress Wayne. "I am so weak and can do nothing for them, and yet--" She stopped and clutched the old man. "Look who rides toward us!" she cried, shrinking behind Bet's bulky figure. "His face is scarred as if hot iron had played across it, and he lacks an ear. I know him, Sexton; he was cruel to me once--but where? 'Tis long ago, and I forget."

"Th' Lean Man, begow!" muttered Nanny. "Hiram said he war i' Marshcotes, but I niver thowt he'd foul my door-stun wi' his face.--Ay, he looks daunted a bit; he's not half th' man he war a two-week sin'," she added, eyeing the horseman narrowly and not guessing that Hiram Hey himself had added his straw to the sum of the Lean Man's burden.

Nicholas, seeing the women grouped round the door, drew rein and snapped his words out as he always did when talking to the country-folk--a habit that had earned him a good half of their ill-concealed dislike.

"Where is thy man Earnshaw? I want him," he said, frowning down on Bet.

"Earnshaw, Maister? I'm sure I cannot tell ye. He's hed no wark these two weeks past, an' happen he gets into loosish ways when----"

"Well, tell him from me that we're short of hands for the walling beyond Wildwater, and the sooner he can come with a stiff back to the work, the better I shall be suited. If he knows of half-a-dozen other stout fellows, he can bring them with him." He was turning away when his eyes fell on little Mistress Wayne, shrinking close behind Bet Earnshaw. "Oh, is it you, Mistress?" he cried. "What brings you out of doors on such a day? Marry, the wind will mistake you for a bit of thistle-down unless you have a care."

"I--I am going to heal a sick child," stammered Mistress Wayne. Still she could not remember when she had last seen this grim-faced man, nor in what way he had shown her cruelty; but instinctively she feared that he would do her some fresh hurt.

Nicholas laughed mightily. "By the Mass, so there's healing in your touch? Would I had known that the other night, when your kin at Marsh planted these pretty love-tokens on my face." He pointed to the scarce-healed scars. "Come, now, that should bolster the Wayne pride--to have a wise woman in the family to set against a foolish master."

The Sexton's wife dared not look at him, lest he should see how she itched to set her hands about his throat; but her voice confessed as much. "'Tis easy to scoff, Maister, when ye've no clouds across your sun, an' there's a mony doubts nowadays. Ay, there's them as doubts Barguest even--afore he's crossed their path." She shot a sideways glance at him, and saw that she had aimed true.

"He has never crossed mine, woman, so I'll be on the doubting side yet awhile," he answered, after a silence.

"Well, ye'll know best; but ye've crossed Barguest, if he's noan crossed ye, an' they say it's mich like wedlock, is crossing th' Brown Dog--him an' ye till death do ye part. But theer! I've telled ye as mich afore, an' happen I'm full o' fancies, for ye say ye've niver seen him sin' that neet."

Nicholas Ratcliffe wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve, and gave one quick glance behind him. Whichever way he turned, it seemed he could not rid him of these folk who talked of Barguest.

"Devil take thee!" he cried. "There's no such thing--and if there were I'd fight him with a dozen Waynes to back him. Get to your healing, Mistress Wayne; you are fit company for Nanny Witherlee."

Mistress Wayne eyed him doubtfully. "No such thing as Barguest?" she said gravely. "Sir, I have seen him--just before the fires were lit about the Marsh doorways, it was, and I was in the garden with Ned, and the Brown Dog came and fawned on him,--his coat was shaggy--brown against Ned's clothes. And he whimpered so; and I think it was because he was cold and in trouble that he lit a fire to warm himself."

The Lean Man's anger melted; something awesome there was about this woman's quiet recountal that compelled belief. "You--you saw him?" he whispered. Then his old spirit quelled the rising terror, and he gripped the saddle afresh with his knees. "Tell him from me then, since you're friendly to him," he sneered, jerking the snaffle, "tell him that Nicholas Ratcliffe fears neither ghost nor man, and if Barguest cares to visit him at Wildwater--" The rest was drowned by the clatter of his horse's feet as he galloped down the lane.

"Neither ghost nor man?" echoed Nanny. "Ye're th' far side o' th' truth, there, Maister. I niver heard that ye feared man born o' woman--but ony one can see that Barguest hes getten his teeth in."

"Sakes, 'tis fearsome talk; I wish tha'd hod thy whisht, Nanny, that I do," twittered Bet Earnshaw.

But Nanny was no bustling housewife now, with a ready hand for whatever was to be done and a ready tongue to answer any speech; she was the same dream-eyed woman who had rung the bell for Wayne of Marsh, who had watched Wayne's body the night through and listened to the speech of other worlds.

"Mistress, ye've getten th' second-sight," she said softly, putting an arm about Mistress Wayne. "God rest ye, for ye'll stand 'twixt Shameless Wayne and trouble one day. Mistress Nell has done it, an' I've done it, an' so will ye, sooin or late; an' yourn 'ull be th' greatest help of all, for ye've seen th' Dog, while we've nobbut heard th' patter of his feet."

*