CHAPTER XXIII

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*HOW WAYNE KEPT FAITH*

Nell Wayne, prisoned close in the little room at Wildwater which looked out from its narrow, cobwebbed window upon the waste of Ling Crag Moor, watched the sun lower hour by hour--watched him change from white to yellow, from yellow to full sunset red--watched the heath grow gloaming-dim and lighten again at the bidding of the white-faced moon. But still her captors made no sign, and still she was racked with fear lest each moment should bring Ned on a forlorn hope of rescue. The very nearness of the moor, with its far-reaching air of freedom, seemed but an added mockery; yet every now and then she turned anew to the window, and rubbed it freer each time of dust and cobwebs, and looked out eagerly in search of the help that would not come. From time to time she wondered what had chanced to the girl who had made her such fair promises of deliverance; and then she told herself that Janet, after all, had been but mocking her.

"'Tis sharp," she murmured, fingering the dagger which Janet had left with her. "There'll be time, it may be, for two fair strokes--one in Red Ratcliffe's heart and another in my own. Love of the Virgin, do I care so much for life, when all's said? The days have not run so smooth of late that I covet more of them."

A bat, fluttering unclean out of the pregnant night, swept against the window-pane, startling the girl out of her musings. For a moment it hovered there, and the moonlight showed her its dark wings, its evil head and twinkling, star-bright eyes.

"'Tis a vampire," she whispered, crossing herself. "They say the pool breeds such. What if it should break through----"

She lost her fanciful terror and turned sharply to the door; for the Lean Man's voice mingled with Red Ratcliffe's in the passage without, and her brother's name was on their lips.

"I tell you, sir, Wayne loves the girl," said Red Ratcliffe testily; "he had liefer do himself a wanton hurt than Janet, and 'tis a fool's bargain to let Nell Wayne go in exchange for her."

"And I tell thee, puppy, that thou know'st little of Wayne nowadays. We've killed his courtesy, and there's naught he'll stick at--naught. I said he would find a way out--I said 'twas useless striving----"

"And useless it is like to be if we meet him always in this spirit."

"Fool! We have met him all ways--with light hearts and with heavy, with force and guile, with many men and few--Give me the key!" he broke off roughly. "This girl goes scatheless--and for her safer conduct I'll take her down myself to Marsh."

Nell caught her breath as she listened to the voices, raised high in dispute, which spoke to her of safety. Was she mazed with the long confinement, or were the voices real?

"Then you are willing, sir, to accept so curt and uncivil a message as Wayne sent hither?" went on Red Ratcliffe, sullenly. "You are willing to give them cause for boasting--ay, and to put your own life in their hands by going to Marsh? The messenger we sent returns not--will Wayne do less to you?"

"The messenger is not slain that we know of; he may be drinking in some wayside tavern, for unless he were a very fool his horsemanship would carry him free of Wayne after he had shouted his message, as I bade him, from the lane."

"Well, he comes not back. And you, sir? Is your life of such little moment to us----"

"Thou'rt a babe," broke in the Lean Man. "Some things a Wayne will do for the feud's sake, and some he could not do. He has promised safe conduct, and if I go down with the lass, I shall return in safety. The Waynes--plague rot them!--keep faith, whatever else they do or leave undone."

At a loss still to comprehend the meaning of it, Nell was conscious of a flush of pride. Even their foes, it seemed, gave her folk credit for scrupulous observance of their word--ay, the Lean Man admitted it, steeped as he was in subtlety and lies. But how came this about? Had Janet, in trying to save her been captured by Shameless Wayne? It must be so. A quick thought came to her then, that Ned could not love the girl so madly, after all, if he were willing to make her a cat's-paw with which to outwit his adversaries.

She was still turning the thought over, well pleased with it, when the voices in the passage ceased disputing; the key grated in the lock, and the door moved slowly open.

"Come with me, Mistress Wayne; there's a horse ready saddled to take you down to Marsh," said the Lean Man.

"Sir, am I free? Or is this a fresh trick, to make my case seem harder for a sight of freedom?"

"'Tis no trick. Come, Mistress! Time slips by, and there's one awaiting me at Marsh who's worth fifty such as thou."

His gruffness pleased her, for it rang true; and so, without question or demur, she followed him down the passage and out into the courtyard. He lifted her to the saddle, mounted the big bay that always carried him, and together they rode out in silence across the moor. The moon glanced silver-black across the heather; the gullies were full of whispering winds, alive with the sob and fret of running water; and more than once the Lean Man shivered, as if the night's quiet eeriness weighed heavy on his fears.

"How comes all this?" asked Nell, as they drew near to Barguest Lane.

"Ask your folk that, Mistress. A message came through one of my hinds that Janet was held at Marsh; your safety was matched 'gainst hers; it is no good-will of mine that has brought you hither.--Yonder is Marsh," he broke off, pointing down the hill. "Lord God, how I hate the fair, quiet look of it!"

"We are honoured by such hate, sir," said Nell.--"Have a care! The road is sadly over-full of stones," she added, as the bay horse stumbled badly.

The dead Ratcliffe had been taken indoors, and neither Nicholas nor his companion had leisure to note the signs of bloodshed that lay this side the closed gate of the courtyard.

"A Ratcliffe! A Ratcliffe!" yelled the Lean Man, with a thought that the old cry would bring them quickly to the gate.

And soon, indeed, there was a rush of feet across the courtyard, a rattle of swords snatched hastily from the scabbard, the hum of many voices.

"Peste! The whole swarm has settled in the Marsh hive," muttered Nicholas, glancing doubtfully at Nell. "Was I a fool, then, to trust to the Wayne honour?"

"No man has ever repented such folly, sir. If you raise the feud-cry to win peaceable entry, can you grumble that they come out armed to welcome you?"

He hesitated, wondering whether to take Nell's bridle and make a dash for safety. But the gates were flung wide open before he could turn, and Shameless Wayne stood bareheaded in the moonlight, a score of his folk behind him. Wayne stopped on seeing the Lean Man alone with Nell, and his sword, half-lifted, fell trailing to the ground.

"Do you come in peace?" he asked.

"I come in peace," answered the Lean Man bitterly. "Give me your captive, Wayne of Marsh, and take your sister."

"Was this your doing, Nicholas Ratcliffe?" went on the other. "Was it you who carried Mistress Nell to Wildwater?"

Nicholas found a sour pleasure in assuming a credit that was not rightly his. "'Twas my doing," he answered hardily. And the Waynes, seeing him stand fearless before the score of them, sent up a low murmur of applause.

"Then mark well the oath I swear. By the Brown Dog, I'll hunt you day and night, and night and day, till I force combat from you. Get ye gone, lean thief, lest I break faith and fall upon you now."

"And if Ned fails, then I'll take on the hunt," cried Rolf Wayne of Cranshaw, stepping forward.

The Lean Man cast a scared glance across the courtyard at mention of the Dog. He could see the wide doorway of the house, dark in the mellow moonlight, and he recalled the hour when he had ridden down to fix the badge of feud above the threshold and had unwittingly crossed Barguest as he drove home the nail. A deadly faintness seized him; but the hated folk were watching him, and he forced the weakness off.

"Hunt when ye will, and where ye will; I shall be ready," he answered, and led Nell's horse with great show of ceremony into the yard, and put the bridle into her brother's hand.--"Now, sir, make good your own half of the bargain."

A shadow crossed Wayne's face, as he turned and moved silently toward the house. Nell would have entered with him, but he checked her roughly.

"I have a word for Mistress Janet's ear," he said.

On a sudden the meaning of her unlooked-for escape grew clear to her. Janet had gone of her own free-will to Marsh, and it needed but a glance at Ned's face to tell her what had followed the girl's coming. The joy of freedom, her gladness in returning to the home she had scarce looked to see again, died out; she was supplanted, and by one whom it was dishonour for a Wayne to touch.

Janet was not in hall, but Wayne found her, after a hurried search, standing at the garden-door, plucking the roses that grew above her head and tearing them to pieces one by one.

"Thou--must go, Janet," he said, touching her on the arm.

"Yes," she answered dully.

"The Lean man is at the gate; he has brought Nell with him."

"Yes, Ned."

"God, lass, how _dare_ I let thee out of sight!" he cried, his studied coldness breaking down.

Something of the devil that is in every woman prompted the girl to tempt him. He had mastered her, and even yet she grudged it him; there would be a sort of reprisal in trying his strength to the utmost.

"Keep me, Ned," she whispered. "Keep me, dear, and think no shame to break faith with a Ratcliffe.--Hark, Ned, how soft the garden-breezes are--and the roses; are they not heavy on the air? Let's wander down among them, and talk of the days to come."

Her heart failed her as she saw his agony. He did not glance at her, nor speak, but stood looking straight before him as he put honour in the balance and marvelled that it weighed so light.

"Is that thy wish, girl?" he asked hoarsely.

"Nay, 'tis neither thy wish nor mine," she cried with a troubled laugh. "Forgive me, Ned; I--I tempted thee for wantonness. There! Bid me farewell, dear; 'tis idle to make the parting harder."

As they gained the hall he stopped, and held his arms wide for her. "Once again, Janet--_thy master_," he muttered.

"_My master_--to the end, dear lad. There shall none take thy place, however ill it fares with me; and when need comes, I'll send for thee.--But, Ned, thou'lt promise to do naught rash? Move slowly--and wait till I can come to thee with the best chance of safety."

She slipped from his grasp and ran quickly out, brushing against Nell Wayne as she crossed to the gate.

"Good even to you, Mistress. Shall I offer thanks for the night's work you've done?" said Nell.

"I should accept none," answered the other, in the same hard voice.

The Waynes opened their ranks to let her pass through, and one offered her a hand to mount by; and just as they were starting, Shameless Wayne came to the Lean Man's crupper, a brimming flagon in his hands.

"You came in peace, and I'll not have it said you lacked any of the usages of peace," said Wayne, holding the flagon up.

"My faith, you traffic in niceties!" muttered the Lean Man. "'Tis the first wine-cup any of your house has offered me these score years past."

"And 'twill be the last, belike, for another score; so drink deep, sir, while you have the chance."

Nicholas turned the flagon upside down with sudden spleen, and watched the stones darken as the wine splashed on to them. "When I drink out of your cup, Wayne of Marsh," he said, "I shall lack wine more than ever I lacked it yet."

They set off, he and Janet, and once only the girl turned for a last look at Wayne.

He watched them ride over the crest of Barguest Lane, and his lips moved to the instinctive cry, "Come back, come back!" And when his kinsfolk presently began to talk of riding home, since there would be no further need of them for that night at least, he did not urge them stay and pledge Nell's safe return. He wished to be alone with the madness that had fallen on him, wished to take counsel how to rive Janet once for all from Wildwater, and marry her, and hold her in despite of his folk and her own.

He stood idly in the courtyard while they got to horse, and Nell, seeing him apart from the rest, came to his side.

"So thou hast let all else go--all save Janet?" she said.

"Ay, I have let all else go," he answered; "and if thou canst say aught against it, Nell, after she has plucked thee out of certain ruin--why, thou'rt less than my thoughts of thee."

"'Tis carrying thankfulness a far way, Ned.--And what of our kin? Will they smile on the match, think ye?"

"They may smile or frown, as best pleases them."

She was about to break into some hot speech, but he checked her. "Sleep on it, Nell; 'tis wiser. There are things said in heat sometimes that can never be forgot.--Well, Rolf, hast come to say thy farewells to Nell? Od's life, I'll make no third at any such parting of maid and man."

"Stay, lad, for I've come to tell thy sister that I'll have no more delays," said Wayne of Cranshaw, "and thou'lt add thy voice to mine, I fancy. Am I to wait and wait for thee, Nell, until every Ratcliffe of them all comes down to carry thee off?"

He had expected the old tale of duties that must keep her yet awhile at Marsh. But she offered no excuse, as she came and put her hand in his.

"There's no place for me now at Marsh," she said; "I'll go with thee, Rolf, at thy own good time."

"No place for thee at Marsh?" he echoed.

"None. Ned is to marry Mistress Ratcliffe by and by, and----"

"Is this true, Ned?" said Wayne of Cranshaw sharply.

"It is true that I've plighted troth with Mistress Ratcliffe; it is false that there is no place for Nell at Marsh," said Shameless Wayne, and turned on his heel.

But that one glance of Rolf's had given him a foretaste of what lay ahead. Nell was implacable; his kin would be implacable; her own folk would do their best to thwart the match.

"They say a Wayne of Marsh loves alway to stand alone," he muttered, as he returned to hall. "Well, I care not who's against me now."

He glanced at the moonlight streaming through the latticed windows, and thought of how Janet had lain there in his arms while they snatched a moment's grace from feud. Then, restless still, he crossed to the garden-door, from over which the roses were dropping white petals in the lap of a slow-stirring breeze. It was here that Janet had stood with the moon-softness in her eyes and had tempted him to sell his honour. He pictured her going up to the moor--up and further up--nearer to the red folk of Wildwater; and the strength which had saved his pride seemed wildest folly now.

Through the garden he went, now harking back to what had passed, now fancying new perils that might be lying in wait for Janet. The kitchen door was open as he drew near; through it he could see the rushlights flickering on the faces of the shepherds as they ate with greedy relish or lifted brimming pewters to their frothy lips.

At another time there would have been song and jest; shepherd Jose would have been to the fore with tales of yesteryear; the women would have laughed more loudly and kept sharper tongues for over-pressing swains. But to-night their merriment was soured by what had gone before it; and, though the Mistress had come back safe to Marsh, they could not forget how nearly she had been dishonoured.

At another time, too, Wayne would have gone amongst them to drink his due measure of October and set the glees a-going; but his heart was not in it, and he held aloof. Leaning idly against the garden-wall, he watched them at their meat, and let their talk drift past him while he asked himself, again and again, what end they would find, Janet and he, to their wind-wild wooing.

Now and then he pushed the matter from him and turned, for lack of better company, to listen to the gossip of his farm-folk. He heard each detail of the morning's fight described, repeated, and described again, till he wearied of it and half turned to go indoors again. Yet still he dallied.

"Wheer's th' Maister, like? I could right weel like to set een on him," said Jose the shepherd, breaking a long silence.

"Ay, a feast's no feast at all without th' Maister comes to drink his share," cried one of the younger men.--"What, Hiram, mun I pass thee th' jug again? For one that's no drinker tha frames as weel as iver I see'd a man."

Hiram filled his pewter and all but emptied it before he spoke.

"He'll noan show hisseln this side o' th' door to-neet, willun't th' Maister," he said slowly. "He's getten summat softer to think on nor sich poor folk as ye an' me."

Wayne flushed under the moonlight and muttered a low oath; but he would not move away, for the whim took him to hear the worst these yokels had to say.

"Oh, ay?" put in one of the wenches. "What dost mean, Hiram? Tha'rt allus so darksome i' thy speech."

"What should I mean? We knaw by this time, I reckon, what hes chanced. D'ye think snod Mistress Ratcliffe came an' swopped herseln just out o' love for Mistress Nell? Not she; 'twas for love o' Maister hisseln, if I know owt."

"Tha'rt bitter, Hiram," cried Martha. "An' thee to hev fought for him nobbut a few hours gone by!"

Hiram spoke in a tone which Martha had heard more than once before--a grave, troubled voice that had a certain dignity of its own. "I'm bitter, lass, an' tha says right," he went on. "He shaped like a man, did th' Maister, up at th' weshing-pools, an' I warmed to him. But what then? Nanny Witherlee telled me, just afore she gat her back to Marshcotes, that she'd crossed to th' hall a while sin', an' fund th' pair on 'em--nay, it fair roughens me to think on 't."

"Well, an' let 'em do as they've a mind to, poor folk, says I," put in Martha. "She's no Ratcliffe, isn't Mistress Janet, not at th' heart of her."

"She carries th' name, choose what, an' that's enough to mak most on us hod our nostrils tight. Well, he war born shameless, an' shameless he's like to dee."

"I doan't believe it!" cried shepherd Jose, striking his pewter on the table. "That's an owd tale o' thine an' Nanny's, Hiram, but I'm ower fond o' th' Maister myseln to think he'd do owt so shameless-crazy as wed a Ratcliffe. Ay, tha should bite thy tongue off for whispering sich a thing."

Again Wayne lifted his head and looked straight in through the doorway, himself unseen across the moonlit strip of yard which stood between the garden and the kitchen. Hiram's wryness was no more to him than the thistle-burrs which waited for him during any of his usual walks about the fields; but the shepherd's plain kindliness toward him, the shepherd's quiet assurance that there could be naught 'twixt Janet and himself, touched him to the quick. In vain he mocked himself for hearkening to what such folk as these could find to say of him; he stayed stone-still, his arms upon the rounded garden-wall, and heard them wear the matter threadbare with their talk. And there was not one--save Martha--who augured less than disaster from the match.

"Good hap, my very dogs will turn next and look askance at me," muttered Wayne.

But still he did not move, for he had plumbed the bottom depth of weariness to-night, and it was easier to stay hearkening to distasteful gossip than to turn to the ill company of his own thoughts. Work had succeeded fight and loss of blood; and close after these had followed his anxiety on Nell's behalf, his sudden yielding to the passion that had dogged his path all through the uphill months; then had come the struggle with his honour, the victory that was worse than defeat, and, last of all, the chill glances of those who were his nearest kin. Aged as he had grown of late, his youth was slow to die outright, and the quick ebb and flow of passion had left him weak to bend to the touch of his surroundings; and the chatter of these farm-folk, who condemned him in such frank, straightforward terms, seemed the last straw added to his burden.

They left talking of him by and by, as the ale began to warm them and frolic pressed for outlet. Little by little the Master lost his own cares in watching their rustic comedy played out; from time to time he smiled; and once, when Martha encouraged shepherd Jose too patently at the expense of Hiram, he laughed outright. Heretofore Wayne had been friendly with his servants in his own proud way; but to-night it was borne in upon him how like their betters, after all, were these rough-speeched folk. The same jealousies were theirs, the same under-fret of passion, veiled by banter or rude coquetry; and they, too, reared a score of stumbling-blocks, feigned or real, about the path of wedlock.

The night was wearing late meanwhile, and the farm-folk got to their feet at length and shuffled out by twos and threes--some to return to outlying farms or shepherds' huts far up the moor, others to less distant farms. Martha came to the gate to give them a God-speed, with Hiram Hey beside her, and it was long before the last shout of farewell died echoing up the moor.

Perhaps it was the ale he had drunk; perhaps it was Martha's flouting of him throughout the evening in favour of shepherd Jose; but for one cause or the other Hiram showed less than his wonted hesitation as he drew nearer to her in the moonlit yard. Their faces were turned sideways to the Master, and neither noted his quiet figure leaning against the wall.

"Martha, 'tis a drear house, this, I'm thinking," said Hiram.

"Ay, but it's all the roof I've getten."

"'Tis as full o' dead men's ghosts as it can hod, an' nobbut to-neet there war one more ligged quiet beside th' gate, as if th' owd place fare went hungering for bloodshed an' sudden death."

"Well, Hiram?"

He pointed down the fields to where, in a snug-sheltered hollow, the gable-end of his own farm climbed up into the moon-mists.

"Yond's a likelier spot, an' quieter, for a wench," he said.

"Sakes, Hiram! Tha'rt noan so backard-like i' coming forrard, when all's said."

Hiram was quiet for a space, and the Master could see a laughable air of doubt steal into his face as he ruffled the frill of hair that framed his smooth-shaved chin.

"An' then," put in Martha softly, "there's even a quieter spot nor yond that mud varry weel be mine for th' axing."

Hiram Hey ceased doubting. "What, dost mean that owd fooil Jose wod like to tak thee to th' wind-riven barn he calls a house?"

"Summat o' th' sort, Hiram--ay, he'd be fain, wod shepherd Jose. An' if th' house be i' a wildish spot--well, 'tis farther out o' harm's way."

"That sattles it. Wilt wed me afore th' corn ripens, lass, an' come to yond snug bigging dahn i' th' hollow?"

"I reckon I will, lad. Why didst not axe me plain afore?"

Then Hiram kissed her, under the left ear; and the Master, forgetting that they did not count upon a listener, laughed outright. Martha turned, with cheeks aflame like the peonies newly-opened in the garden place behind her; and Hiram lost his calmness for the moment.

"Thou dost well, Hiram," said the Master drily. "Love while thou canst, for thou'd'st better make the most of what few years are left thee."

Hiram took the stroke staunchly, knowing it was the return-thrust for many a home-blow he had given Wayne.

"An' so I bed, Maister," he answered, not shifting a muscle of his face--"by wedding one that counts no red folk i' her family."

The Lean Man and Janet had been riding slowly home while Wayne sat listening to the shepherds' gossip; and as they went up Barguest Lane Nicholas had bent toward his grand-daughter with more than his wonted tenderness.

"Janet, girl, 'tis good to know thou'rt safe again," he said. "What would Wildwater be without thee?"

She did not answer, but turned her head away a little; and so they rode on in silence until they reached the open moor. The old man shivered then, and glanced behind with the quick gesture she had learned to know.

"I had forgotten it," he muttered.--"Didst hear aught in the wind, Janet?"

"I heard a moor-bird calling, sir, and the rustle of dry heather-stalks."

"Naught else? No sound, say, of a hound baying down the lane?"

"There's a farm-dog barking at the moon; that is all."

He straightened in the saddle. "To be sure! When a fool is old, he's past praying for, eh, girl? Yet--is yond brown shadow going to fare to Wildwater with us?"

"So long as there's a moon to cast it, sir."

Another silence, while a mile of heath slipped underneath their hoofs.

"They bade me keep Nell Wayne, and let thee take thy chance," said Nicholas presently. "Think of it, Janet! To wake in the morning and have no slip of sunshine like thyself to come down to."

"Grandfather, it--it hurts me to hear you praise me so."

"Why, what ails thee? Cannot I praise the one thing on God's earth that I love, without hurting thee?"

Yes, she must tell him all. All the way up it had been borne in on her that she would let the deceit go no further. She owed no less than frankness to him, and he should have it, though afterward he struck her to the ground. They were alone with the sky and the wind; the hour, the dim-lying spaces of the moor, encouraged confidence. She had chosen her road--but at least she would start fair on it, honest as the man who had her love in keeping. Quietly, without shrinking or appeal, she told him all--how she used to meet Shameless Wayne by stealth, how she had given him warning, how, lastly, she had to-night ridden down to Marsh and surrendered herself into Wayne's hands.

The Lean Man was very quiet when she had finished, and not till they were skirting the dull ooze of Wildwater pool did he break silence. "I had rather have shovelled the earth above thy dead body, girl," he said, checking his horse at the brink.

She watched his face working fantastically as he stared into the water. Mechanically she traced the scars of fire, the lump of discoloured flesh that marked where his right ear had been shorn level with the cheek; and she told herself that Wayne of Marsh was answerable for both. His anger, gathering slowly, was terrible to meet.

"What is't to thee that my heart is broken?" he went on. "I could set finger and thumb to thy throat, girl, but would that heal my own hurts? The care I've given thee, the constant thought--womanish thought--the way I shamed myself by opening to thee all my secret fears." He laughed drily. "Barguest? Methinks thou hast killed him, lass, with a worse sickness. Hark ye! This shall not be. I've sap in my veins yet, and I'll cheat thee of thy lover before I die."

"Sir, is this the love you have for me? What has Wayne ever done that you should not cry 'peace' and let our marriage staunch the feud?"

"What has he done? He has fooled me, beaten me in fight, robbed me of more than life. Is that naught, or must I fawn on him and thank him for good service rendered in wedding Janet Ratcliffe? Thou hast heard of Sad Man's Luck, girl? It comes to those who have lost all, and it nerves them to strange deeds."

He moved forward, Janet following; and as they waited for the gates to be thrown open, he gave the low, hard laugh which never yet had boded good to man or woman.

"The luck has veered at last," he said quietly. "Wayne will begin to fear for himself, now that he has thee to unman him. His pluck will get tied to thy apron, lass, and he will quaver a little in his sword-strokes--what, did I say thou hadst broken my heart? I lied. Thou hast put new heart in me."

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