  Produced by Al Haines. [image] Cover art [image] Title page SHAMELESS A Romance of the last Feud of By HALLIWELL SUTCLIFFE Author of "Ricroft of Withens," "A Man NEW YORK Copyright 1899 Contents CHAPTER
Shameless Wayne CHAPTER I ONCE FOR A DEATH The little old woman sat up in the belfry tower, knitting a woollen stocking and tolling the death bell with her foot. She took two and seventy stitches between each stroke of the bell, and not the church-clock itself could reckon a minute more truly. Sharp of face she was, the Sexton's wife, and her lips were forever moving in time to the click of her knitting-needles. "By th' Heart, 'tis little care his wife hed for him," she muttered presently. "Nobbut a poor half-hour o' th' bell, an' him wi' a long, cold journey afore him. Does she think a man's soul can racket up to Heaven at that speed? Mebbe 'tis her pocket she cares for—two-an'-sixpence, an' him a Wayne! One o' th' proud Waynes o' Marsh, an' all, th' best-born folk i' th' moorside. Well, there's men an' there's men, mostly wastrils, but we mud weel hev spared another better nor Anthony Wayne, that we could." Her voice died down again, though her lips still moved and her needles chattered restlessly. The wind raced over the moor and in at the rusty grating, and twice the Sexton's wife ceased knitting to brush away a cobweb, wind-driven against her cheek. "An' him to hev no more nor a half-hour's tolling, poor mortal!" she said, breaking a long pause. "What 'ull he do when he gets to th' Gate, an' th' bell hes stopped tolling, an' there's no Christian music to waft him in? But theer! What did I say o' th' wife when Anthony Wayne went an' wedded again—a lass no older nor his own daughter, an' not Marshcotes bred nawther. Nay, there's no mak o' gooid in 't—two-an'-sixpence to buy a man's soul God-speed, there niver war ony gooid i' bringing furriners to Marshcotes. Little, milkblooded wench as she is, not fit to stand up agen a puff o' wind. Well, I've a'most done wi' th' ringing—save I war to gi'e him another half-hour for naught, sin' he war a thowt likelier nor th' rest o' th' men-folk." The little old woman smiled mirthlessly. For folk accounted her sharp of tongue and hard of heart, and she would never have done as much for any but a Wayne of Marsh House. Silence fell once again on the belfry tower, broken only by the click-click of the needles, the creak of the rope, the subdued thunder of the bell, the wailing frenzy of the wind as it drove the hailstones against the black old walls. Eerie as the night was in the belfry, it was wilder yet in the bleak kirkyard without, free to the moor as it was, and full of corners where the wind hid itself to pipe a shriller note than it could compass in the open. The wind, a moon three-quarters full, a sky close packed with rain and sleet, fought hard together; and now the moon gained a moment's victory, shimmering ghostly grey across the wet tombstones; and now the scudding wrack prevailed, hiding the moon outright. The sodden winter leaves were lifted from the mould, and danced to the tune of the raindrops pattering upward from the tombstones. A figure crossed the moor and halted awhile at the church-yard gate—a slim figure, of a lissom strength and upright carriage which marked her as a Wayne of Marsh House. Like a sapling ash the girl had swayed and bent to the hurricane as she fought her way through the storm; but all that the wind could do it had done, and had left her unbroken—breathless only, and glad of the gate's support for a moment. The moon drove through the cloud-wrack as she stood there, lighting each shadowed hollow of her face. There was tenderness in her eyes, but tears were drawn like a veil across them; there was softness in the mouth, but pride and resolve hid all save the sterner lines. She turned her head quickly toward the belfry as the clang of the death-bell struck through the storm-din of the larger strife; and then she hid her face in her two strong hands, and sobbed as wildly as ever the wind could do. And after that she went forward, through the gate, up the narrow path, past the great stone, with the iron rings on either side, which hid the burial vault of the Waynes. "Not there, father! They will never leave you out there for ever," she whispered—"you who were so strong yesterday, so full of the warmth of life. God, God, if You were made after our fashion, as men say, You would raise him from the dead. How the blood dripped, dripped from the little hole in his side. Oh, God, be merciful! Say that the wind has blown my wits away—say that all this is——" She checked herself. Her passion died out, leaving her bitterly calm as the graves she lingered by. "Nay, there is no mercy, nor shall be," said she. "No mercy—no mercy," yelled the wind, as it howled across the moor and in through the kirkyard hedge. The girl was comforted in some sort, it seemed, by the tempest's devilry. She turned from the vault and moved with a firm step to the foot of the church-tower; one hand had stolen to her girdle, and as the bell's note shuddered down the wind-beats once again, her fingers tightened round the knife-hilt. "A drear neet for th' owd Maister," the Sexton's wife was crooning to herself, as she knitted her stocking in the belfry tower above. "'Tis a cold journey an' a long he's bound for, an' he'll feel th' lack o' flesh-warmth; ay, poor body! I could hev wished his soul fairer weather." Up the crooked stair, worn by a half-score generations, passed Nell Wayne, with her brave carriage and her pitiless face. The Sexton's wife dropped a stitch of her knitting as she heard the door open; and her heart went pit-a-pat, for it was a fit night for ghosts. "Oh, 'tis ye, Mistress, is't?" she grumbled, soon as she saw it was no ghost at all, but just Nell Wayne of Marsh. The girl looked at her awhile in silence, as if the crabbed figure, working busily with hand and foot by the light of a rush candle, were dear to her at such a time. "Well, then, what hes brought ye through th' storm?" said the little woman. "I warrant 'tis easier to lig between sheets nor to cross th' moor to-neet." "There's no ease, Nanny, save in fighting the storm," cried the girl. "Could I rest quiet at Marsh House, think'st thou, knowing what lies there?" "Nay, for th' wind rapped hard at th' windows an' called ye out; ye war iver th' storm's bairn," said Nanny, chuckling grimly. "I came to ask thee to give father a longer passing than his wife is like to have seen to. Here is my purse, Nanny—take what thou wilt so long as his soul is cared for." Ay, there was heart in the Sexton's wife, for all her rough pilgrimage through life. She knew, now for the first time, how deep her love went for this daughter of the Waynes; and even as she pushed away the money, with impatient protest, her voice broke and her eyes filled with tears. "Dearie," she whispered, coming close to the girl's side and putting a lean arm about her. "Dearie, ye must not look like that. Ye're ower young to let all Hell creep into your face—ower young, I tell ye—an' I should know, seeing I nursed ye fro' being a two-year babby." "Over young! Nay, a woman can never be over young to learn God's lesson, Nanny. 'Tis fight at our birth—poor woman's sort of struggle, with tears—and fight through the summer days when the very skies strive against the seed-crops that should keep our bodies quick—and fight again, when winter rails at the house walls, trying to batter them in." "Hev a kindlier thowt o' God," cried the other eagerly—more eagerly, it may be, than her own faith warranted. "Put th' father out o' mind sooin as th' sorrow grows a bit more dumb-like, an' think on a likely man's love an' th' bairns to come." "What art doing, Nanny? The bell has been silent these five minutes past," cried the girl. It was strange to see how grief had altered her—to mark how peremptory and harsh of voice she had grown, how little she seemed to care for aught save for such matters as concerned her father, whose body was lying cold and stiff in the oak-lined hall at Marsh, whose soul was journeying wearily toward an unsubstantial Heaven. Yet the superstition of her folk held her, and the bell's silence was a horror near akin to crime, since it robbed the dead man of whatever cheer the next world held. The Sexton's wife said nothing at all, but took up her knitting and slid her foot into the loop of the bell-rope. Nell Wayne leaned against the rotting woodwork of the door, and fingered the dagger that lay beneath her cloak, and fancied that every jar of the bell was a blow well driven home. The Sexton's wife glanced shrewdly at her, as if in fear of this still, strenuous mood. "Better talk to a body, my dear; 'twill drive th' devils out," she said. As one awakening from a trance, Nell moved forward and laid a hand on the other's shoulder. Her calm was gone; she quivered from head to foot. "Wast talking of love, and bairns to come?" she said. "Love? Ay, to see your lover killed before your eyes. And bairns? Must the mothers rear up the wee things, that never did them harm, to suffer and to curse the God that made them?—Nanny, I know who struck the blow." The Sexton's wife lifted her face sharply. "Ay, so? 'Twill be gooid news for somebody to hear—your uncle, belike, or one o' th' Long Waynes o' Cranshaw." "Kinship is well enough, Nanny—but 'twill not carry this last feud. Has Wayne of Marsh no children, that his quarrel needs go abroad to be righted?" "Ay, he hes childer," said Nanny slowly—"a lass not grown to ripeness, an' four lads ower young to fight, an' another lad who's man enough to drink belly-deep." "Hush, Nanny! What if Ned be wild as a bog-sprite—he must always be next to father in my heart. He has been from home this se'n-night past, nurse, or he would strike for me. I know he would strike for me. But he may be long a-coming, and this sort of quarrel breeds foulness if 'tis not righted quickly." The wind was whimpering now, and scarce had strength to win through the grating of the belfry tower. From without, on the side where the Bull tavern backed the kirkyard, there came the sound of noisy revel—a hunting song, half drowned in drunken clamour and applause. "Yond's your father's eldest-born, I'll warrant," said Nanny, jerking her thumb over her shoulder; "'tis like he's home again, Mistress, for there's no voice like Shameless Wayne's to sing strong liquor down 's throit." The girl winced. "Let him be Shameless Wayne to the gossips, Nanny; is't thy place to judge him?" she flashed. "Nawther mine nor yourn, dearie—'tis only that my heart cries out for ye, being left so lonely-like; an' pity allus crisps my tongue. Shall I slip me dahn to th' Bull, an' whisper i' th' lad's ear? Happen he knaws nowt o' what's chanced at Marsh." "Nor will know, even if 'tis he, till the morning clears his wits. Hark ye, Nanny, women have done such things aforetime, and my arm is strong." The little old woman went on with her knitting, and still the bell rope creaked at its wonted intervals; but there was a change in the ringer's face—a brightness of the eye, a quiver of the shrunken body. She read the girl's purpose aright. "Will it not serve?" went on Nell, slipping her hand from under her cloak and conning the ringer's face eagerly. Nanny took the dagger, and ran her fingers along its edge, muttering to herself in a curious key. "Who is't?" she asked. "Dick Ratcliffe. Oh, 'twas a gallant fight! We have killed the Ratcliffes more than once or twice, in the old days before the feud was healed—but we struck fair. Nanny, he struck from behind! It was gathering dusk, and I had just put fresh peats on the fire and turned to the window to look out for father's coming." "An' hed fetched his snuff-box for him, an' laid it dahn by th' settle-corner, as ye used to do i' th' owd days," murmured Nanny. "Hush, nurse! Oh, hush! I must not think of—of the old days." "Ay, but ye mun!" cried the old woman with sudden vehemence. "There's marrow i' th' owd days an' th' owd tales, if ye tak 'em right. See ye, Mistress, ye war a slip of a lassie when th' feud war staunched 'twixt Wayne an' Ratcliffe; but I hed seen th' way on 't, an' I knew, plain as if a body hed comed an' telled me, that 'twould break out again one day. Rest me! There were hate as bitter as th' bog atween 'em." "And shall be again, nurse," said Nell, in a voice as low as the wind that rustled through the belfry-chamber. The shadow of tradition stole dark across her, and her fingers tightened on the dagger-hilt as if she hid a man's heart under her rounded breasts. "God willing," croaked the ringer, finishing a row of her knitting and jerking a muffled note of remonstrance from the bell overhead. "'Tis as father always said, when I used to sit at his knee o' nights and listen to his tales," went on the girl. "There was never honesty or good faith in a Ratcliffe, and when the Waynes held off at last and swore a truce, out of pity for the few Ratcliffes left to kill, father warned his folk what the end would be. And it has begun, Nanny! Their boys are grown men now, and they outnumber us; and they will never rest till they, or we, are blotted out." "'Twill be them as goes under sod, Mistress; there war niver a foxy breed yet but it war run to earth by honest folk. Hark ye! That's Shameless Wayne's voice again! Lad, lad, can ye think o' no sterner wark nor yond, while your father ligs ready for his shroud?" "He does not know, Nanny. How should he know? He has been from home, I tell thee. Nurse, stop knitting and give me thy hands awhile! I thought the weakness in me was killed, and now I could cry like any bairn. I would not tell any but thee, Nanny, but I must ease my heart, and thou'rt staunch as a mother to me. Know'st thou that father's wife—the little shivering thing he brought from the Low Country—has played false to him these months past?" "I've heard summat o' th' sort; ay, there's been part talk 'bout it up an' dahn th' moor." "Dick Ratcliffe it was who dishonoured her. He——" She stopped and left holding Nanny's hands, and began to pace up and down the floor. Nanny took up her needles, and fixed her eyes on the woollen stocking and waited. "A lass is tricksy handling at such times; best bide an' let her wend her own way; 'twill ease th' poor bairn, I warrant, to talk her fever out," she muttered. But the girl's fever was of a sort that no speech could cool, and it was gaining on her fast. Already she had forgotten her need of sympathy, and she could think of naught save the picture that had been stamped clear and deep on her brain by the day's wild work. "'Twas at dusk this afternoon, Nanny," she began afresh. "Father came riding up to the gate on the bay mare, and I was going to meet him, with a kiss for the rider and a coaxing word for the mare, when Dick Ratcliffe came galloping along the cross-road. He checked when he saw father, and swerved into the Marsh bridle-track and then—then, before I could cry out, before I could know him for a Ratcliffe in the gathering dusk, he had drawn his sword, and lifted it, and struck. I ran to help, and father reeled in the saddle. Nurse, I cannot shut out the picture; I cannot——" "Nor seek to; hold fast to it, Mistress—there's no luck i' forgetting pictures sich as yond. Dick Ratcliffe war off an' away, I warrant, sooin as his blow war struck?" "Nay, for what could even he fear from one poor girl who had never a weapon to her hand? He watched with a smile on his face while I took father's head in my lap and bent to hear his last hard-won words. 'Nell, tell our kinsmen 'twas a foul blow. Wipe it out, lass; give no quarter.' That was what he said to me, Nanny; and all the while Dick Ratcliffe mocked us, till I got to my feet and cursed him; and then he rode away laughing. And I swore by the Brown Dog that father should not wait long for vengeance." The little old woman forgot no stroke of the bell; but the knitting fell on her lap, and she lifted a face as stern as Nell's own. "Your father's lass," she cried. "Put tears behind ye, an' keep your hate as hot as hell-fire, an' let th' sun set on 't ivery neet, an' rise on 't ivery morn, till th' Ratcliffes hev paid their reckoning, three for one. Eh, dearie, if I hed your arms, if I hed a tithe o' your strength, 'tis out I'd go wi' ye this minute to begin the reaping—to begin the reaping." The wind was fluting eerily about the belfry-chamber. The rushlight made strange shadows up and down the walls, and the cobwebs floated like grey ghosts. "Hark!" whispered Nell Wayne, bending her ear toward the grating. "Didst hear that voice in the wind, nurse?" "Ay; 'twas the Brown Dog's howl; he's noan minded to let ye forget, 'twould seem, an' them as once swears by him can niver rest, day or neet." "'Tis not the first time to-day, Nanny. Thou know'st Barguest Lane that runs behind Marsh House? He bayed there for a long hour this afternoon, and I was sick for father's coming lest ill should have chanced to him. Once for a death, and twice for the slayer's shrift—hast heard the saying, nurse?" There was a grewsome sort of joy in the girl's voice. "I've heard th' saying, Mistress, an' I've heard Barguest, what some calls th' Guytrash—but niver hev I known th' deathsome beast howl for nowt." Nell moved quickly to the door; it seemed she had gained resolution from the baying of the spectre hound. "Why am I loitering here, Nanny?" she cried. "The Brown Dog calls, and I must go. Father will lie lighter if——" "Where are ye wending? There's naught to be done till morning dawns," said the Sexton's wife. "Is there not? Straight to Dick Ratcliffe's I'm going, nurse—he will open the door to me—and I shall look him in the face, Nanny, and strike while he is mocking at my helplessness—and there will be father's dead strength behind the blow, because he trusted me to right the quarrel." She drew her cloak close about her, stayed to bid Lucy ring the bell till midnight, then went swiftly down the stair, heedless of the smooth worn steps that threatened to spoil her errand before she had well started. The wind, whistling keen through the graveyard trees, drove new life into her; she quickened her steps as the moor showed white through the hedge at the top, for she was thinking of Dick Ratcliffe, and of the short three miles that lay between them. The moon was out again, scudding fast as the wind itself behind a tattered trail of clouds. At the turn of the path she all but ran against a brawny, straight-shouldered fellow, who was crossing the graveyard from the Cranshaw side. "Why, Rolf, is't thou?" cried Nell, standing off from him a little and lifting a white face to the moonlight. "Ay, Nell. What in God's name art doing here on a wild night like this?" Wayne of Cranshaw spoke harshly, but his eyes, as they roved about his cousin's face, were full of tenderness. "I came to see that—that father was cared for.—Rolf, hast not heard what chanced at Marsh this afternoon?" "I have heard of it, a half hour since, and was coming to see if I could aid thee in aught. Nell, lass, 'tis a rough blow for thee, this." He was minded to set his arms about her, but she put him away. "Not to-night, I cannot bear it, dear," she pleaded. Loverlike, his face grew clouded. "I had thought to comfort thee a little, Nell." "Nay, Rolf, I would not have thee take it hardly," she whispered, laying a quick hand on his sleeve. "Thou know'st I loved thee—yesterday. To-morrow I shall love thee; but to-night is father's. When Dick Ratcliffe of Wildwater has paid his price, come to me, for I shall need thee, dear." "Dick Ratcliffe? What is this talk of paying a price, child? Was't Ratcliffe that did it?" "Ay, and from behind. And they will say 'twas done for the feud's sake; and 'twill be the blackest lie that ever a Ratcliffe told. 'Twas done for fear, Rolf. The woman that father brought home a year agone, the woman I tried to call mother, could not keep true for one poor twelve-month; she met Dick Ratcliffe by stealth in the orchard, and father chanced on them there, and Ratcliffe fled like a hare across the pasture-field, leaving the woman to brave it out. Father swore to kill him, the first fair chance of fight that offered; and he knew it; and he saved himself by a treacherous sword-cut." "'Tis my right, Nell," said Wayne of Cranshaw, gravely. She shook her head. It was as bitter to rob a man of honour as of his precedence in fight; yet she could not grant him this. "Thine, if any man's," she said. "But father left the right to me, and before the dawn comes up cold above Wildwater I shall have eased thee of the task." They stood there in silence. Rolf Wayne was eager to forbid the enterprise, yet fearful of crossing the girl's wild mood at such a time; and no words came to him. And she, for her part, was listening to the gaining shouts of revelry that came from the tavern just below; her brother's voice, thick with wine and reckless jollity, was loudest of all, and she could no longer doubt that Shameless Wayne was there, bettering the reputation that was given him by all the countryside. Wayne of Cranshaw heard it, and looked at the girl, and "Nell," said he, "could not Ned keep sober just for this one night?" She did not answer, but drew her cloak about her, shivering. "How the bell shudders, Rolf," she said, as the deep note rang out again and lost itself among the wind-beats. "Was it thy thought, or his wife's, to bid the bell be rung?" asked Wayne. The girl laughed harshly. "Hers, Rolf—because she was afraid of meeting father beyond the grave. She hopes for Heaven, this little, lying wisp of windle-straw; and so she paid for a half-hour of the bell, knowing that 'twas all too short a passing for a man's soul and thinking to keep father on this side of the Gates. 'Twas a trim device, my faith!" "And like her, Nell; 'tis just a trick of Mistress Wayne's to rob him at the last, as she robbed him through that year of marriage. If such as she win into Heaven, pray God that thou, and I, and all honest folk, burn everlastingly." The girl began to move up to the moor—slowly, for even now the man's will bore hardly on her, and she sought, in a queer, half-hearted way, his leave to go and do what must be done at Wildwater. "Rolf—let me go—I am armed, and—and 'twill not take me long," she faltered. He gripped her arm roughly. "Thou shalt not; I forbid thee," he said. The plain compulsion angered her. "Forbid? When wedlock has shackled me, Wayne of Cranshaw, 'twill be time for thee to play the bully.—Rolf," she went on, pleading again, "I swore by the Brown Dog, and even now I heard him in the wind." "Pish! Leave Barguests to the farm-hinds that come home too full of liquor and think every good dog's note a boggart's cry. I say, the feud is mine, and mine it shall be." "Dost grudge it even to me? When summer was tender with the moorside, Rolf, how oft a day didst tell me that naught was too much to give? But winter chills a man's love-vows, and thou grudgest it." "I grudge the danger—for that is doubled, lass, when a maid fights with a man, as thou would'st fight with Ratcliffe of Wildwater. Hark ye, Nell! Thy journey might be the worst sort of disaster. At the best it would be fruitless, for he is like to have taken Mistress Wayne and fled to the Low Country, where dalliance, they say, goes free of punishment and fair feud is reckoned lawless." "Rolf, I never dreamed that could be!" she cried, dismayed. "Would he not wait one night, think'st thou? Not one little night, to give me time——" "He is gone by this, if I know his spirit. There, lass! Let me take thee safe home to Marsh, and rest sure that Ratcliffe is beyond thy reach or mine." Wayne of Cranshaw, scarce believing his own tale, meant to cross to Wildwater soon as he had turned Nell from her purpose; but while he spoke, there came a sudden clattering of horse-hoofs, and after that a jingling of reins and a gruff call for liquor, as the two horses pulled up sharp in front of the tavern doorway. The one thought leaped into the girl's mind and into Wayne's of Cranshaw. "Rolf," she cried, "what if he be coming to us? What if Ratcliffe and my stepmother have put off flight an hour too long?" "It may be so—ay, it may be so," muttered Wayne, as they moved over the wet gravestones toward the tavern. The moonlight showed them a cumbrous post-chaise, and harnessed to it a pair of bays, smoking from the rough, up-hill scramble. A postillion stood at the leader's head, holding a horn of old October in one hand and cursing the untoward weather as he blew the froth from off the top. "We knew the Ratcliffe spirit, and we knew thy father's wife," said Wayne bitterly, pointing to the chaise. "I warrant we shall not need hunt our fox to-night, Nell." "Is there no doubt, think ye? Rolf, I feared we had lost the chance," muttered Nell, clutching at her dagger. But he caught her wrist. "Lass," he said, so tenderly that the tears came unbidden to her eyes, "what is thine is mine hereafter, and I will take the blows for my share of the burden. A bargain, Nell, between us; if he come to-night, the fight is mine; if he fail, then I will let thee go and seek him." She turned for a backward look at the Wayne vault, hidden by its flat, iron-ringed stone; and she wondered if her father would like Rolf to strike the blow, in place of the daughter who had loved him through the years of trouble. "They will lift that stone in three days' time," she muttered aimlessly; "and we shall see the last of father, and know that the worms are making merry with his flesh. It seems hard, for he was a better man than any in the moorside—save thou." And then the "save thou" brought back her womanishness for a space; and she fell to sobbing in his arms; and the churchyard gate, up above them, began to grumble on its hinges. Wayne of Cranshaw put her from him and his hand went to his belt. "Have they taken the foot-road across the moor?" he whispered. "Ned Ratcliffe was never the man to do aught but slink, and slink, until needs must that he move into sight of honest men.—Nell, for shame's sake, give me the right." "Ay, take it—but make no mistake, dear—clean through his heart—can I trust thee?" The gate clashed to. The wind roved in and out among the graves. The passing bell boomed out its challenge, and was dumb for a long minute. Wayne of Cranshaw laughed soberly. The Sexton's wife, meanwhile, went on with her knitting, click-clack, up in the belfry-tower. The bell swayed back and forth, bent on its work of mercy. A great white owl was driven through the window-grating, putting out the rushlight as it blundered across the chamber. "Good-hap to this devil's weather. Good-hap to the lassie's arm," croaked the ringer, and picked up a stick she had dropped. CHAPTER II AND TWICE FOR THE SLAYER'S SHRIFT Dick Ratcliffe passed through the kirkyard-gate, with Wayne's wife of Marsh clinging close to his arm. "Need we have crossed the graveyard?" said the woman, stopping with one hand on the gate. Dainty of figure she was, with a face all milk and roses; and her tongue lisped baby-fashion, refusing the round speech of the uplands. "Ay, need we!" cried Ratcliffe, half surlily. "How know we that the feud-call has not gone round, to carry the Waynes on the old trail of vengeance? As 'tis, we have driven it over late, thanks to thy doublings, Margaret. Come, yond passing-bell should warn thee how the time slips by." But she kept a tight hold on the gate, and looked down the wet path toward where the Wayne vault-stone stared blue and cold at the cold moon. "'Tis uncanny," she whispered, shivering. "Know'st thou 'tis his bell, Dick, that rings for our journey? I dare not pass the vault down yonder—-it stares at me, as if I had killed him—Dick, 'twas not I that killed him—why should the stone look up and curse me. "Pish! Art unstrung, Meg. The vault-stone is as dead—as Wayne of Marsh. Come away, I tell thee; I can hear the rattle of harness-gear, and the chaise will be waiting tor us at the tavern doorway. I sent a horseman to Saxilton for it two hours agone, and it must be here by now." Mistress Wayne left clinging to the gate; but still she could not move forward. "I dread it so! The storm, and the wildness, and—and the graves. Dick, 'tis too good to be true that we should win free of this cruel moor! Ever since I came here, I have feared and hated it—and now its arms are closing round me—I can feel them, Dick, as if they had bone and muscle——" Ratcliffe of Wildwater laughed noisily, for his own spirits were yielding to the touch of time and circumstance, and he strove to lighten them. "Shalt never see the moor again, sweetheart, nor I either. 'Tis Saxilton first, and after that a swift ride to some nook of the valleys where they have never heard of Waynes and feud." "Will they be long in driving us to Saxilton?" "Nay, for the road is good and the cattle good. What a baby 'tis to tremble so, just when we are free." A few steps forward she made, then stopped and seemed like to fall. "I dare not pass the vault," she whispered. He put his arm about her roughly and forced her lagging feet down the path. "The vault cannot kill," he growled, "but there are those waiting across the moor who carry more than women's fancies in their hands. Will thy fears be less, thou fool, if I am set on by a half score of the Waynes and killed before thy eyes?" Weak as a bog-reed to catch the infection of each new wind, she bent to his own fear, and hurried on, and all but forgot the vault that stared at her from the corner of the path where the broken yew-trees shivered in the wind. "Would we were safe in Saxilton," she wailed. "Hurry! Oh, let us hurry—they will take thee, Dick——" She stopped on the sudden, for a brawny figure stood at the bend of the path, blocking the way. Mistress Wayne shrank back behind her lover, and her step-daughter crept further under the yew shadows, watching Dick Ratcliffe's face go drawn and grey. "Good-even, Ratcliffe of Wildwater. Whither away?" said Rolf Wayne, with bitter gaiety. "To a place that is free of Waynes, God curse them," answered Ratcliffe, striving to put a bold face on the matter. "That is a true word, I warrant, for Hell holds none of our breed.—See you, Ratcliffe the thief, I could have killed you like an adder, as you slew a better man awhile since; but, being a Wayne, I have a trick of asking for fair fight. Ye may win to Saxilton, ye two, but 'twill be at the sword's point." Dick Ratcliffe eyed his enemy this way and that, seeking occasion for a foul blow; but none showed itself, for Wayne's sword was bare to the wind, and his eye never wandered from the other's face. "When I fear you, you shall know of it," said Ratcliffe, drawing his own blade, grudgingly. "Come to yond vault-stone, then, for 'tis a right merry spot for such a fight as ours. You know whose body it will cover before the moon is old? What, faltering, Ratcliffe?" "Not I; but the time fits ill, and 'tis cold for Mistress Wayne here." "Your thoughts were ever kind toward women, but Mistress Wayne must wait one little moment longer. Not faltering? Well, then, I wronged you; 'twas your backward glance that put me in mind of a driven hare." Mistress Wayne ran forward and threw her arms about her lover. "Don't fight, Dick; he will kill thee, kill thee," she pleaded. "I want to get away from this ghostly place—it frightens me, I tell thee, and Saxilton is a far journey, and the night wears late. Dick, I will not let thee fight." "Ay, Mistress, he will fight, since there is no chance of escape left him. You will fight, Ratcliffe of Wildwater, will you not?" Nell Wayne, standing in the shadows, grew furious with impatience; nor could she understand why Rolf kept his temper in such grim check, unless it were that Ratcliffe needed to be whipped into the duel. "You will fight?" repeated Wayne, anger fretting at his voice. "To the death, curse you," muttered Ratcliffe, and moved slowly up toward the stone. "That is well. You are a better man than you showed yourself once in the Marsh orchard—and Mistress Wayne here has cause to be proud of a lover who does not run away a second time, leaving her to meet the danger." Mistress Wayne glanced desperately from side to side in search of aid, and her eyes fell on Nell's figure, standing half out of the yew shadows now. "God pity us! 'Tis Nell," she cried. The girl came out from the shadows and stood at her stepmother's side. "Could you not wait for one whole day?" said she. "You are very quick to make your pleasures sure. Father scarce cold, and your lover's blade scarce wiped—truly, you loved my father well!" "'Twas not my fault—I—child, your hands hurt me—how dare you treat me so?" stammered Mistress Wayne. For the girl, passion-driven for the moment, had gripped the dainty light-of-love by the shoulders and nigh riven the breath out of her. "How dare I?" she flashed. "Keep quiet, Mistress, lest I dwell over-much on the wrong you did to father." "But, Helen, I am your mother. Let me go, child; let me go, I say. They shall not fight." "Mother, say you? Mother sleeps under the stone yonder. The world has been hard to me, Mistress, but it never made you kith of mine." Mistress Wayne began to whimper, and Nell, losing her hold with a sort of hard disdain, fixed her eyes on the swordsmen, standing on the vault-stone and eyeing each other steadfastly, their sword-blades catching blue-grey glances from the moon. For Wayne of Cranshaw had been moving backward all the while, not daring to turn his face from Dick Ratcliffe lest a foul thrust in the back should end the matter. Yet Ratcliffe still held off, nor would he plant his forefoot squarely in position; and Nell, fearful lest he should refuse combat at the eleventh hour, and knowing that Rolf would never strike down a man except in fight, so taunted and stung and whipped the laggard with her tongue that his heart grew bold with fury. The old slyness of his race was with Ratcliffe still; he made a feint of withdrawing altogether from the stone, then leaped at Wayne with a mighty cry. But Wayne was ready for the stroke, and he warded off the down-sweeping blade which bade fair to split his skull in two; his adversary reeled backward, driven by the return force of his own wild blow, and Rolf had but to strike where it pleased him to settle the issue once and for all. But Wayne of Cranshaw misliked cold butchery, and Ratcliffe's debt was over-heavy to allow of such prompt settlement. He waited, point to ground, until the other had gained his balance; and then he made at him; and the fight waxed grim and hot. The wind sank low to a murmur; the vaultstone, shining wet, reflected their every movement, of body and of bared right arm. There was none of the nicety of fence; parry and cut it was, cut and parry, till the light danced off like water from their blades, till the women's ears were tingling with the music of live steel. And all the while the minute bell kept thundering its message across the kirkyard and over the rolling moor above; it rang for Wayne of Marsh, and it hovered between the sword-cuts that were to settle whether Wayne of Cranshaw gave his kinsman a peaceful shroud. Wayne's wife was all a-tremble, like a foolish aspen tree; now this she murmured, and now that, until she was like to kill her lover, woman's fashion, by sheer interference of her tongue. But Wayne's daughter stood with a face of scorn, saying no word, making no motion—watching, always watching, with certainty that Rolf would end the struggle soon. At another time she would have feared for Rolf; but to-night was the dead man's, and she was deaf to love or fear or pity. Nay, the very justice of the cause seemed to have determined the issue before the fight began. "Ah, 'tis sweet, 'tis sweet!" whispered the girl, and caught her breath as Wayne's sword-edge sliced a crimson pathway down the other's cheek. Shameless Wayne, meanwhile, had finished his spell of drinking at the tavern just below. His step was unsteady and his eyes red-ripe with liquor as he moved down the passage with intent to cross the moor to Marsh. Jonas Feather, the host, came out of his kitchen on hearing the lad's step, and put a firm hand on his shoulder. "Mun I saddle your mare, Maister Wayne?" he said. "God, I'd clean forgotten the mare!" laughed Shameless Wayne. "Did I ride hither, Jonas the fool? Well, then I'll not ride home again; rot me if I don't cross the moor afoot, to steady me. There's no horse like a man's own legs, when the world spins round and round him." "Best bide here, an' wend home to-morn—ay, ye'd best bide here," said Jonas, with a line of perplexity across his big red forehead. "What, to swell thy bill? Go to, thou crafty rogue—they'll be naming thee kin to the Ratcliffes of Wildwater soon, if thou goest playing fox-tricks with thy neighbours." "Your bill wi' me is lang enow as 'tis, Maister, an' a full belly craves no meat," the host retorted drily. "Willun't ye hearken to what I tried to tell ye when first ye came here to-neet? Willun't ye be telled 'at your father ligs as cold as Wildwater Pool, wi' a Ratcliffe sword-cut i' his back? 'Tis noan decent 'at one i' your upside down frame o' body should go to a house o' death, bawling a thieves' song, likely, by way o' burying dirge." Shameless Wayne thrust both hands deep into his pockets, and leaned against the wall, and laughed till the tears ran down his comely face. "Wilt never let the jest be, Jonas?" he stammered. "Because I've not been home these days past, and am returning thither full to the brim, thou think'st to scare me with a tale like yond?—And all the folk in the parlour are leagued with thee, thou ruffian," he went on, with a drunkard's cunning in his eyes. "When I first came in, they set their faces grim as Death's fiddle-head, and nudged each the other, and muttered, 'Ay, ay,' like mourners at a lyke-wake, when thou said'st that the old man was dead." "Willun't ye be telled?" cried Jonas, groaning at his own impotence to drive the truth home. "Willun't ye fettle up your wits this once, an' hearken to one 'at hes a care for th' Waynes o' Marsh?" "Naught will strengthen me till I have slept off thy liquor, Jonas—unless 'twere the chill look of the kirkyard as I pass through," said Shameless Wayne, blundering merrily down the passage. "For th' love o' God, lad, bide where ye are this neet!" cried Jonas. But his guest was already out on the cobblestones that fronted the inn doorway. Shameless Wayne came to a sudden halt as he gained the lower gate of the graveyard. For the minute bell, driving its deep note through the fumes that hugged his brain, carried a plainer message to the lad than any words of Jonas Feather had done. "There's somebody dead," he muttered, staring vaguely at the belfry-tower. "Is't—is't father? Did yond old fool talk plain truth, when all the while I thought he jested?" he went on after a moment's pause. And then he tried to laugh, and swaggered up the path, and vowed that the bell was leagued with Jonas in this daft effort to make a laughing stock of him throughout the moorside. But another sound greeted him from the far side of the yew-trees—the clash of steel, and the hungry, breathless cries of men who were fighting to the topmost of their strength. His step grew soberer; he turned the bend in the path noiselessly, and saw what was doing on the vault-stone. He stood stock-still, and his face was smooth and empty while the wine fumes cleared enough to let him understand the meaning of all this. And then the meaning took him full, and the anguish in his eyes was strange and terrible to see. Ratcliffe of Wildwater, meanwhile, maddened by the swordcut that had slit his cheek, made a sudden onslaught on his foe; and Rolf escaped the blade by a bare half-inch; and Ratcliffe stumbled once again, pressed by his own idle blow. Mistress Wayne sprang forward, eager to save the craven who had snared her fancy; but Nell gripped her by the arms, and forced her back, and whispered, "Strike!" But neither of the women had leisure to mark that a loose-limbed lad, with a face as old as sorrow, and a hand that played never-restingly with his sword hilt, had swelled the number of those who watched the fight. Twice Shameless Wayne made as if to join the fray, and twice he held back, while Ratcliffe recovered in the nick of time and warded desperately—while Rolf's blade pried in and out, seeking a place to strike. "Oh God, that I could claim the right!" muttered the lad, half drawing his sword again. "Nell, save him! Your lover will listen to you—the night wears late and dreary—we want to reach Saxilton," pleaded Mistress Wayne. Not a word spoke the girl. Not a word spoke the wind, shuddering into the corners of the graveyard for dread. But the laboured breathing of the men sounded loud as a cry almost in the quiet place. Ratcliffe, for all his coward's heart, was a cunning swordsman enough when need compelled, and now, his first panic lost, he was settling to a steadier effort. "Remember!" cried the girl, as she saw her cousin give back a pace. Wayne of Cranshaw regained his lost ground, and swung his blade up to the blue-black sky; there was a rough jag of steel, the clatter of a sword on the hollow vault-stone, a groan from Ratcliffe of Wildwater? "Save him, Nell!" wailed Mistress Wayne, like a child repeating a lesson learned by rote. "Save him? See—see—he strikes—drive home, Rolf!—A brave stroke!" Wayne of Marsh was righted now, and his kinsman wiped his blade at leisure on his coat-sleeve. Nell came to him and drew down his rough head and kissed him on the mouth; the little wisp of a woman knelt by her lover's side, and tried to stop the blood with a dainty cambric kerchief, and talked to Ratcliffe of Wildwater as if her word were greater than God's own, to bring a dead man back to life. A deep voice broke in upon them. "Remember was the word thou said'st, Nell," cried Shameless Wayne. "Christ knows there will be no forgetfulness for me." Nell Wayne looked at her brother for awhile, not knowing what her thoughts were toward him. And then she shrank from him with plain disgust. Up in the belfry yonder she had pleaded excuses for Shameless Wayne when another talked his good name away; but she had no pity for him now. "Thou com'st in a late hour, Ned," she said coldly. "I come in a late hour, lass," he answered, still in the same deep voice that was older than his years; "and they will noise it up and down that Wayne's son of Marsh sat drinking with clowns in a wayside tavern while another robbed him of the feud. Well, the long years lie behind, and neither thou nor I can better them." A shaft of pity touched the girl. "I loved thee once, Ned—why could'st not—nay, 'tis behind thee, as thou say'st, and—and thou'lt never be aught but Shameless Wayne henceforth." The frail woman looked up from handling her lover's body, and there was witless curiosity in her face. "Who is't stands there, and who has robbed him?" she asked. Then with a little laugh, "Why, 'tis Ned—to think I should not know my own step-son.—Ned, come hither! Your sister is cruel, and she has well-nigh killed me with those slender hands of hers—but you will be kinder, Ned, and I want you to staunch the bleeding—see how the vault-stone reddens—hurry, dear, for if the blood once drips into the vault, the stain can never be washed out—never, never be washed out." "You are right, Mistress," said Shameless Wayne, smiling queerly at her from across the stone. "Though one kills every other Ratcliffe that fouls the air, the stain will never be washed clean." Wayne of Cranshaw put a kindly hand on him. "Take heart, lad," he muttered. "The next blow shall be thine, and the next after that—and there's no man in Marshcotes or Ling Crag that dares call thee coward." "But all may name me fool," finished the lad quietly;—"Take Nell home, Rolf. She'll suffer thy company better than mine just now." But Nell was strung to the storm's pitch still. "'Tis not done yet!" she cried. "I thought that one life would pay—and what is Dick Ratcliffe now? Is that thankless lump of clay to square the reckoning, dross for gold? Nay, there is more to be done. Listen, Rolf! We will send round the feud-call, and rouse our kinsfolk." "Ay, will we—but not to-night, dear lass." "To-night! Rolf! It must be to-night. No quarter said father with his last breath, and God forgive me if I rest before the whole tale is told." "Nay! 'Tis home and a quiet pillow for thee. Come, Nell! Thou know'st thy strength will scarce carry thee to Marsh." Still she refused, though she was shivering as with ague. "No quarter. Wilt not swear it, Rolf?" "I swear it here, Nell, by any vow that binds a man—and by the same token I swear to carry thee to-night by force to Marsh, if so thou wilt not come of thy own free will. Are the Ratcliffes salt-and-snow, that they should melt away before the dawn?" "Wilt not help me, Ned?" broke in Mistress Wayne. Her baby-voice was soft and pleading as she turned to her step-son. "The stain is spreading—I dare not let it run to the edge—there is a little crack down one side of the stone, and the blood will never be wiped off if once it drips on to the vault-floor." The lad did not answer Mistress Wayne's wanderings this time; and his sister, glancing round at him with the old impulse of resentment, saw that Shameless Wayne was sobbing as men sob once only in their learning of life's lesson. Over-strained Nell was already, and the fierceness died clean out of her. She crept to her brother's side, and pulled his hands down from before his face, and "Ned," said she, "would God I could forgive thee." He pointed up the path with a gesture that Wayne of Cranshaw understood. "I'll follow you in a while—leave me to it," he said. "Poor lad! He'll take it hardly, I fear," said Rolf, as he and Nell went through the graveyard wicket and out into the moor, where the hail nestled white beneath the heather and the far hills touched the cloud-banks. Shameless Wayne stood looking down at his step-mother, who still sat fondling her lover's body. There was no hatred of her in his face, though yesterday he would have railed upon her for a wanton; nay, there was a sort of pity in his glance, when at last he drew near to her and touched her arm. "Life has been over-strong for you, eh, little bairn?" he said. "Well, we're both dishonoured, so there's none need grumble if I take you with me; shalt never lack shelter while Marsh House has a roof." "Oh, I cannot come," said Mistress Wayne; "I have to get to Saxilton before dawn—I am waiting till the wound is healed and the blood stops dripping, dripping—oh, no, I shall not come with you—what would Dick say if he woke and found me gone?" Entreaty the lad tried, and rough command; but naught would move her, and when at last he tried to carry her from the spot by force, she cried so that for pity's sake he had to let her be. "Well, there's enough to be seen to as 'tis; may be she will come home of herself if I leave her to it," he muttered, and went quickly down to the tavern-door. Jonas Feather was standing on the threshold, his head bent toward the graveyard. "What, Maister, is't you— What, lad, ye're sobered!" he cried, as Shameless Wayne pushed past him. "Ay, I found somewhat up yonder that was like to sober me. I'm going to saddle the mare, Jonas—she will be needed soon, I fancy." "Sit ye dahn, Maister, sit ye dahn. I'll see to th' mare.—There's been a fight, I'm thinking? I could hev liked to see't, that I could, but they'll tell ye what once chanced to a man 'at crossed a Wayne an' Ratcliffe at sich a time—an' I'm fain of a whole skin myseln." But Shameless Wayne was down the passage and out into the stable-yard behind. Jonas looked after him, and shook his head. "I nobbut once see'd drink so leave a chap all i' a minute," he said, "an' it takes a bigger shock nor sich a young 'un as yond hes shoulder-width to stand. There's ill days i' store for th' lad, I sadly fear." At the stroke of twelve, the Sexton's wife came down the belfry steps. Her right foot was numb with tolling the bell, and her fingers ached with the knitting; yet she had no thought of such matters as she stepped out into the moonlit burial place, for she was wondering how Nell Wayne had fared at Wildwater. "Her father's lass—ay, ivery bone of her," she muttered. "Hes she killed him by now—hes she struck——" The sound of a cradle-song, chanted in a sweet, low voice, came from above. The little old woman stopped her mumbling, and shuffled up the path, and came to where Mistress Wayne sat, with her lover's head on her lap and one baby hand pressed close against his breast. Nanny touched her on the shoulder. "A death for a death," said she; "yet, not with all your tears to help, will Dick Ratcliffe be a fit exchange for th' Maister. 'Twill need a score sich as him, or ye, to pay th' price." "He is sleeping. Hush! You will waken him, and 'tis early yet to start for Saxilton," said Mistress Wayne, lifting her childish face. The little old woman quailed, and crossed herself, as she saw the light in the other's eyes. "She's fairy-kist! God save us," she muttered, as she hobbled down the path. |
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