Читать книгу Shameless Wayne - Sutcliffe Halliwell - Страница 11

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The sun was wearing noonward as Shameless Wayne and his sister came out of the Marsh House gates and turned up the pasture-fields that led them to the moor. It was the same morning that had seen the mad woman steal out from Nanny's cottage in search of the rude welcome awaiting her at Wildwater; but to Nell Wayne it seemed that yesterday was pushed far back into the past. Her visit to the belfry, her lust for vengeance, the quick answer to her prayers that had been given, amid rain-murk and the crash of swords, upon the very stone that was to cover Wayne of Marsh—these seemed all far off to the girl this morning, as if another than she had lived through the tempest of last night's passion. Behind them, in the Marsh hall, lay her father, still as when she had left him before the fight; and something of the stillness of the end was in the girl's face, too, as she kept pace with her brother's slow-moving steps.

"There's no rest for me, Nell, indoors yonder," said the lad, turning troubled eyes to the old house.

"Nor for me, nor for any of us, so long as father lies there. Ned, 'tis cruel that we cannot bury our dead clean out of sight soon as the breath has left them. All afternoon our kinsfolk will come, and whisper and pray above the body, and go away—I can see the whole sad ceremony—and we must be there, Ned—and 'twill be bitter hard to remember that the Wayne pride bids neither man nor woman of us show a tearful front to death."

He laughed, bitterly a little and very sadly. "The Wayne pride, Nell! Did not that die with father, think'st thou? Or hast forgotten what thou said'st to me last night at the vault-side?"

The late stress of grief and fight, had left the girl soft of heart; and Ned had ever held a sure place in her love. "Let that go by, dear," she said. "I was distraught, and my tongue went wandering in my own despite."

"Yet thy tongue spoke truth, lass. I shall never be aught but Shameless Wayne henceforth, thou said'st."

"Nay, 'twas but a half truth," she said, eagerly. "There's life before thee, Ned, and swift deeds——"

He put a firm hand on her shoulder and forced her to look him in the face. "Nell, I was drinking in the Bull tavern while the bell tolled for father from the kirk-tower. Say, didst think I knew what had chanced at Marsh?"

Again the old note of reproof sounded in Nell's voice. "I told Nanny Witherlee that thou didst not know, and I tried hard to think it, Ned—but how could it be? The gossips at the Bull must have told thee for whom the bell was ringing, for the news had long since spread through Marsh cotes."

"They did tell me," began Shameless Wayne.

"Ah, God!" murmured Nell, confessing how she had clung to the last shred of doubt.

"And I thought they lied. I thought, Nell—'twas the fool drink in me—that Jonas and his cronies were minded to have the laugh of me by this lame tale of how Wayne of Marsh had come by his end. Think, lass! When there was no feud, and naught to give colour to a Ratcliffe sword-stroke—how could a head three-parts gone in liquor believe it true?"

She, too, stopped and sought his eyes. "Ned, thou hast lived wild, but one thing I have never known thee do—thou dost not lie to save thy good repute. Wilt swear to me that thou knew'st naught of what had happened?"

"By the Dog, or by any oath that holds a man," he said, and she knew that he spoke plain truth.

"Why, then, 'twas thy ill fortune, dear, and we'll look clear ahead, thou and I."

"Yet the shame of it will cling, Nell. Wherever my name is spoken, there will some one throw mud at it. Whenever I see one man talking with his fellow, and mark how sudden a silence falls on them at my approach, I shall know that they were sneering at Shameless Wayne, who sat heels on table while his father's soul wailed up and down the moorside crying for vengeance. The Ratcliffes will taunt me with it by and by."

"And the taunt will stiffen thy arm, and blows will wipe out word," she cried, her voice clear and strong again.—"Dear, we have no smooth path to follow, but I give God thanks that 'twas drink, not thou, that played the renegade last night. It would have darkened all my love for thee, Ned, to know thee what I feared—ay, though I had fought it down with all my strength."

Again he laughed mirthlessly. "Art so sure that I shall live sober henceforth?" he said.

"Ay, am I! Dost think I've seen but the one side of thee through all these years? Thou wast alway better than thyself, Ned, and needed only a rough blow to bring thee to thy senses."

He interrupted her, impatiently. "We're growing womanish, and I had harder matters to talk of with thee. I'm four-and-twenty, Nell, and I have thee and four half-grown lads to fend for."

"What, then? Are the Marsh lands so poor that we need cry for every penny spent, like cottage-folk?" said Nell, her old pride peeping out.

"I had a wakeful night, lass, and things came home to me. A good farmer drives the work forward, and says little about it, and onlookers are apt to forget what fathering the land needs if 'tis to butter any bread."

"But there's Hiram Hey. He has worked at Marsh ever since I remember aught, and surely he will look to everything?"

"Ay, if he has a shrewd hand ever on his shoulder; but if the master plays at work, Hiram will play, too, with the best, soon as the old habit wears——"

Nell could not keep back a smile. "As well set beggars on horseback, Ned, as put thee to farming. Hadst never patience for it, nor liking."

"Liking? Good faith, I loathe the sight of tillage tools, and the greasy stench of sheep, and the slow rearing of crops for every storm to play the wanton with. But must is must, Nell, lass, and naught will alter it.—Look at Marshcotes kirk yonder?" he broke off, pointing over the moor as they gained the hill-crest. "It is broad day now, and 'tis hard to understand how lately there was fight beneath yond grey old tower."

Nell shuddered. "Was it a dream, think'st thou, after all? Just a dream, Ned, born of the moon-rays and the wildness of the night?"

"'Twas no dream, lass, for I carry the marks of it.—God's pity, what can have chanced to Mistress Wayne, I wonder? I left her on the vault last night, after pleading with her vainly to return with me to Marsh; and half toward home I turned again, shamed at the thought of leaving her in such a plight—and she was gone."

"Thou didst plead with her to come back to Marsh?" said Nell, her face hardening. "What place has she at Marsh?"

"The place that any homeless bairn might claim there; and, by the Heart, I'll find her if I can and give her shelter. Fool that I was to leave her there last night! She may have wandered to her death among the moors."

"And I for one would gladden to hear of it," cried the girl. "She brought father to where he is; she made our honour light through all the country-side; 'tis treachery to the dead to pity her."

"We'll not fall out, Nell, thou and I; there are quarrels enough to fight through as it is," said Wayne steadily. "Wilt come to Bog-hole brink with me? The last words ever I heard from father was about yond field; next after thee, I think he doted most on the lean fields he had rescued from the heather, and 'twould please him if we could whisper in his ear at home-going that the work was speeding."

His sister glanced curiously at him, scarce crediting the change that one night's agony had wrought in this careless lad, nor knowing whether his tenderness or his purposeful, quiet talk of ways and means were more to be wondered at. "Is't safe, Ned?" she asked. "The road to Wildwater crosses over beyond Bog-hole brink, and Nicholas Ratcliffe has a pair of hawk's eyes in his weasel face."

"'Twill be as safe now as ever it will; and who knows but a chance may come to square last night's account?"

She turned and walked beside him up the fields; and, after they had crossed the stile that opened on the moor, she broke silence for the first time. "Ned, what of Janet Ratcliffe?" she said suddenly.

Wayne flushed, and paled again; but his voice was quiet when he spoke. "I have thought that over, too—and—love sickens when it crosses kinship, Nell."

Overjoyed and sorry in a breath, she gave him one of those brief, half-ashamed caresses that rarely passed between them. "Art right, dear," she said—"but God knows what it has meant to thee."

"And I know, lass—and that is all we'll say about it. After all, 'twas hot and sweet enough—but father would have cursed me had he lived to know; and old Nicholas would liefer have drowned Janet in Wildwater Pool than see her wedded to a Wayne. Even thou, lass, didst rail on me when I told thee how it was between us; and thou'rt a woman.—See Bog-hole brink up yonder; that should be Hiram's figure stooping to the spade."

Hiram Hey, indeed, had been busy since early morning at the brink, as befitted the oldest farm-hand of the Waynes. Death might have put an end to the old man's activity, but it was no part of the Marshcotes creed that farming matters should be set aside for even a day because the owner of the land awaited burial. There was always a fresh master to take the old one's place, but the right season for a tillage-job, if once it was let slip by, did not return again. It was high time that this bit of field, intaken from the heather during the open days of winter, should be prepared for its seed-crop of black oats; and Hiram was working, with his wonted easiful swing of arm and downright leisurely tread, at the square heap of peat and lime that stood at the upper corner of the field. His spade, at each downward stroke showed the naked side of the heap, where the alternate layers of black bog-peat and white lime, each a twelve-inch deep or so, climbed one above the other to half a tall man's height; and peat and lime mingled in a grey-black dust as he swung spadeful after spadeful in the waiting cart.

"He'll noan be pleased, willun't th' Maister, 'at he's been called to a better world afore he's seen this field rear its first crop o' oats," muttered Hiram. "Nay, it do seem fair outrageous, like, to wark as he's done to break up a plaguey slice o' land, an' then to dee fair as all's getten ship-shape. A better world he's goan to? I'm hoping as mich—for it 'ud tak him all his time to find a war."

"What art laking at, Hiram?" came a voice from behind.

Hiram put a few more spades-full into his cart before troubling to turn round; then he planted his spade in the ground, firmly and with deliberation, and leaned on it; and last of all he lifted his eyes to the newcomer's face. "Oh, it's thee, is't, Jose? Well?" he said.

"Well?" answered Jose, the same shepherd who earlier in the morning had directed Mistress Wayne to Wildwater.

Neither broke the silence for awhile, for they were fast friends. "Been shepherding like?" ventured Hiram Hey at length.

"Ay. 'Twar a lamb-storm last neet, an' proper, an' I've lossen a two-three ewes through 't already, not to mention lambs. I doubt this lambkin 'ull niver thrive," answered Jose, leaning over the fence and holding a four-days' lamb toward Hiram.

"I doubt it willun't," responded the other, with a critical glance at the thin body and drooping hind-quarters.

"Its mother war carred by th' side on 't, dead as Job, when I gat up to th' Heights this morn, and th' little chap war bleating fair like ony babby. Well, I mun tak it to th' home-farm, an' they'll mebbe rear 't by th' hearthstun.—What's agate wi' thee, Hiram, lad? Tha looks as if tha'd dropped a crown-piece and picked up a ha' penny."

"I war thinking o' th' owd Maister, who ligs below yonder at Marsh. He war a grand un, an' proper. I warrant th' young un 'ull noan be a patch on him."

"That's as th' Lord sends," said the shepherd, shifting the lamb a little to ease his arms; "though why th' new should allus be war nor th' owd, beats me. Tha niver will see th' hopeful side of ony matter, Hiram—no, not if they paid thee for 't. I mind, an' all, that ye hed hard words to say o' him that's goan while he war wick an' aboon-ground."

"Well, that's nobbut right. If ye cannot speak gooid of a man when he's dead, an' noan liable to be puffed up wi' pride at hearing on 't, when can ye let a soft word out, says I?"

"There's a way o' looking at iverything, I allus did say; an' I've knawn a kindly word i' season do more for th' living nor all th' praise i' th' world can iver advantage th' dead."

"Nay," said Hiram, taking up his spade and resting both hands on the top, "nay, I war reared on hard words an' haver-bread, an' they both of 'em stiffen a chap, to my thinking. I doan't knaw that owt iver comed o' buttering your tongue."

"Tha doesn't knaw? Then that's why I'm telling ye. There's th' young Maister, now—him 'at they call Shameless, though I reckon he's cured o' that sin' last neet. He's a chap ye can no way drive, is't Shameless Wayne, but I've knawn him, even i' his owd wild days, go soft i' a minute if ye tried to lead i' stead o' driving him."

"I doubt th' chap. Whin-bushes carry no cherries, Jose."

"Well, tha wert allus hard on th' lad; but there's marrow i' him, ye mark my words. An' we shall see what he's made on, choose what, now he's getten th' farm on his hands.—Sakes, what is't, Hiram?" he broke off, as a slim figure of a woman, wild-eyed and mud-bedraggled, came down the moor and stood on the far side of the fence watching them in questioning fashion.

"Why, by th' Heart,'tis Mistress Wayne!" cried Hiram. "Begow, I thowt it war a boggart! What mud she be after, think'st 'a, Jose?"

"Nay, I know not—save that she passed me many an hour agone, as I war looking after th' sheep, an' axed th' road to Wildwater. I thowt that she war fairy-kist, and now I'm sure on 't."

"Ay, she's fairy-kist, for sure; ye need only see her een to be sure o' that. Tak that lamb o' thine to her, Jose; I've known mony a sickness dumb and human, cured by a touch o' such poor bodies."

They glanced at Mistress Wayne, expecting speech from her; but she said naught—only stood idly watching them, as if she had some question in her mind and feared to ask it. Surprised he was, and awe-struck, by this second advent of a figure at once so eerie and so pitiful, the shepherd was not minded to lose so plain a chance of profit. The lamb was sick, and he knew as well as Hiram did what healing these mad folk carried in their touch. Eager to thrust his burden against the little woman's hand, he moved up toward the fence; but she took fright at his abruptness, and turned, and raced fleet-footed up the slope.

The shepherd watched her disappear among the furrows of the heath, then looked at Hiram. "What dost mak on 't', lad?" he asked.

"Nay, how should I tell?" said Hiram sourly. "'Twould seem yond skinful o' kiss-me-quick ways—who war niver fit, as I've said mony a time, to be wife to Wayne o' Marsh—has paid a bonnie price for her frolic wi' Dick Ratcliffe o' Wildwater— Lord save us, though," he added, "I mun say no ill o' th' wench, now that she is as she is, for 'tis crixy work to cross sich, so they say."

"She's talked o' seeking her lover up at Wildwater," put in the other, in an awed voice. "Did she find him, I wonder? 'Tis fearful strange, lad Hiram, whichiver way a body looks at it."

"Tha's heard nowt, I'm thinking, of how this same Dick Ratcliffe, that she calls her lover, war killed last neet i' Marshcotes graveyard?"

"What, killed? Think o' that now! An' th' little body trapesing all up and down th' moor, seeking him and reckoning he war up yonder at Wildwater House. Where didst learn it, Hiram?"

Hiram took his spade in hand again and thrust it into the lime—with no immediate intention of resuming work, but as a signal that by and by he would have given his tongue as much work as was good for it. "Where should I learn it, save at Nanny Witherlee's? I war dahn at Marshcotes this morn, an' says I to myseln, 'Jose, lad,' says I, 'if there's owt fresh about this bad business o' th' Maister's, Nanny 'll know on 't.' An' I war right, for sure; there's niver a mousehole i' ony house but Nanny hes a peep through 't."

"Ay, she knows whether ye've getten feathers or flocks i' your bedding, does Nanny," Hiram agreed, as he patted the heap with the flat of his spade.

"She hed been ringing th' death-bell, seemingly, and when she came out into th' kirkyard— Now, look yonder, Hiram! We're seeing a sect o' company up here this blessed day, for here's th' young Maister hisseln, an' Mistress Nell wi' him. Eh, but they've getten owd faces on young shoulders, hes th' pair on 'em. I'll be wending up to th' farm, lad, wi' this lambkin, for I war aye softish about meeting troubled faces—they do may my een watter so."

The shepherd made off hurriedly along the crest of the field, his eyes turned steadfastly from the path which Shameless Wayne and his sister were climbing; and Hiram watched him sourily.

"Tha'rt right, Jose, when tha names thyseln softish," he growled. "Sakes, if we're bahn to fret ourselns about iverybody's aches an' pains, where mun we stop? Lord be thanked 'at He's gi'en me a heart like a lump o' bog-oak—hard, an' knobby, an' well-soaked i' brine. So th' young Maister's coming i' gooid time, is he, to lord it ower his farm folk? Well, let him come, says I; he'll noan skift me by an inch, willun't th' lad."

Under other circumstances Hiram would have been at work again by now, nor would he have ceased the unhurried swing of leg and arm-muscle, that does so much in a Marshcotes working-day, until dinner or the advent of another gossip gave him fit excuse for resting. But with the young master close behind—come here, doubtless, to spy on him—the case was altered; and there was stubbornness writ plain in every outstanding knob of the old man's body as he fell into the most easiful attitude that long experience could suggest.

"Well, Hiram, how goes the work?" said Shameless Wayne, stopping at the fence.

Hiram glanced carelessly at the young master, then fell to lengthy contemplation of the sky. "Better nor like," he said at last, "seeing I've nobbut my own wits to guide me, now th' owd Maister is goan."

"The new master knows a sight less than the old one did, Hiram."

"Ye're right, I reckon."

"But he's willing to learn, and means to."

"Oh, ay? I've heard that ye can train a sapling, but not at after it's grown to a tree."

"The same old Hiram Hey! Bitter as a dried sloe," growled Shameless Wayne.

"Sloes is wholesome, choose what; an' I addle too little brass to keep me owt but dry—let alone that I'm no drinker by habit."

The master winced at this last home-thrust, then squared his jaw obstinately. "Hard words plough no fields, Hiram—no, nor lime them either, as is plain to be seen. Thou'rt a week behind with this field."

Hiram glanced edgeways at him, not understanding that two could use his own rough weapons. "A week behind, am I, Maister? An' how should ye come to know whether I'm forrard or behind wi' farm wark?"

Wayne's face softened for a moment. "Because the last word I heard from father was touching this same field—and by that token, Hiram, I'll see that thou gett'st it limed, and sown, and bearing its crop, all in good season, if I have to whip thee up and down the furrows."

His sister laid a hand on his sleeve. "Hush, Ned!" she whispered. "Thou'lt win scant labour from such as Hiram, unless thou bearest a kindlier tongue."

Yet Shameless Wayne, who was counted light of head and judgment, saw more sides to the matter than prudent Mistress Nell; the temper of the moor folk was an open book to him, and he knew that if he were to be master henceforth he must begin as such, or any after-kindness he might show would count for folly with Hiram and his kind.

Hiram Hey was looking steadily at the master now, a hard wonder tempering his obstinacy a little. And so they eyed each other, until the older man's glance faltered, and recovered and fell again to the white spots of lime that littered the peat-mould at his feet.

"Now," said Wayne, "thou hast got thy cart full, Hiram. Give yond chestnut of thine a taste of thy hand, and we'll see if thou hast learned yet to spread a field."

"Hev I learned to spread a field? Me that hes sarved at Marsh, man an' boy, these forty years!" cried Hiram, open-mouthed now.

"Thou hast done good service, too, for father gave his word to that; but whether thou canst spread limed peat—why, that is to be seen yet."

Not a word spoke Hiram, but gave the chestnut one resounding smack with the flat of his hand and fell to work as soberly, as leisurely, as if he had not just been given the hardest nut to crack that ever had come his way. All across the field, as he followed the cart and swung wide spades-full right and left, he was puzzling to find some explanation of this new humour of Shameless Wayne's; but he returned to the heap as wise as he left it, and began stolidly to refill the cart without once looking at the master.

"Nay, I'm beat wi' him," he muttered. "What it means is noan for me to say—but I warrant ony change i' Shameless Wayne is for th' war——"

"Put that sort of work into it, Hiram, and we shall see a good crop yet," called the master drily, and linked his arm through Nell's to help her down the slope.

They had not gone a score yards, and Hiram Hey was still wondering at his powerlessness to give Shameless Wayne "a piece of his mind," when a horseman passed at a foot-pace along the bridle-track above. Beside him walked another horse—a rough-coated bay, that carried a man's body swung across its back. Carelessly fastened the body was, and every now and then, as the nag slipped and stumbled up the rocky slope, the dead man's arms, his head and high-booted legs, made quick nods of protest, as if the journey liked him little.

"Christ guide us, what is this?" cried Nell, aghast at the drear spectacle. And then she looked closer at the on-coming rider, and lost her mawkishness upon the sudden. "'Tis one of the Ratcliffes of Wildwater," she said, with the same passionate tremour in her voice that Nanny Witherlee had heard last night up in the belfry-tower.

"Ay, by his red thatch," muttered Shameless Wayne—"and now he turns his face this way, 'tis he they call Red Ratcliffe—the meanest hound of them all, save him who lies across the saddle-crupper yonder."

"Why, canst see who 'tis?" Nell whispered.

"Ay—thou say'st him last with a sword-blade through his heart."

The horseman had reined in at a stone's-throw from them. "I carried news to Wildwater this morning," he said, glancing from Nell Wayne to her brother.

"Good news or bad, Red Ratcliffe?" answered Wayne in an even voice.

"Why, good. They clapped hands up yonder when I told them what Shameless Wayne was doing while his cousin fought for him."

The lad reddened, but he would show no other sign of hurt. "There are two chances come to every man in his lifetime," he said slowly, "and I have lost but one. Get off your horse, and we'll talk with a weapon that comes handier than the tongue."

Ratcliffe looked down the rough slope of the moor, thinking to ride in at his enemy and strike at vantage; but the ground was full of bog-holes and no horse could cross with safety. "Nay," he answered; "when I fight with you, Wayne of Marsh, there shall be no girl to come between the fight—nor a farm-hind to help thee with his spade."

"You need not fear them, sir," laughed Wayne—"though, now I think of it, old Hiram yonder would be a better match for such bravery as yours."

The other winced, but would not be goaded into fight; and there he showed himself a Ratcliffe—for his race was wont to measure pride by opportunity, and when they fought they did it with cool reckoning of the odds in favour of them.

"Wilt try the issue with my sister, then, if Hiram seems too good for thee?" mocked Wayne. "She can grip a sword-hilt on occasion, and——"

"She may have need to by and by," snapped Red Ratcliffe, pointing to the dead man with the hand which held the bridle of the second horse. "This morning I carried news to the Lean Man, and now I am bearing proof of it—and weighty proof, 'od rot me, as I found when lifting him to saddle. An eye for an eye, Wayne of Marsh—fare ye well, and remember that an old tree we know of will bear red blossoms by and by."

Wayne made a few steps up the slope, but the horseman was already rising to the trot and pursuit was useless. "Come, Nell," he said; "blows would come easiest, but it seems I've to learn patience all in one hard lesson."

Hiram Hey whetted his hands, soon as he was alone again, and began to fill his cart. And many a slow thought ripened as he worked, though he gave voice to none until Jose the shepherd returned from carrying his lamb to the home farm, and rested his arms as before on the fence, and gave Hiram the "Well?" which prefaced every interval of gossip.

"Begow, but I've learned summat, Jose, sin' tha wert here," said Hiram slowly.

"That's a lot for thee to say, lad. I've thowt, time an' time, 'at ye'd getten nowt left to learn," responded the other, with lazy irony.

"Well, 'tis a rum world, an' thick wi' surprises, for me as for ony other man. Who'd hev thowt, Jose, 'at th' young Maister 'ud up an' gi'e me a talking-to, fair as if he war his father, an' me set to liming a field for th' first time?—I tell thee, I war so capped I hedn't a blessed word to answer him wi'—though I've thowt of a dozen sin' he left."

"Didn't I tell thee?" cried the shepherd, cackling softly and stroking his shaven upper lip. "Didn't I tell thee, Hiram? Eh, lad, I haven't lived to three-score an' three without knowing a sour cherry fro' a sweet."

"Thou'rt ower fond o' th' young Maister; tha allus wert, Jose. What's he getten to show for hisseln?" grumbled Hiram.

"Measure him by his doings, an' he's nowt; but peep at th' innards o' th' lad, an' tha'll find summat different-like. He war a wick un fro' being a babby, war Shameless Wayne, an' wick tha'll find him, Hiram, if fancy leads him to meddle wi' th' farming."

"Theer, I niver reckoned mich o' thy head-piece, Jose; 'twar nobbut th' suddenness of it that capped me so, an' next time I warrant he'll sing to a different tune. He war right, though, about this field, an' 'tis owing to thee, Jose, 'at I'm late wi' 't, coming ivery half-hour as tha dost to break me off th' wark. 'Tis weel to be a shepherd, I allus did say."

"Well, then, I'll swop jobs; I'll tak thine, lad, if tha'll tak mine. Begow, but to say 'at I'm idle i' lambing-time— Theer I'll be wending; 'twill noan do mich gooid to listen to such fly-by-sky talk of yond."

Hiram let him move a little away; then, "Didst see Red Ratcliffe go riding by to Wildwater a while back?" he called.

"Nay, I war off th' road. Hes he passed, like, while th' Maister war here?" said the shepherd, answering tamely to the lure and resuming his old easiful attitude against the fence.

"I should think he did. An' he stops, does Ratcliffe, an' mocks th' Maister; an' he up an' says, 'Come thee dahn and fight, lad,' says he, meaning th' Maister. But Ratcliffe war flayed—ay, he war flayed—I'm noan saying th' lad didn't show hisseln summat like a man."

The shepherd was silent for awhile. "I tell thee what it is, Hiram," he said presently; "them Ratcliffes hes been thrang this mony a week wi' their plots an' their mucky plans. There's niver a neet goes by now, when we meet at th' tavern, Wildwater hands an' Marsh, but they mak a joke o' Shameless Wayne—an' no rough honest jokes, mind ye, but sour uns——"

"I should like to hear 'em!" snapped Hiram. "I'm noan gi'en to liquor, Jose, as tha knaws; but I've a mind to look in at th' tavern this varry neet, th' first I hear oppen his mouth agen th' young Maister—" he stopped and looked once down the path that Shameless Wayne had taken. "We shall fratch, me an' ye, lad," he said, as he settled to his work again.

"Ay," chuckled Jose, turning away. "An' he'll best thee ivery time. So I'll say good-afternoon, Hiram, an' we'll pray there'll be no more lamb-storms this side o' th' summer."

"We shall fratch," repeated Hiram Hey, and shouted a "gee-yup," to the chestnut.

But the Master was thinking of weightier matters even than his fratching with Hiram Hey. Nell and he had stopped at the parting of the ways this side of Marsh House, and he had glanced queerly at her as he said farewell.

"Where art going, Ned?" she asked.

He paused awhile before replying; then, "I have a tryst to keep with Janet Ratcliffe," he said, in a tone that challenged opposition.

"A tryst to keep?" echoed Nell, lifting her brows. "How long is't, Ned, since thou told'st me that was over and done with once for all?"

"I told thee truth. The tryst was made when we were free to be lovers,—if we would—but now—dost think I'm minded to forget the blow that sent father where he is?"

"Break tryst, Ned?" she pleaded eagerly. "'Tis unsafe, I tell thee, and——"

"And thou fearest a pair of hazel eyes will cloud all else for me?" he finished. "Get home to Marsh, lass—and think something better of my manhood."

"She'll conquer him again," Nell muttered after he had left her. "He is mad to keep troth with any Ratcliffe. Well-away, why must Ned always run so close a race with dishonour?"