Читать книгу Shameless Wayne - Sutcliffe Halliwell - Страница 5

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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.