"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.