Tales from Many Sources. Vol. V

Betty went home; she lay down to rest with a smile on her beautiful face. The happiest day must end when night falls.

CHAPTER VI

When evening fell the next day, Betty lingered long at the gate.

"He could not get his business done in time," she said to herself. "He will not come to-day."

But the next day passed also, and the next, and still John Johnstone had not come home.

On the fourth day Mr. Ives rode into Wancote to hear the news, and promised his daughter that he would go over to Belton, and find out from the servants whether they had had any news of their master, and when they expected him to return.

Mary Jones came over to the parsonage—it was an important day, for Betty was to try on her wedding-gown, finished the night before.

She looked very beautiful in it, the soft colour flushing on her cheek, her sweet eyes shining. When the little ceremony was over, Betty put her arm round the waist of her friend, and led her away out of earshot of busy Dame Martha, and the smart dressmakers.

"Dear Mary!" she said, "my great wish now is to see you don just such a dress as this wedding-gown of mine."

"Oh la! Betty, bethink you of my age," cried Mary, but tears of genuine emotion rose to her eyes.

"Yet would I fain see you my father's wife," said Betty. She put her hands on her shoulders, and looked down from her greater height into her face.

"Say yes, Mary, say yes," she said.

"I must wait till the right person asks me that question," answered Mary, half sobbing, half laughing; but Betty persisted:

"Say yes, Mary dear!"

"Well then yes, if so it must be," answered Mary. "You are a good girl, Betty," and she kissed her warmly, and hurried away to the glass to rearrange her elaborate curls of hair.

Mr. Ives came home full of excitement: he had heard great news in Wancote, the whole town was ringing with it.

"What do you think has happened?" he cried as he came into the room.

"Has John come home?" asked Betty eagerly.

"No, child, and the servants say that they never expect him until he appears, he is often away like this for a few days. The news is quite otherwise—Wild Jack has been taken."

"Ah!" cried the women in a breath, and Betty turned white as a sheet.

"What will they do with him!" asked Mary.

"He was taken on the king's highway, some twenty miles from here on the Newbury Road, on the cross roads where the steep way comes down from the downs. It seems that an important paper had fallen into the possession of some individual here, convicting many well-known gentlemen about Wancote of loyalty to him that is over the sea, and Sir Harry Clare was to carry the paper to Newbury to-night. I warrant some not very distant friends of ours were shaking in their shoes."

"They rode four together and all well-armed; but Wild Jack was too much for them—he and two others attacked the party; he seized the paper himself, after a short encounter with young Clare, whose horse he shot dead. That accomplished, all made off. The paper was lost. Some say Wild Jack burnt it as he rode, some that he swallowed it, some that he tore and scattered it to the four winds of heaven. Then, when in full flight, his horse stumbled and fell, and the four gentlemen came up with him. Entangled as he was by the fallen horse, he fought and kept all at bay with his marvellous fencing powers till his men were far out of sight. Then he broke his sword across his knee, saying that never should his trusty weapon fall into the hands of the king's enemies. He was badly wounded."

"Well?" cried Mary breathlessly. Betty sat down, she felt cold and faint.

"Well, they took him that night to the nearest village, bound hand and foot. At first they hardly knew the value of their captive, for he was not riding his famous horse Seagull; had he been mounted as usual, small chance would they have had of capturing Wild Jack. There was a hasty assembly of magistrates, such as could be induced to come. I warrant some would have died sooner than join in what followed. They caused a gallows to be erected forty feet high on the king's high road, and there they hanged Wild Jack."

"God rest his soul," said Betty. "John will be sorry indeed, as sorry as I am."

"Yes, John always has a certain sympathy with the gentlemen of the road," said Mr. Ives. "But after all, order must be kept, the roads must be made safe. I know the government will be sorely displeased that the list of suspected gentlemen has been saved, I mean lost."

It was too late, and all were too much excited by what had passed for Betty to broach the subject of marriage to her father that night, but she promised herself to do so early on the following morning.

It was very cold, and Betty could not sleep; in vain she turned from side to side, in vain she drank water and paced her room, and tried all the devices known to the sleepless—all was fruitless; her pillow seemed to her on fire, and incessantly in her imagination she heard the galloping of horses so vividly, that she rose several times and went to the window; but the night was clear, and the moon bright, and all over the country lay one sheet of untrodden snow.

She lay down once more, and about three o'clock was roused suddenly by a light tap, as of something which hit her window.

She went to it hastily, and as she did so, another light pebble hit the panes. She opened the casement and looked out. Below in the garden in the moonlight, which was almost as light as day, she saw standing a slight woman's figure.

The figure held up a warning hand to be silent and come down.

Betty was bold and fearless, she put on her clothes hastily, and went down. She went into the garden at once, and looked cautiously round. There was no one to be seen at first.

She waited in some amazement, when suddenly she felt a light touch on her shoulder, and looking round, saw standing beside her Nora Ray, the young gipsy girl, looking more wild and elf-like than usual.

"Hist!" said the strange child. "I have brought you a token from one whom you know so well. His day is over," she cried with a wild grin, showing all her white teeth. "The ravens are feasting on Wild Jack's tender flesh to-night. See here is the token; he gave it to me at the foot of the gallows with his own hand."

With a sob Betty took it from the girl's brown hand—her own little serpent-ring that he had taken from her that night that seemed so long ago.

"It shall never again leave my finger," she said. "God rest his soul."

"You will cross the poor gipsy's hand with silver, pretty lady," cried Nora. "He never failed to do so to poor Nora Ray, not he!"

Betty quickly went into the house, gave her money, and let her out of the gate—the wild creature had come in over the wall—then she went slowly up to her room.

She leant out of the open window, her brow burning in spite of the cold.

Suddenly came on her ear the wild sound of Nora's singing, with its strange pathos like the sighing of the wind, or the cry of storm-tossed sea-birds.

Betty clasped her hands, and sank on her knees, the sound made her shudder from head to foot. She stopped her ears with trembling fingers, but yet every word fell on them distinctly and would not be shut out.

"Aye, call him, call him over the lea,Aye, well and well-a-day;Lover will never come back to theeWho loves and gallops away."CHAPTER VII

"How pale you are this morning, my child," said Mr. Ives to his daughter.

"It is nothing. I have had a feverish night; the story of the fate of my poor friend haunted me," she answered. She could not eat, the cold had chilled her blood, and now and then she shivered painfully.

Betty sought her opportunity in spite of her bodily discomforts, and fondly caressing her father's hands she knelt down by his chair.

"Father," she said. "Dear father, you know that very soon I am going to leave you, to be married to my own true love. Our wedding-day is fixed, but I dare say he will not be back much before then. Do you think he will? Oh no, probably not."

"Why, child, to be sure he will! He will be back in a few days at the outside. Why, silly child, you will make a poor wife if you fret always when your husband is from home."

"But I do not fret. I am perfectly satisfied. Listen, dear father: when I am married and gone away with my dear love, you will look round you and see only my empty place, no hand to hold yours, no voice to welcome you, no music to cheer you, no child to love you."

"Betty," cried Mr. Ives with a sob, "why do you show me so dismal a picture? It is bad enough already."

"I have a good reason, dear father," she said. "You see I am going so soon. I should leave you with so much lighter a heart were Mary here to take my place. She is kind and good, and true, and would love you dearly."

Mr. Ives laughed a little.

"Mistress Mary is somewhat old to replace my daughter," he said.

"Then the more suited to be your wife."

Mr. Ives rose to his feet, and paced up and down the room. Suddenly he stopped, and catching his daughter's hands, looked her full in the face.

"Would she have me, my Bet?" he said. "I may not be too old to wed, but I am vastly too old to woo."

"She will have you, father," answered Betty. "And you will be quite happy when I am gone."

So all was settled, and the elderly pair pledged to each other. The banns were asked in church that their marriage might take place at once when John Johnstone should take his bride away.

Days passed on, days lengthened into weeks, the wedding-day drew near, and the bridegroom came not.

All Betty's high courage came back, the frost melted away, and the country was open again, and once more she rode to hounds. Her colour was high, her lips feverishly scarlet, her eyes large and brilliant. She rode with the best, and came home with the brush at her pommel.

"Why do they look at me so strangely, father?" she asked. "Old Squire Thornton, when he welcomed my return to the hunt, held my hand a whole minute in his, and it was as if he were about to speak, for he swallowed once or twice and then turned away. And Doctor Glebe would not speak to me at all, and his face was set as a mask, though I saw that he was watching me strangely all the time. Have I changed? Am I not the same Betty I used to be?"

"The same, only a little thinner, my darling," her father answered, and his eyes filled with tears.

He too had grown curiously sad of late, and followed his daughter with wistful eyes.

"Father," she said one day, "to-morrow you know is our wedding-day. John will come home, he must return to-night. I know that he will. I shall wait up till the clock strikes twelve, but if he does not come (and of course no one can tell how long business may detain him, can they?), one thing, dear father: will you take Mary to church, even though I should not be there, and marry her? She might wear my wedding-gown. To please me, father, to please me?"

"Anything, anything to please you, my own child," said Mr. Ives in a choked voice.

All day Betty wandered in the garden; they watched her wistfully, her head was raised, always listening—listening to every sound.

The hours passed, evening came, the night fell. Betty had thrown wide the casement. Her father and Mary Jones, crouching over the fire, had no heart to speak to her, or warn her that the night was cold.

A wild stormy wind swayed the branches of the apple-trees, surging and roaring as it rushed over the downs; the candles flickered and burned low, and from them dropped those strange waxen off-shoots that old women call winding-sheets.

At last the church-bell struck twelve, slowly, awfully.

Betty was listening still, her head raised, her finger on her lip.

"Hush!" she said, with a strange smile. "Do you hear the white horse's hoofs?"

They listened. Distinctly on the ear came the sound of a horse galloping, coming nearer and nearer, passing the door, on and on without pause, the sound of the hoofs growing faint and fainter till lost in the far distance.

Betty held out her arms. "Mary!" she said. "Mary!" Her voice was a strange harsh whisper, out of which all tone had passed. "Mary, he gallops away."

CHAPTER VIII

After the lapse of another three days, it was determined that there should be no further delay of the marriage, and one morning without pomp or parade of any kind, Mr. Ives took his bride into Wancote, and they returned home man and wife.

The only wedding-guest was the parson's old friend Dr. Glebe, and he returned with them to the parsonage because he had a few serious words that he wished to say there.

He took Mr. Ives aside, and said abruptly, "Are you mad, Ives? Do you wish to lose that peerless daughter of yours? I warn you that you will do so, if you are not more watchful."

"I would give my life for hers," answered her father sorrowfully. "And so would Mary, who loves her dearly, but alas! what can we do? We cannot bring back John Johnstone."

"You must send her away at once. She must have change of air and scene. At once, mark you, without an hour's unnecessary delay."

"You think it will do her good?"

"I think it the one chance of escaping fatal mischief. See, I have a plan to propose. Why not send her to Newbury to her aunt? She is a sensible woman, and the house is full of children—they will rouse her."

"I will take her myself," cried Mr. Ives.

"Nay, nay, that would defeat my object. I want absolute change for her, change of thought, scene, companions."

"But how manage it, if I may not go myself?"

"Squire Thornton rides to Newbury tomorrow with Sir Harry Clare, and he will willingly be her protector."

"They ride?"

"Yes, it will do Betty good to ride, and old Isaac can follow with a valise full of clothes."

"Tomorrow did you say?"

"Tomorrow at daybreak."

"It shall be done. God grant that it may do her good."

The following morning, with many a tear and many a blessing Mr. Ives and his wife started Betty on her way.

She made no resistance, passively assented to all they wished. When she was once more in the saddle, her spirits rose feverishly again.

Sir Harry Clare, riding by her side, felt the old fascination stealing over him again, the fascination that had well nigh broken Lady Rachel's heart at Newbury last year. Squire Thornton saw her bright color, and heard the old lively talk as of old, and thought how that time cures all things, and that perhaps in the days to come, his son might have a chance at last.

About half way on their journey the little party was joined by two gentlemen who reached the highway by a cross-road; they lived far from the Wancote neighbourhood. The one Sir James Templemore, the other Mr. Mat Harding.

Squire Thornton was glad to meet with friends so rarely encountered; they had secrets together mayhap. They saluted each other cordially, their greeting of Sir Harry Clare was more cold.

It was a gloomy windy day, and after the midday halt to bait their horses, the weather grew worse, a cold violent wind blew in their faces, now and then a driving shower of rain.

"Are you tired, Mistress Betty?" asked the squire.

"No, no, I enjoy the free fresh air, it gives me new life."

"That is well," he said, riding on well pleased.

The two cavaliers who attended Betty on each side were the new arrivals, both of whom appeared much struck by her exceeding beauty.

Now it seemed almost as if they entered into a cloud, so dark it became, so blinded were they by wind and a fresh storm of cold fine rain. The horses grew subdued, they whinnied and held down their tails tightly. It was very cold.

They moved into a short trot, but pulled up soon, breathless.

The rain ceased as suddenly as it had begun, and now Betty became aware of some tall dark object looming in front of her, only as yet half visible. The wind howled past, and distinctly she heard a sort of clanking noise, as of chains or the rattling of something hard clanking together.

"Let us ride on, let us ride fast." cried Squire Thornton in his loud hearty voice. As he spoke there was a whirr of loud wings, and a dark cloud of foul birds rose into the air from off that dark thing.

Betty put out her hand and laid it on Sir James Templemore's arm.

"What is it?" she said in a ghastly whisper.

"Ah, a sad sight indeed," said he sadly. "There hangs as noble a gentleman as ever drew sword for the king, God bless him."

"Who is it?" she asked again; the whisper came hissing forth.

"Who? God rest his soul, he had many names. He was Wild Jack Barnstaple, alias John Johnstone of Belton, alias Daredevil Jack of the North."

"For the sake of all that is sacred, hold your tongue!" shouted the squire, who had caught the last words.

He was too late. With a wild hoarse cry that none who heard it ever forgot, Betty flung wide her arms, and fell back on her saddle. The terrified horse galloped furiously forward, throwing her from side to side, then violently to the ground at the foot of the gallows.

In horror the gentlemen surrounded her, and raised her inanimate form between them.

But it was long and very late before they could get her home.

After long hours her body awoke to life, but her brain was gone. Heartbroken, mind gone, in very sooth mad, what remained for sweet Betty now.

Travellers passing by would point to the parsonage wall, and sorrowfully tell her story. Some more curious than the rest would perhaps stop to look through the gate.

A strange sight met their eyes.

As beautiful as ever, with a strange fearful beauty, stood Betty, her hands hanging clasped before her, and she sang to herself softly, dreamily:

"Call him, call him over the lea,Aye, well and well-a-day;Lover will never come back to theeWho loves and gallops away."

Then she put her hands to her mouth as men do who wish that their voices should carry far, and called over and over again slowly, "John Johnstone! John Johnstone!"—the last syllable rising loud on a long high note.

Then she would hold up her finger, and bend her head listening, listening, listening, till she heard the sound of the galloping hoofs come nearer and nearer, passing and fading away.

Those who watched with her in the dark evenings in the walled garden swore that they also heard the sound, and their hair bristled with cold fear.

VIRGINIA

PART I

"He is a very strange mixture."

"I really do not think you ought to ask him to the house. An atheist, a man of disreputable life, a–."

"Come, come, my dear, don't give him such a character, before Virginia."

This fragment of dialogue takes place over a cheery breakfast table in a house not very far from Park Lane.

The first speaker is a pleasant-looking man of between fifty and sixty, and his interlocutor is a rather prim lady, who appears older, but is, in reality, his junior by two years. They are Mr. Hamilton Hayward and his sister, Miss Susan.

The party has a third member—the Virginia alluded to by Mr. Hayward. She is tall, handsome, bright-looking; evidently she possesses character, but with it the grace and charm of manner which prevent a woman of character from falling into that disagreeable being, a strong-minded woman.

"What are Mr. Vansittart's good points?" she says, smiling at her uncle.

"He has the kindest heart in the world," Mr. Hayward replies, warmly, "and he would never do a shabby thing. One of the few men who really practice not letting their left hand know the good their right does. He certainly is a looseish fish; but he does not parade his irregularities before the world—the world need not know anything about them if it does not insist on prying into his affairs. The greatest grudge women have against him is that he is mortally opposed to marriage, and carries on a crusade against it as though he were St. George, and matrimony the Dragon. He says if you want to make two people hate each other who would otherwise be disposed to love—"

"Hush! my dear Hamilton," cries Miss Susan, horrified. "Pray spare us a repetition of Mr. Vansittart's iniquitous opinions."

"I suppose," laughs Virginia, "that women don't insist on marrying him by force, do they?"

"A great many would be very glad to have him," rejoins Mr. Hamilton, "he is a tremendously taking fellow."

"And have you really asked him to dinner?" interposes Miss Susan.

"I have, indeed, my dear, and I had a good deal of difficulty in persuading him to come. He persisted that he went so little into society—into ladies' society."

Miss Susan gave a little snort.

"He has no right to go into it at all with the views he holds; and, pray, whom is he to take in to dinner?"

"Mrs. Ashton, I thought," answers Mr. Hamilton. "I am afraid he would be bored with an unmarried lady."

"When I was young," says Miss Susan, bridling, "married women were as modest and particular in their conversation as unmarried ones."

"Ah!" observes her brother dryly.

"Uncle," cries Virginia, "let him take me. If he is original, I shall be sure to like him; and as I don't intend to marry, he need not be afraid of my having designs on him. I shall give him a hint whilst he is eating his soup that I have made a vow to coiffer Ste. Catherine."

"Virginia!" remonstrates Miss Susan; "and you know Sir Harry Hotspur is to take you."

"No, no," cries Virginia, "he bores me to distraction. Besides," laughing, "he 'goes for married women.' Let him have Mrs. Ashton, and give me Mr. Vansittart."

Miss Susan has one virtue, which is, that she is never quite so shocked as she pretends to be. Moreover, Virginia always gets her way with both uncle and aunt. So when the evening of the dinner party arrives, Mr. Hayward brings Mr. Vansittart up to his niece and introduces him. Whilst he is uttering a few of those banalités which must inevitably be the precursors of even the most interesting conversation between two strangers, Virginia is taking an inventory of him. He is tall, rather dark than fair; his features are well cut, and he has particularly expressive eyes, the color of which it takes her some time to decide about. At the same moment he is saying to himself: "What sort of woman is this, and what on earth shall I talk to her about? I hope to heaven she isn't a girl of the period. She doesn't look like it—still less like a prude. How I hate a society dinner! I suppose I shall be bored to death, as usual."

True to her promise, Virginia apprises him, whilst he yet is assimilating his soup, of her vow of celibacy. He turns to look at her, being just a shade surprised at receiving such a confidence so early in their acquaintance, and then he sees the archest smile curving the corners of her mouth, and meets a glance from a pair of brown eyes that he now perceives to be beautiful.

Mr. Vansittart has a quick intelligence—he understands in an instant the object of her remark. His eyes light up with a sudden gleam, and he murmurs quietly, "Thanks so much for putting me at my ease."

From that moment they are perfectly at home with each other, and fall to animated talk. He does not air his theories about marriage, nor is religion discussed between them, but there are plenty of other topics, and they become aware of a dozen feelings and sympathies in common. Virginia is as bright and witty as she is modest and pure-minded; there is nothing in the world that Mr. Vansittart detests so much as a coarse or immodest lady. So charmed is he with Virginia, that he remains close to her side the whole evening, to the surprise of every one else. No one ever saw him devote himself to a girl before. He stays until the very last. As he walks away from the door, after lighting his cigar, he reflects to himself: "If any earthly power could induce me to marry, it would be a girl like that. But," resolutely, "nothing could." As Virginia wends her way upstairs to bed, she says to herself with a heavy sigh, "Why should he abuse marriage? How happy he might make some woman!"

Virginia is the daughter of a clergyman. Father and mother are both dead. She has a brother in the army, and a sister married to a country rector. Her uncle, Mr. Hayward, has adopted her. She is clever and accomplished. She has both passion and imagination. Some of her ideas are original; she hates common-placeness, but she is also imbued with the attribute possessed by every charming woman, the love of approbation. This prevents her doing or saying anything outre or unconventional; this makes her careful of her appearance and fond of fair apparel; this makes the evidence of admiration from the other sex exceedingly agreeable to her; this causes her to adopt a manner towards them that induces jealous women to call her a coquette. She has had several offers of marriage, but she entertains peculiar ideas about the strength of passion and the sympathy of thought a man and woman ought to feel for each other before they decide to spend a life-time together. She does not think a man who has a good income, and who is simply not repulsive or abhorrent to her, a sufficient inducement.