The days passed on, and now all the world lay under a pall of white
snow. Under their dazzling mantle gleamed the dark prickly leaves of the
holly-trees with abundance of scarlet berries. Here and there a little
robin-redbreast hopped to and fro, chiefly gathering round the latticed
windows of the parsonage, where morning and evening Betty fed hundreds
of feathered pensioners.
Sportsmen cursed the hard weather, the idle horses restlessly moved in
their stalls, and the hounds dreamed dreams to pass away the long hours.
Betty was never idle. She made it her pride that when she left home as a
bride all should be found in order in her father's home. Mistress Mary
took much interest in it herself, and joined her in mending and marking
and sorting fine household linen that had need of much care.
Betty's own clothes were in course of manufacture, not many but rich, as
should become the Lady of Belton; above all, her wedding-gown of
dove-coloured and silver brocade, all trimmed with strings and strings
of orient pearls which John Johnstone had brought her one day.
He gave her many jewels but she loved the pearls best, for they were his
first gift, and destined, he said, for that day of days that was to make
her his own forever.
Almost every day as the time passed on, he brought her a new gift. Once
it was a pretty little dog, another day a ring of large rubies.
"My Betty herself is a ruby," he said, when he placed this on her hand.
"A brave stone rich in colour, strong, unchanging, and the most precious
of gems."
Then there was nothing for it, but that she and her father should come
to Belton to look over Betty's future home, suggest improvements, and
choose among Mr. Johnstone's many fine horses one to be trained for his
bride's special use. She was a bold fearless rider, looking beautiful on
horseback, and she had scorned his proposal to buy her a gentle lady's
horse, expressing her wish to be allowed to ride his hunters. With one
or two exceptions John offered her the choice.
It was a brilliant frosty day on which the invitation was accepted. Mr.
Ives laughingly included Mary Jones in the little party, asserting that
two and two would be a fairer division of company.
Mary bridled and blushed and threw a tender glance at him from behind
her fan, and the parson thought to himself that after all he was not old
yet.
In every life there is perhaps one day that stands out from the others
as the happiest day--one day in which the cup of joy seems full to the
brim; it is not generally a day of powerful emotions, but of unbroken
peace, sunshine, love, sweetness and the glory of life.
Such a day had dawned for fair Betty Ives. It was not so unbroken for
her betrothed: now and then a look of care overcast his brow, and now
and then his hands clenched themselves with a slight nervous movement.
All through the day he paid her a courtship so tender, so deferential,
so loving, it might have been a votary addressing his saint, a courtier
waiting on his queen; and as the hour advanced, and the time of
departure drew near, his attentions became yet more tender, more
wistful.
They visited the horses and the dogs, gave bread to the shy young
gazelle that John was endeavouring to tame, to offer to his bride. Then
he suddenly drew her aside, and while Mr. Ives and Mary Jones strolled
onwards to the garden, he took a key from his pocket, and unlocked the
door of a loose box which he had passed by hitherto.
"Here lives my best treasure, sweetheart," he said. "You must travel
far, and look wide, ere you meet with his match."
Betty looked in, and her eyes fell on a magnificent white horse. It
would have needed an experienced eye fully to appreciate the strength
and symmetry of its proportions; to Betty he looked beautiful, and words
failed to describe her admiration.
"Strange that I have never chanced to see you ride him," she said. "I
recognised at once the brown mare and the two chestnuts, and the bay
with a white star, but this one I have never seen."
"No, I never hunt Seagull," he answered thoughtfully. "I owe him my life
not once, but over and over again."
"Seagull!" exclaimed Betty. "Is not that the name of Wild Jack's famous
white horse?"
"Yes, he was named after him. I bethought myself that my Seagull was as
noble an animal as Wild Jack's."
"I am sure that he has not his equal in the wide world!" cried Betty.
John Johnstone turned suddenly to her and said: "Do you still keep up
your interest in that poor sinner Wild Jack, sweet Bet? or has it died
away in your gentle breast?"
"I shall never forget our first, and (heaven grant) our last interview,"
she answered with a smile. "How he justified my trust in him!"
"Poor Jack," said John Johnstone thoughtfully. "I knew Jack well once;
you were right to have faith in him. He has done good service to the
Cause. Look you, dear, he never took purse or papers on the king's
highway, but in the king's name who is over the seas; he never injured
woman or shot an unnecessary shot--keep your sympathy with Jack. And
now," he said, throwing back his head with an odd look of defiance and
pride--"now there is a reward of five hundred pounds offered for Wild
Jack's body living or dead. They place a high price on the head of one,
whom, to his honour, they dub traitor as well as highwayman!"
"Five hundred pounds," said Betty. "Alas! the reward is tempting."
"He has escaped so often from their very midst, has more than once been
prisoner, has often baffled his swiftest pursuers. Next time Wild Jack
is taken, his shrift will be short, I warrant."
The tears rose to Betty's eyes.
"God grant him a safe escape to France," she said earnestly.
"It is a good and a charitable wish, sweetheart," said John somewhat
gloomily. "But men who have lived as Wild Jack has lived, dread, exile
as much as death."
"Surely," said Betty, "that depends upon whether he is utterly
friendless, or has any who love him."
"Wild Jack is not utterly friendless," he answered with a grave sweet
smile.
"And this also is one of the mysteries," said Betty gaily. "Do not
forget your promise, that some day you will tell me all the past history
of your life, and also, above all, the story of your acquaintance with
the most famous gentleman of the road."
"Aye, some day," he said, closing the door of Seagull's home, and
placing the key in his pocket.
As they turned away he said suddenly: "Say nothing about my treasure in
there, dear Bet, I beg of you, neither to your father nor to Mistress
Mary."
Betty looked up at him somewhat surprised.
"Oh, it is for a trifling reason," he said--"a mere wager."
So the matter faded from her mind.
The elders of the little party now summoned them--the evening was
closing, it was time to be going home.
They were all to ride, Mary on a pillion behind Mr. Ives.
While the horses were being saddled, Mr. Johnstone prayed them to come
in, and they entered once more the large drawing-room, and gathered
round a cheerfully blazing fire.
It was a stately room, with handsome furniture, all arranged with stiff
propriety, needing the trifling signs of a woman's presence to give
grace and life to its appearance.
"How different it will look when my lady reigns here," said John
Johnstone softly. He led her away to one of the windows, and pointed out
to her the beauties of the fair English landscape, and there unseen he
held her hand in both his, and once pressed it to his lips. Tea came in,
in cups of delicate old china, and home-made cakes and fresh butter.
"We must have a dairy fit for your superintendence, sweet Bet," said
John Johnstone. "See how pale is this butter, how thin this cream
compared to what you offer me at the parsonage."
The horses came round at last, Mr. Johnstone's bay mare with them; he
would certainly accompany them home.
Indeed it seemed as if this evening he could not tear himself away, he
lingered on and on, and it grew quite dark, and the moon rose over the
snow, and the stars shone out one by one.
Supper was over, Mistress Mary long since gone home. It was nine
o'clock--Mr. Johnstone must go. Mr. Ives sat quiet in his deep chair,
the warmth and the comfort entered into his soul, and he slept.
"Come with me to the door, sweet Bet," said John lingeringly.
"Yes, even farther than that," she said, and she caught up her fur
cloak, threw it round her, and followed him out to the garden gate. The
crisp snow crackled pleasantly under foot.
Old Isaac, who held the bay mare, left them when he had given the bridle
into her master's hand.
"They will be wishing to kiss, mayhap," he muttered to himself, "and
I'll not stand in their way, God bless them!"
John Johnstone mounted. He looked up to the sky and said, "It is later
than I thought. I have a long ride before me to-night, sweetheart. I
have business near Newbury. I had meant to go home and change the bay
mare for my faithful Seagull, but it is too late."
"When shall you be back?" asked Betty, who was used now to his sudden
departures.
"To-morrow--to-morrow at latest, and my first halt shall be here."
"Are you armed?"
He gave a laugh, and pointed to his saddle, well garnished with pistols.
"They are loaded," he said. "For it might fall out that I should meet
with Wild Jack."
"Heaven forbid!" said Betty with a shiver.
"You are cold, sweetheart, you must go in. We must part. Oh! it is
bitter to say farewell."
"Only till to-morrow, John! Only till to-morrow!"
"Only till to-morrow!" he echoed.
Then he bent down, put his hand under her chin and raised her sweet
face--the moon shone on it, on the large eyes lovingly turned to his, on
the wondering tender look, in which joy and pain seemed strangely
mingled.
Their lips met, one long wild kiss--for the first time she heard his
passionate words, "My own, my beloved!" Then he drew up his reins. John
gave one glance at the moon, and noted how she mounted heaven's
arch--then he looked back no more, but set spurs to the bay mare's
flanks, and galloped away.
Betty went home; she lay down to rest with a smile on her beautiful
face. The happiest day must end when night falls.