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 thee
Who loves and gallops away."