but at that moment Calypso and her companion started and came into the
open, and the moon shone on the face of the dead. Grubbe uttered a cry
and turned on me. His teeth showed in a grin.
"No ghost shall haunt me, Dick," says he. "Rather shall another ghost
keep him company;" and his wry neck moved horridly in the wan light.
I pointed upwards where the tobyman hung in chains, keeping his sheep
by moonlight. "There's your destiny," said I, "there's your doom. Now
defend ye, damn ye, for I'll not prick an adder at a disadvantage."
He drew his blade, for no man could say that Timothy Grubbe,
time-server, pander, and traitor as he was, lacked courage. Suddenly
he sliced at me, but I put out and turned off the blow.
"If you will have it so soon," said I, "in God's name have it," and I
ran upon him.
My third stroke went under his guard and took him in the midriff. He
gave vent to an oath, cursed me in a torrent, and struck at me weakly
as he went down. He was as dead as mutton almost ere he reached the
ground.
I have never been a man of the Church, nor do I lay any claim to own
more religion than such as to make shift by when it comes to the
end. No, nor do I deny that I have sundry offences on my conscience,
some of which I have narrated in my memoirs. But when it comes to a
reckoning I will make bold to claim credit in that I rid the world he
had encumbered of Timothy Grubbe--the foulest ruffian that ever I did
encounter in the length of my days on the roads.
I climbed the beam and lowered the poor tobyman, and it took me but
a little time to make the exchange. The one I left where he had paid
quittance in the peace of this earth, and t'other a-swinging under the
light of the moon on Gallows Gate.
I have said my journey was done, but that was not so. There was more
for me to do, which was to deliver poor Masters at his ladylove's and
break the unhappy news. And so, leaving the carriage where it stood,
with the patient horses, that were cropping the grass, I mounted the
mare and began to go down the long span of the downs to the north.
'Twas late--near midnight--when I reached Effingham and found my way
to the manor. I rapped on the door, leaving Calypso and t'other in the
shadows by the house, and presently one answered to my knock. "What is
it?" says she.
"'Tis a stranger," says I, "that has news of great import for Mrs Anne
Varley, whom I beg you will call."
"She cannot hear you," said she, "'tis her wedding-night."
"What!" said I, in amazement, and instantly there flowed in upon me
the meaning of this. Damn all women, save one or two, thinks I. And I
turned to the maid again, with my mind made up.
"Look you, wench," said I, "this is urgent. I have an instant message
that presses. And if so be your mistress will bear with me a moment and
hold discourse, I'll warrant she shall not regret it--nor you," says I,
with a crown piece in my palm.
She hesitated, and then, "Maybe she will refuse," says she. "She hath
but these few hours been wed."
"Not she," said I, "if you will tell her that I bring good news, great
news--news that will ease her spirit and send her to her bridal bed
with a happy heart."
At that she seemed to consent, and with my coin in her hand she
disappeared into the darkness of the house. It must have been some ten
minutes later that a light flashed in the hall, and a voice called to
me. "Who is it?" it asked, "and what want you at this hour?"
I looked at her. She was of a pretty face enough, rather pale of
colour, and with eyes that moved restlessly and measured all things.
Lord, I have known women all my life in all stations, and I would have
pinned no certainty on those treacherous eyes. She was young too, but
had an air of satisfaction in herself, and was in no wise embarrassed
by this interview. I had no mercy on her, with her oaths of constancy
writ in water that feigned to be tears, and her false pretences.
"Madam," said I, civilly, "I hear you're wed to-day to a gentleman of
standing."
"What is that to you, sir?" she asked quickly.
"'Tis nothing, for sure," said I, "but to a friend of mine that I
value deeply 'tis much."
"You speak of Mr Masters," said she, sharply, and with discomposure.
"Sure, if he be a gentleman he will not trouble me when he knows."
"Anne!" cried a voice from the top of the stairs, "Anne!"
'Twas her bridegroom calling. Well, she should go to him in what mood
she might when I had done with her.
"He will never know," says I, "unless he have it from yourself."
"Anne!" says the voice above the stairs.
"He shall not--I will not," she cried angrily. "I will not be
persecuted, 'twas all a mistake."
I whistled, and Calypso emerged from the night, and behind Calypso was
the horse with its burden.
An anxious look dawned in her face. "I am insulted--" says she, and
paused quickly. "Edward!" she called, and put a hand to her bosom.
"Anne, my dove!" cried the voice, "where are you? Come, child, 'tis
late."
The horses came to a stop before the door, with the body in the saddle,
bound to the crupper.
"What is it?" she cried in alarm, and suddenly she shrieked out,
clutching at the door-post. "It is an omen--my wedding-night."
"Ay," says I, "which be your bridegroom, he that calls out or he that
is silent? Call on him and he hears not."
Peal after peal went up now from her, and the house was awake with
alarm. I turned away, leaving her on the door-step, and mounted the
mare. As I cantered off into the night I cast a glance behind me, and a
group was gathered at the door, and in that group lay Mrs Anne fallen
in a swoon, with the sleeping figure on the horse before her.
COLSTON AND COY. LIMITED, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:
Obvious printer errors have been corrected. Otherwise, the author's
original spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been left intact.