"I deal not in warnings," said Rachel hastily.

"Did I deal in warnings, the reading of the cards might prove useful to you both."

"Come, come!" he said, "you speak in riddles. The warning. Is it the same for this gentle lady as for my rough self?"

"Aye, aye, for both--both." She bent down, and laid a dark hand on the shoulder of each, and peering into one face after another, she muttered:

"Beware of Wild Jack Barnstaple!"

Both started. John Johnstone flushed angrily: he rose to his feet.

"We have had enough of this fooling," he said. "The day is advancing, madam," turning to Betty. "Will you vouchsafe me the extreme pleasure of being your escort home?"

As Betty was about to answer, she was arrested by the sound of singing outside, in a voice so wild, loud, and sweet, it seemed the very embodiment of the music of Nature.

"Who is singing like that?" asked Betty. "How beautiful! and how marvellously sad."

"It is Nora Ray, only our Nora, dear heart. Her voice is sweet as the lark, and she sings old songs she gathers in the villages round."

"Hush, hush, listen!" cried Betty, and she stood with upraised hand listening.

The air was in the minor key, the voice of the singer thrilled to the very nerves, every word came distinctly to their ears.

"Aye, Margaret loved the fair gentleman, Aye, well and well-a-day, And the winter clouds gather wild and fast; He loved, and he galloped away.

Aye, call him! call him over the lea, Thou sad forsaken la.s.s, Never more he'll come back to thee Over the wild green gra.s.s.

The swallows return from over the sea, Aye, well and well-a-day; But lover will never come back to thee Who loves and gallops away.

Aye, call him! call him over the sea, The winter is coming fast; He waved his hat, he bowed full low And smiled as he galloped past.

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."

A strange shiver came over Betty Ives, a thrill such as she had never experienced before. She glanced at Dame Rachel. The old woman was nervously fingering the cards, and muttering to herself. Then her frightened eyes turned to her lover; he read some appeal in them.

He held out his hand, and caught hers and pressed it for one short second to his lips.

The door burst open, and the girl who had been singing came in; her black hair was all blown back, the great black eyes staring out of the small dark face. She drew her scanty cloak round her and laughed a shrill laugh.

"Will you have your fortunes told, my good gentleman? my pretty lady?"

she cried. "Cross little Nora's palm with a silver sixpence then."

"No, no, we have had enough of that. Come, dear madam, we must be going," said Johnstone, and he conducted Betty to the place where Reuben, faithful to his trust, held the rein of her horse.

"Do not be so long without coming to see me again, dear heart," cried Rachel Ray, standing outside her door.

"No, no, I will come soon," answered Betty. Johnstone placed her in the saddle.

"A good gallop over the downs will bring back the colour to your cheek,"

he said softly. "You are so white and cold."

"There is something ill-omened in all here," said Betty with a slight shiver.

"Here, Nora," cried Johnstone, flinging her a piece of gold. "This is to make up for the loss of that silver sixpence."

The girl laughed loud and shrilly. "Ah! ah!" she cried after them. "The good gentleman! the brave fellow! For this I would follow you! aye!

follow you, my lad, from Belton to Tyburn Hill!"

CHAPTER IV.

"It is then true, my Betty? And I am to wish you joy?" cried Mary Jones, with both hands outstretched.

"It is true," answered Betty, her lips parted in a smile of sunshiny happiness. "Congratulate me, Mary; yes, wish me joy, for there is no happier woman to-day between the Northern and Southern seas."

"I am glad to see you so happy, dear child!" cried Mary affectionately, but there was something pinched and starved in her voice. Ah, pity for those who possess the capacity for love and yet must go hungry to their dying day!

This odd want is none the less bitter that it meets with scant sympathy in this hard world. In the breast of many an unsought woman lies a wealth of wasted treasure, treasure which no one has cared to seek, and yet what a treasure it might have been!

Mary Jones's heart had grown somewhat starved, but it was the heart of a loving woman still, and when the bright sunshine of her young friend's happiness shed its light on her soul, it awakened an echo of old dead days, and swelled it with sympathy.

"Sit down, sweet one," she said, drawing Betty down on the sofa beside her. "Tell me all about it. When did he ask you to be his wife?"

"This morning, Mary, only this morning; but it seems as if years had pa.s.sed since then."

"And what says Mr. Ives? Does he welcome the stranger who takes from him his only child?"

"Not far, Mary--but two miles away--and my father is always to live with me, if he so will it, so says Mr. Johnstone."

"But is he pleased?" asked Mary, with a little persistence.

"Yes, he is well pleased; he already loves him as a son. Mary, perhaps the thing that most readily won my heart was his reverence and tender courtesy to my father."

"I can believe it, Betty. His manners are perfect. I was only making that same remark to Deborah this morning. Yes, I knew only one other whose manners could compare with your John Johnstone's, Betty--only one."

Mary Jones sighed deeply and looked down. Betty gently pressed her hand.

Hitherto she had always laughed at her friend's tender recollections; now, it seemed to her that her eyes were opened to her former cruelty.

But Mistress Mary was too much interested to waste too much time even on such reflections.

"You must tell me all, dear," she said. "What is his family? Has he parents living, brothers and sisters? Is his fortune a.s.sured?"

"Ah, there is some little difficulty there," answered Betty, her face falling a little. "He has no parents, no friends, no kindred; he is all alone in the wide world. And as for his fortune, that is a.s.sured, but it is somehow mysteriously bound up in trusts--I know not what--he has no papers to show my father, he asks for perfect confidence."

Mistress Mary was a prudent woman. She pursed up her lips and uttered a little sound expressive of discontent.