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 pa.s.sionate 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.

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 pa.s.sed 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 gla.s.s 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 a.s.sembly 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."

"G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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 cas.e.m.e.nt 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.