"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. "G.o.d 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."

CHAPTER VII.

"How pale you are this morning, my child," said Mr. Ives to his daughter.

"It is nothing. I have had a feverish night; the story of the fate of my poor friend haunted me," she answered. She could not eat, the cold had chilled her blood, and now and then she shivered painfully.

Betty sought her opportunity in spite of her bodily discomforts, and fondly caressing her father's hands she knelt down by his chair.

"Father," she said. "Dear father, you know that very soon I am going to leave you, to be married to my own true love. Our wedding-day is fixed, but I dare say he will not be back much before then. Do you think he will? Oh no, probably not."

"Why, child, to be sure he will! He will be back in a few days at the outside. Why, silly child, you will make a poor wife if you fret always when your husband is from home."

"But I do not fret. I am perfectly satisfied. Listen, dear father: when I am married and gone away with my dear love, you will look round you and see only my empty place, no hand to hold yours, no voice to welcome you, no music to cheer you, no child to love you."

"Betty," cried Mr. Ives with a sob, "why do you show me so dismal a picture? It is bad enough already."

"I have a good reason, dear father," she said. "You see I am going so soon. I should leave you with so much lighter a heart were Mary here to take my place. She is kind and good, and true, and would love you dearly."

Mr. Ives laughed a little.

"Mistress Mary is somewhat old to replace my daughter," he said.

"Then the more suited to be your wife."

Mr. Ives rose to his feet, and paced up and down the room. Suddenly he stopped, and catching his daughter's hands, looked her full in the face.

"Would she have me, my Bet?" he said. "I may not be too old to wed, but I am vastly too old to woo."

"She will have you, father," answered Betty. "And you will be quite happy when I am gone."

So all was settled, and the elderly pair pledged to each other. The banns were asked in church that their marriage might take place at once when John Johnstone should take his bride away.

Days pa.s.sed on, days lengthened into weeks, the wedding-day drew near, and the bridegroom came not.

All Betty's high courage came back, the frost melted away, and the country was open again, and once more she rode to hounds. Her colour was high, her lips feverishly scarlet, her eyes large and brilliant. She rode with the best, and came home with the brush at her pommel.

"Why do they look at me so strangely, father?" she asked. "Old Squire Thornton, when he welcomed my return to the hunt, held my hand a whole minute in his, and it was as if he were about to speak, for he swallowed once or twice and then turned away. And Doctor Glebe would not speak to me at all, and his face was set as a mask, though I saw that he was watching me strangely all the time. Have I changed? Am I not the same Betty I used to be?"

"The same, only a little thinner, my darling," her father answered, and his eyes filled with tears.

He too had grown curiously sad of late, and followed his daughter with wistful eyes.

"Father," she said one day, "to-morrow you know is our wedding-day. John will come home, he must return to-night. I know that he will. I shall wait up till the clock strikes twelve, but if he does not come (and of course no one can tell how long business may detain him, can they?), one thing, dear father: will you take Mary to church, even though I should not be there, and marry her? She might wear my wedding-gown. To please me, father, to please me?"

"Anything, anything to please you, my own child," said Mr. Ives in a choked voice.

All day Betty wandered in the garden; they watched her wistfully, her head was raised, always listening--listening to every sound.

The hours pa.s.sed, evening came, the night fell. Betty had thrown wide the cas.e.m.e.nt. Her father and Mary Jones, crouching over the fire, had no heart to speak to her, or warn her that the night was cold.

A wild stormy wind swayed the branches of the apple-trees, surging and roaring as it rushed over the downs; the candles flickered and burned low, and from them dropped those strange waxen off-shoots that old women call winding-sheets.

At last the church-bell struck twelve, slowly, awfully.

Betty was listening still, her head raised, her finger on her lip.

"Hush!" she said, with a strange smile. "Do you hear the white horse's hoofs?"

They listened. Distinctly on the ear came the sound of a horse galloping, coming nearer and nearer, pa.s.sing the door, on and on without pause, the sound of the hoofs growing faint and fainter till lost in the far distance.

Betty held out her arms. "Mary!" she said. "Mary!" Her voice was a strange harsh whisper, out of which all tone had pa.s.sed. "Mary, he gallops away."

CHAPTER VIII.

After the lapse of another three days, it was determined that there should be no further delay of the marriage, and one morning without pomp or parade of any kind, Mr. Ives took his bride into Wancote, and they returned home man and wife.

The only wedding-guest was the parson's old friend Dr. Glebe, and he returned with them to the parsonage because he had a few serious words that he wished to say there.

He took Mr. Ives aside, and said abruptly, "Are you mad, Ives? Do you wish to lose that peerless daughter of yours? I warn you that you will do so, if you are not more watchful."

"I would give my life for hers," answered her father sorrowfully. "And so would Mary, who loves her dearly, but alas! what can we do? We cannot bring back John Johnstone."

"You must send her away at once. She must have change of air and scene.

At once, mark you, without an hour's unnecessary delay."