"He appears very repentant after--"

"After having been within an inch of taking the life of one, who--rather should I say of losing his own. It was a lucky turn that brought the moonlight on that bearded visage of his: else he might now have been lying in the middle of the road, silent as his scare-crow companions.

By my troth! I should have felt sorry to have been his executioner. I am glad it has turned out as it has--more especially since he has promised, if not actual repentance, at least some sort of reformation.

It may not be too late. There's good in him--or was--if his evil courses have not caused its complete eradication. Well! I am likely to see him soon; when I shall submit his soul to the test, and find whether there is still in it enough of the old honesty to give hope of his regeneration. The entrance to your father's park?"

The speaker nodded towards a sombre pile of ivy-grown mason-work--in the centre of which could be seen a ma.s.sive gate, its serried rails just discernible under the tall chestnuts, that in double row shadowed the avenue beyond.

The heir of Bulstrode did not need to be thus reminded. Three years of absence had not effaced from his memory the topographic details of scenes so much loved, so long enjoyed. Well remembered he the ways that led towards the paternal mansion; and already, ere his fellow traveller ceased speaking, he had pulled up opposite the oft-used entrance.

"My journey extends farther up the road," continued the cavalier, without having made more than a momentary pause in his speech. "I am sorry, Master Wade, to lose your agreeable company; but we must part."

"Not sir," said Walter, looking earnestly towards him, "not, I trust, till you have given me an opportunity of thanking you for the service you have rendered me. But for your companionship, the adventure, as well as my day's journey, might have had a very different termination.

I should certainly have been plundered--perhaps impaled on the long pike of your quondam servitor. Thanks to you, that I am to reach home in safety. I hope, therefore, you will not object to my knowing the name of one, who has done me such an essential service."

"I have but slight claim to your grat.i.tude," replied the cavalier. "In truth not any, Master Wade. By the merest accident have we been thrown together as _compagnons de voyage_."

"Your modesty, sir," rejoined the young courtier--as he spoke bending gracefully towards his companion, "claims my admiration equally with that courage, of which I have now witnessed more than one display. But you cannot hinder me from feeling grat.i.tude; nor yet from expressing it.

If you deny me the privilege of knowing your name, I can at least tell my friends, how much I am indebted to _Sir Henry the Unknown_."

"_Sir_ Henry! Ah! Garth styled me so. The old forester is fond of bestowing t.i.tles. My father was so called; and honest Gregory, in his luck of heraldic skill, thinks the t.i.tle must be hereditary. It is not so, however. I have not received the honour of knighthood from the sword of sacred majesty. What's more, it's not likely I ever shall.

Ha! ha!"

The words that concluded this speech--as well as the laugh that followed--were uttered in a tone of defiant bitterness: as if the speaker held such royal honours in but slight estimation.

The young courtier thus baulked in obtaining the name of his protector, remained for a moment without making rejoinder. He was thinking whether in the matter of names he could not claim a fair exchange of confidence--since he had freely given his own,--when the cavalier, as if divining his thoughts, again accosted him.

"Pardon me," resumed the latter, in a tone of apology. "Pardon me, Master Wade, for my apparent want of courtesy. You honour me by asking my name; and, since you have treated me so frankly, I have neither the right nor the wish to conceal it from you. It is plain Henry Holtspur-- not _Sir_ Henry, as you have just heard me designated. Furthermore, Master Wade; if you know anything of a rather dilapidated dwelling yclept 'Stone Dean,'--situated in the heart of the forest, some three miles from here--and think you could find your way thither, I can promise you a welcome, a mouthful of venison, a cup of Canary to wash it down; and--not much more, I fear. During most mornings I am at home, if you will take your chance of riding over."

"Nay, you must visit me first," rejoined Walter, "I should ask you in now; but for the lateness of the hour. I fear our people have retired for the night. You will come again; and permit me to introduce you to my father. I am sure he would like to thank you for the service you have done me; and my sister Marion too."

A thrill of sweet secret pleasure shot through the heart of Henry Holtspur, as he listened to the last words. Thanks from Marion! A thought from her--even though it were but given in grat.i.tude!

Love! love! sweet art thou in the enjoyment; but far more delicious is the dream of thy antic.i.p.ation!

Had the young courtier been closely observing, he might, at that moment, have detected upon the countenance of Henry Holtspur, a peculiar expression--one which he appeared endeavouring to conceal.

The brother of his mistress is the last man, to whom a lover cares to confide the secret of his bosom. It may not be a welcome tale--even when the fortunes are equal, the introduction _en regle_, and the intentions honourable. But if in any of these circ.u.mstances there chance to be informality, then becomes the brother the _bete noire_ of the situation.

Was some thought of this kind causing Henry Holtspur a peculiar emotion--prompting him to repress, or conceal it from the brother of Marion Wade? On returning thanks for the promised introduction, why did he speak with an air of embarra.s.sment? Why upon his countenance, of open manly character, was there an expression almost furtive?

The young courtier, without taking note of these circ.u.mstances, continued to urge his request.

"Well--you promise to come?"

"Sometime--with pleasure."

"Nay, Master Holtspur, 'sometime' is too indefinite; but, indeed, so has been my invitation. I shall alter it. You will come to-morrow? Father gives a _fete_ in our park. 'Tis my birthday; and the sports, I believe, have been arranged on an extensive scale. Say, you will be one of our guests?"

"With all my heart, Master Wade. I shall be most happy."

After exchanging a mutual good-night, the two travellers parted--Walter entering the gate of the park--while the cavalier continued along the highway, that ran parallel to its palings.

Volume One, Chapter XI.

After seeing the two travellers ride off, the disappointed footpad stood listening, till the hoof-strokes of their horses died upon the distant road.

Then, flinging himself upon a bank of earth, and, having a.s.sumed a sitting posture--with his elbows resting upon his knees, and his bearded chin reposing between the palms of his hands--he remained for some moments silent as the Sphinx, and equally motionless.

His features betrayed a strange compound of expressions--not to be interpreted by any one ignorant of his history, or of the adventure that had just transpired. The shadow of a contrite sadness was visible upon his brow; while in his dark grey eye could be detected a twinkle of chagrin--as he thought of the pair of purses so unexpectedly extricated from his grasp.

Plainly was a struggle pa.s.sing within his bosom. Conscience and cupidity had quarrelled--their first outfall for a long period of time.

The contending emotions prevented speech; and, it is superfluous to say, his companions respected his silence.

In the countenance of Gregory Garth, despite his criminal calling--even in his worst moments--there were lines indicative of honesty. As he sate by the roadside--that roadside near which he had so often _skulked_--with the moon shining full upon his face, these lines gradually became more distinctly defined; until the criminal cast completely disappeared from his features, leaving only in its place an expression of profound melancholy. But for the _mise en scene_, and the _dramatis personae_ surrounding him, any one pa.s.sing at the moment might have mistaken him for an honest man, suffering from some grave and recent misfortune.

But as no one pa.s.sed, he was left free to indulge, both in his sorrow and his silence.

At length the latter came to an end. The voice of the penitent footpad--no longer in the stern accents of menace and command, but in soft subdued tones--once more interrupted the stillness of the night.

"Oh lor--oh lor!" muttered he, "who'd a believed I shud ha' holden my pike to the breast o' young master Henry? Niver a thought had I to use it. Only bl.u.s.ter to make 'em yield up; but he'll think as how I intended it all the same. Oh lor--oh lor! he'll niver forgi' me! Well, it can't a' be holp now; an' here go to keep the promise I've made him.

No more touchin' o' purses, or riflin' o' fine ladies on this road.

That game be all over."

For a moment the dark shadow upon his brow appeared to partake slightly of chagrin--as if there still lingered some regret, for the promise he had made, and the step he was about to take. The strife between conscience and cupidity seemed not yet definitively decided.

There was another interval of silence, and then came the decision. It was in favour of virtue. Conscience had triumphed.

"I'll keep my word to him," cried he, springing to his feet, as if to give emphasis to the resolve. "I'll keep it, if I shud starve."

"Disband!" he continued, addressing himself to the silent circle, and speaking in a tone of mock command. "Disband! ye beggars! Your captain, Greg'ry Garth, han't no longer any need o' your sarvices. Dang it meeats!" added he, still preserving his tone of mock seriousness, "I be sorry to part wi' ye. Ye've been as true as steel to me; an' ne'er a angry word as iver pa.s.sed atween us. Well, it can't be holp, boys--that it can't. The best o' friends must part, some time or other; but afore we sepperates, I'm a-goin' to purvide for one an' all on ye. I've got a friend over theer in Uxbridge, who keeps a biggish trade goin' on--they call it panprokin'. It's a money-making business. I dare say he can find places for o' ye. Ye be sure o' doin' well wi' him. Ye'll be in good company, wi' plenty o' goold and jeweltry all round ye. Don't be afeerd o' what'll happen to ye. I'll take duppleickets for yer security; so that in case o' my needin' ye again--"

At this crisis the fantastic valedictory of the retiring robber was brought to a sudden termination, by his hearing a sound--similar to those for which his ear had been but too well-trained to listen. It was the footfall of a horse, denoting the approach of a horseman--a traveller. It was neither of those who had just pa.s.sed over the Heath: since it came from the direction opposite to that in which they had gone--up the road from Redhill.

There was but one horseman--as the hoof-stroke indicated. From the same index it could be told, that he was coming on at a slow pace--a walk in fact--as if ignorant of the road, or afraid of proceeding at a rapid rate along a path, which was far from being a smooth one.

On hearing the hoof-stroke, Gregory Garth instinctively, as instantly, desisted from his farcical apostrophe; and, without offering the slightest apology to his well-behaved auditors, turned his face away from them, and stood listening.

"A single horseman?" muttered he to himself, "Crawlin' along at snail pace? A farmer maybe, who's tuk a drap too much at the Saracen's Head, an' 's failed asleep in his saddle? Now I think o't, it be market day in that thear town o' Uxbridge."

The instincts of the footpad--which had for the moment yielded before the moral shock of the humiliating encounter with his old master--began to resume dominion over him.

"Wonder," continued he, in a muttered tone, "Wonder if the chaw-bacon ha' got any cash about him? Or have he been, and drunk it all at the inn? Pish! what do it matter whether he have or no? Ha'nt I gone an'

promised Master Henry 'twould be my last night? Dang it! I must keep my word.

"Stay!" he continued, after reflecting a moment, "I sayed that it shud be my last _night_? That's 'zactly what you sayed, an' nothin' else, Greg'ry Garth! It wouldn't be breakin' no promise if I--

"The night be yooung yet! 'Taint much after eleven o' the clock? I've just heard Chaffont bells strikin' _eleven_. A night arn't over till _twelve_. That's the 'law o' the land.'