"Where be he gone?"

"Over to Stone Dean. He's only left here a minute ago. He went by the short cut across the woods. If you keep on, you'll easily overtake him."

"Bah!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the woodman, "I beant in such a hurry. My bizness wi'

your father 'll keep till he coom back; but I'se also got somethin' to say to thyself as woan't keep much longer. Thee be done up wonderful fine this mornin'! Be theer another _fete_ to come off? 'Tan't day o'

a fair, be it?"

"My doing up, as you call it, has nothing to do with either _fete_, or fair. I'm dressed no different from other days, I'm sure. I've only put on my new skirt and boddice--because--because--."

Notwithstanding her readiness, Mistress Betsey appeared a little perplexed to find an excuse for being habited in her holiday attire.

"Because," interrupted the woodman, noticing her confusion, "because thee wast lookin' out for some 'un. That's the because. Bet Dancey!"

continued he, his increased jealousy stimulating him to bolder speech; "doant try to deceive me. I arn't such a blind fool as you think I be.

You've put on your finery to receive some 'un as you ha' been expectin'.

That swaggerin' soger, I 'spose? May be the fine gentleman o' Stone Dean hisself; or I wouldna' wonder if't mout be that ere Indyen dummy o'

his. You beeant partickler, Bet Dancey; not you. All's fish as cooms to thy net--all's one."

"Will Walford!" cried the girl, turning red under his taunts, "I shall not listen to such talk--either from you or any one. If you've nothing else to say to me, you may pa.s.s on."

"But I hev' somethin' else to say to thee; and I mean to say't now, Bet."

"Say it, then, and have done with it," rejoined the girl, as if desirous of hurrying the interview to an end. "What be it?"

"It be this, then," replied the woodman, moving a little nearer to her, and speaking in a more serious tone than he had yet a.s.sumed; "Bet Dancey, I needn't be tellin' thee how I be in love wi' thee. Thou know'st it well enoo."

"You've told it me a hundred times. I don't want to hear it again."

"But thou shalt. An' this time, I tell thee, will be the last."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"What I be goin' to say," continued the suitor, without heeding her repeated interruptions, "be this, Bet Dancey, I see'd thy father last night; an' he an' me talked it over atween us. He's gi'ed me his full consent."

"To what, pray?"

"Why to ha'e thee for my wife."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the girl, with a scornful laugh. "Ha! ha! ha!

That's what you had to tell me, is it? Now, Will Walford, hear me in return. You've told me a hundred times that you loved me, and you've now promised that it will be the last time. I've said to you a hundred times it was no use; and I promise you this will be _my_ last saying it.

Once for all then, I declare to you, that I _shall never be your wife-- never I never_!"

The last words were p.r.o.nounced with a stern emphasis, calculated to carry conviction; and the rustic suitor shrank under them, as if they had annihilated the last remnant of his hopes.

Only for an instant did he preserve his cowering att.i.tude. His was not a nature to be stung without turning; and the recoil soon came.

"Then dang it!" cried he, raising his long axe, and winding it around his head in a threatening manner, "If thee doant be my wife, Bet Dancey, thou shall never be the wife o' any other. I swear to thee, I'll kill the man thee marriest; an' thyself along wi' him, if I ever live to see the day that makes two o' ye one!"

"Away, wretch!" cried the girl, half terrified, half indignant. "I don't want to listen to your threats. Away, away!"

And, saying this, she retreated inside the hut--as she did so, slamming the door in his face.

"Dang thee, thou deceitful s.l.u.t!" apostrophised the discarded suitor; "I'll keep my threet, if I ha' to swing for it!"

As he gave utterance to this fell menace, he threw the axe over his shoulder; sprang across the broken palings; and strode off among the trees--once more muttering as he went: "I'll keep my threet, if I ha' to swing for it!"

For some minutes the door of the cottage remained closed. It was also barred inside: for the girl had been a good deal frightened, and feared the fellow's return. The wild look that had gleamed from under his white eyebrows would have caused fear within the bosom of any woman; and it had even terrified the heart of Bet Dancey.

On barring the door, she glided up to one of the windows and watched.

She saw him take his departure from the place.

"He is gone, and I am glad of it for _two_ reasons," soliloquised she.

"What a wicked wretch! I always thought so. And yet my father wants me to marry that man! Never--never! I shall tell father what he has said.

Maybe that may change him.

"Heigho! I fear _he_ is not coming to-day! and when shall I see him again? There's to be another fete at Michaelmas; but that's a long time; and its such a chance meeting him on the road--where one mayn't speak to him, perhaps. Oh! if I could think of some errand to Stone Dean! I wish father would send me oftener. Ah me! what's the use?

Muster Holtspur's too grand to think of a poor peasant girl. _Marry_ me he could not, perhaps he _would_ not.--I don't want that, if he'd only _love_ me!"

The lurcher, that had kept silent during the stormy interview between Bet and her rustic admirer, now broke out in a fresh _bravura_ of baying.

"Is it Will again?" cried the girl, gliding back to the window and looking out. "No, it can't be him: the dog looks the other way. It's either father coming back, or--'Tis he! 'tis he!

"What am I to do? I must open the door. If he sees it shut he may not think of coming in; I wish him to come in!"

As she said this, she glided up to the doorway, and pushing back the bar, gently drew open the door.

She did not show herself in the entrance. A quick instinct hindered her. Were she to do so, the visitor might simply make an inquiry; and, being answered that her father was not at home, might turn back or pa.s.s on. This would not suit her purpose: _since she wished him to come in_.

He was afoot. That augured well. She watched him through the window as he drew near. She watched him with a throbbing bosom.

Volume Two, Chapter VII.

Richard Scarthe, Captain of the King's Cuira.s.siers, and confidant of the Queen, was seated in his apartment in the mansion of Sir Marmaduke Wade.

A small table stood within reach of his hand, on which was a decanter containing wine, and a silver goblet. He had thrice filled the latter and thrice drained its contents, to the last drop. But the intoxicating fluid, even thus liberally imbibed, had failed to give solace to the chagrin with which his spirit was affected.

It was now the third day of his residence under the roof of Sir Marmaduke Wade; and he had made scarce any progress in the programme he had sketched out--of ingratiating himself with the knight and his family.

On the part of these a rigorous etiquette continued to be kept up; and it appeared probable that, beyond what necessity demanded of them, only the slightest intercourse might ever occur between them and their uninvited guests.

Of these circ.u.mstances, however, the soldier made not much account. He might expect in time to smooth over the unpleasant occurrences that had inaugurated his introduction. He knew himself to have a tongue that could wheedle with the devil; and with this he hoped, at no distant day, to remove the hostile impression, and establish an intimacy--if not altogether friendly--that would at least give him the opportunities he desired. Indeed, he even flattered himself that he had already made some progress in this direction; and it was not that was causing the extreme acerbity of spirit, he now strove to soothe with copious libations from the wine cup.

His chagrin sprang from a different cause. What at first was only a suspicion, had now become almost a certainty: that he was forestalled in the affections of a beautiful woman, whom he already loved with an indescribable ardour; forestalled, and by the very man who, in her eyes, had so horribly humiliated him!

Notwithstanding this belief he had not abandoned hope. Richard Scarthe was a courtier, of too much confidence in his own prowess, to yield easily to despair. He had succeeded oft before in the estrangement of hearts, already prepossessed; and why should he not again?

As the wine mounted to his brain, his mind began to contend against the conviction with which his late act of espionage had so unhappily supplied him. The evidence of the glove was, after all, inconclusive.

The one he had picked up was no doubt the glove of Marion Wade; but what reason was there for believing that it was its fellow he had seen in the hat of Henry Holtspur? A glove of white doeskin leather was a fashion of the time--so, too, the gold and lace ornaments upon the gauntlet.

The daughter of Sir Marmaduke Wade was not the only lady who wore white gloves. Why should it be hers?