And, as he gave utterance to the satirical laugh, he pa.s.sed rapidly out of the room--as if starting off in search of those proofs he so confidently expected to obtain.

Volume Two, Chapter VIII.

We left the beautiful Bet Dancey, with her eyes fixed on the man she admired--waiting his entrance into her father's cottage, and with a throbbing bosom.

Hers were not the only eyes that were watching Henry Holtspur--nor the only bosom throbbing at his approach. There was one other beating as wildly as hers, though with emotions of a far different kind. It was that of her discarded suitor.

On parting with his cruel sweetheart, Will Walford had walked on among the trees, not caring what direction he took. The horoscope of a happy life, as the husband of Bet Dancey--which he had been long contemplating--had become dim and dark by the very decided dismissal he had just received; and the young woodman's world, circ.u.mscribed though it might be, was now, to his view, a vast chaos.

For a time he could find no other occupation for either thought or speech, than to repeat the revengeful phrase with which he had signalised his departure.

Only for a short time, however, did he continue in this reckless mood.

The fact of his sweetheart being done up in her holiday dress, once more recurred to him--along with the suspicion that she must be expecting some one.

This thought checked his steps--bringing him to an instantaneous halt.

Despite his ungracious dismissal--despite the hopelessness of his own suit--he determined on discovering who was the happy rival--who it was for whom that boddice had been b.u.t.toned on.

That there was such an individual he could scarce have a doubt. The girl's manner towards himself--her air of anxiety while he stayed in her presence--the desire she had expressed for him to follow, and overtake her father--and finally the banging of the door in his face--all pointed to a wish on her part to get rid of him as soon as possible. Even the dull brain of the brute was quick enough to be convinced of this.

If he had any doubting hope upon the subject, it was determined by the baying of the lurcher, which at this moment broke upon his ear. The dog could no longer be barking at him? Some other arrival must have engaged the animal's attention; and who could that other be, but the man for whom Bet's black tresses had been so coquettishly coifed?

The jealous rustic faced round and commenced returning towards the hut-- as if the bark of the dog had been a command for him to do so.

Very different, however, was the att.i.tude exhibited on his backward march. Instead of the reckless devil-me-care swagger with which he had taken his departure, he now made approach with the instinctive caution of one accustomed to the woods; sheltering himself behind the trunks of the trees, and gliding from one to the other--as if afraid of being shot at, by somebody lying in wait within the cottage.

After arriving upon the edge of the open ground, that extended some yards outside the enclosure--he came to a final stop--crouching down behind a bush of holly, whose thick dark foliage appeared sufficient to screen him from the observation of any one--either in the cottage or in front of it.

The first glance which he gave, after getting into position, discovered to him the individual whose arrival had set the dog to barking. Had it been the coa.r.s.e cuira.s.sier--Bet's latest conquest--or even the officer who at the _fete_ had made so free with her lips, Will Walford would have been pained by the presence of either. But far more dire were his thoughts, on perceiving it was neither one nor the other--but a rival infinitely more to be dreaded--his own patron--the protector of Maid Marian.

Had it been any other who was making approach Will Walford might have sprung from his hiding-place, and shown himself upon the instant-- perhaps commanded their instantaneous departure. But after witnessing that combat in the Saxon camp--combined with other knowledge he possessed of the character and qualities of the "black horseman"--a wholesome fear of this individual counselled him to keep his place.

The dog soon ceased his angry demonstrations; and, springing gleefully upon his chain, commenced wagging his tail in friendly recognition of the new arrival. It was evident the cavalier was not coming to the cottage of d.i.c.k Dancey for the first time!

As Walford reasoned thus, the cloud upon his countenance became darker-- the agony in his heart more intense. Still more agonising were his emotions when he saw Henry Holtspur step inside the hut, and heard his voice in free conversation with that of the girl. The tones appeared to be of two persons who had talked in confidence--_who understood one another_!

The shadow of a fell intent showed itself on the beetling brow of Will Walford. Despite his dread of such a powerful adversary, jealousy was fast urging him to a dark deed--to do, or dare it. No doubt, in another instant, it would have stimulated him to the wielding of that terrible woodaxe, but for an unexpected incident that turned him from his intention.

The dog again gave out his howling note of alarm; but soon changed it into a yelp of recognition--on perceiving that it was his own master who was coming along the path.

At the same instant Walford recognised the old woodman. Instead of showing himself, he crept closer in among the glabrous leaves of the holly, and lay crouching there--more like a man who feared being detected, than one bent on detection.

It was not till the cavalier had stepped forth from the cottage, and, apparently entering into serious conversation with its owner, walked off with him into the woods, that Walford stole out from his hiding-place under the holly.

Then, shaking his axe in the direction in which they had gone--with a gesture that seemed to signify only the adjournment of his fiendish design--and, still keeping the bush between his own body and the windows of the hovel, he sneaked sulkily away.

He did not go in silence, but kept muttering as he went; at intervals breaking out into louder enunciations--as some thought especially exasperating struck into his excited brain.

Again he repeated the menace made on his first departure from the cottage.

"Ees, dang me! I'll keep my threet, if I shud ha' to hang for't!"

This time, however, the "threet" applied to a special victim--Holtspur.

It is true that he still mentally reserved a condition; and that was, should his suspicions prove correct. He was determined to play the spy upon his sweetheart by day and by night; and, should he discover good grounds for his jealousy, nothing should then stay his hand from the fell purpose already declared--to kill.

This purpose--fully resolved upon as he walked through the wood--had some effect in tranquillising his spirit; though it was far from giving it complete contentment.

His steps were turned homeward; and soon brought him to a hut standing only a few hundred yards from that of d.i.c.k Dancey--of even humbler aspect than the domicile of the deer-stealer. It looked more like a stack of f.a.ggots than a house. It had only one door, one window, and one room; but these were sufficient for its owner, who lived altogether alone.

The "plenishing" was less plentiful, and of a commoner kind than that in the cottage of the deer-stealer; and the low truck-bed in the corner, with its scanty clothing, looked as if the hand of woman had never spread sheet, or coverlet, upon it.

This appearance of poverty was to some extent deceptive. However obtained, it was known that Walford possessed money--and his chalk score in the tap-room of the "Packhorse" was always wiped out upon demand. No more did his dress betray any pecuniary strait. He went well habited; and could even afford a fancy costume when occasion called for it--to represent Robin Hood, or any other popular hero of the peasant fancy.

It was this repute of unknown, and therefore indefinite, wealth, that in some measure sanctioned his claim to aspire to the hand of the beautiful Bet Dancey--the acknowledged belle of the parish; and though his supposed possession of property had failed to win over the heart of the girl herself, it had a deal to do in making him the favourite of her father.

Already slightly suspicious of Bet's partiality for the black horseman, what he witnessed that morning rendered him seriously so. It is true there was still nothing ascertained--nothing definite. The cavalier might have had some object, in visiting Dancey's cottage, other than an interview with Bet; and Walford was only too willing to think so.

But the circ.u.mstances were suspicious--sufficiently so to make sad havoc with his happiness; and, had Dancey not returned at the time he did, there is no knowing what might have been the _denouement_ of the interview he had interrupted.

On entering his unpretentious dwelling, Walford flung his axe into a corner, and himself into a chair--both acts being performed with an air of recklessness, that betokened a man sadly out of sorts with the world.

His thoughts, still muttered aloud, told that his mind dwelt on the two individuals whose names constantly turned up in his soliloquy--Bet Dancey and Henry Holtspur. Though Bet was at intervals most bitterly abused, the cavalier came in for the angrier share of his denunciations.

"Dang the interloper!" he exclaimed, "Why doan't he keep to his own sort? Ridin' about wi' his fine horse an' his fine feathers, an' pokin'

hisself into poor people's cottages, where he have no business to be?

Dang him!

"What's brought him into this neighbourhood anyhow? I shud like to know that. An' what's he doin' _now_? I should like to know that.

Gatherin' a lot o' people to his house from all parts o' the country, an' them to come in the middle o' the night! I shud just like to know that.

"Theer be somethin' in it _he_ don't want to be know'd: else why shud those letters I carried--ay, an' opened an' read 'em too--why shud they have told them as I tuk 'em to, to come 'ithout bringin' theer own grooms, an' at that late hour o' the night? Twelve o'clock the letters sayed--one an' all o' them!

"I shud like to know what it's all about. That's what I shud.

"Ay; an' may be I know some'un else as wud like to know. That fellow as fought wi' him at the feeat. I wish he'd run him through the ribs, instead o' gettin' run through hisself. Dang it! what can _he_ be wantin' wi' me? Can't be about that thwack I gin him over the skullcap?

If't are anything consarnin' that, he wouldn't a' sent after me as he's done? No, he' a sent a couple o' his steel-kivered sogers, and tuk me at once. Withers sayed he meeant well by me; but that Withers an't to be depended on. I never knew _him_ tell the truth afore he went sogerin'; an' it an't like he be any better now. Maybe this captain do meean well, for all that? I'd gie somethin to know what he _be_ wantin'.

"Dang it!" he again broke forth, after pondering for a while, "It mout be somethin' about this very fellow--this black horseman? I shud say that 'ere captain'll be thinkin' o' him, more'n about anybody else. If he be--ha!"

The last e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n was uttered in a significant tone, and prolonged, as if continuing some train of thought that had freshly started into his brain.

"If't be that;--it may be? Dang me! I'll know! I'll go an' see Master Captain Scarthe--that's what they call him, I b'lieve. I'll go this very minnit."

In obedience to the resolve, thus suddenly entered upon, the woodman rose to his feet; seized hold of his hat; and made direct for the door.

Suddenly he stopped, looking outward upon some sight, that seemed to cause him both surprise and gratification.

"I've heerd say," he muttered, "that when the devil be wanted he beeant far off. Dang it; the very man I war goin' to see be comin' to see _me_! Ees--that be the captain o' the kewreseers, an' that's Withers as be a-ridin' ahint him!"