Chapter 3

Up from the plains a steep road rose on the downs, a road so steep, so dazzling white that it looked like a white thread hanging on a green surface.

Betty Ives rode slowly up the hill, leaning slightly forward to ease her horse as she did so. Though November had set in, the sun was still powerful, and both horse and rider were a little oppressed by its heat.

Some very close observer might have seen a change in the girl's face--a very slight change, something that deepened the expression of the lovely eyes, something that played softly like the shadow of a great happiness on the mobile lips. She was thinking, thinking deeply as she rode.

Folks said that Betty Ives was very hard to win. Ruth Thornton, the squire's buxom daughter, would have given years of her life for one of the passionate appeals young Robins had made so often to Betty in vain. Lady Rachel Tremame had almost broken her heart when Betty, at the Newbury ball, had so attracted Sir Harry Clare that he had no eyes for other than her. Yet amid her many adorers, fair Betty, with the carelessness of inexperience, passed unpitying and fancy free.

But now times were changed: fair Betty's heart was given away.

Yet John Johnstone had not found his courtship easy, it was long before he made any way. He wooed proudly, and she took his subjection as due to herself, and was not grateful for that which she deemed her right. But the young man loved her the better for this, for he was one of those who value most that which is hardest to gain.

Betty with her rein on her horse's neck was thinking, wondering how it was that John Johnstone was always present to her mind, that her eyes sought him in the hunting-field, that those evenings were dull and lonely on which he did not come in for a chat with her father before supper-time, and all the world fell flat, stale and unprofitable, during various short absences of his, when he would disappear for three days together and none knew whither he went.

Betty's horse had mounted the white hill at last, and now scoured swiftly away over the springy turf on the wide downs.

For miles she passed no human habitation, then Betty reached her destination.

Low in a hollow dip of the green grass sea nestled a small cottage. No tree or bush within miles, the unbroken winds tore round it, the snow often banked up against it; but the owner, one of Mr. Ives' pensioners, appeared to care little for wind or weather.

As Betty rode up, she sent her clear ringing voice before her:

"Rachel! Rachel Ray!"

Then paused suddenly, for fastened by the bridle to a low post close to the cottage door, she perceived a fine bay horse that she knew well. She drew rein, swiftly debating within herself whether she should go on, or draw back, then shaking back her proud little head she rode forward.

Betty feared nothing on earth; should she be scared by the odd feeling in her heart that made it beat so fast and loud? A thousand times no.

Before she had reached the cottage, the door opened, and a small troop of ragged children tumbled out to meet her, children with black elfin locks, and eyes gleaming like live coals, showing wild gipsy blood.

Betty leapt from her horse, and called the eldest boy to her side.

"Here, Reuben," she said, "I will give you a silver penny if you hold Conrad steadily, and like a good boy, while I visit your grandmother." She opened the door with a slight knock and went in. An odd sight met her eyes.

By the table stood the vigorous figure of old Rachel Ray, handsome yet, with the dark gipsy characteristics of her grandchildren--before her the tall fine figure of John Johnstone in full hunting scarlet, just stooping in the act of giving her a kiss.

The old woman started, and pushed him aside when she saw Betty come in. She advanced to meet her visitor, who stood during the space of a minute without advancing, so great was her astonishment.

"You are surprised to see an old woman kiss her nursling," cried old Rachel. "But it would be odd if he did not, bless his brave heart!"

"Not surprised at his kissing you, Dame Rachel," said Betty, a little less steadily than usual. "But I did not know that you were acquainted, I thought Mr. Johnstone was a stranger to this part of the world."

The old woman turned her eyes on the young man, eyes brimming with burning tears, and with a look of entreaty in them.

John Johnstone gave a little impatient stamp of the foot.

It seemed to Betty watching them, that thus he gave a mute answer to some mute question or entreaty made.

"Sit down, sit down, my pretty lady," said Rachel drawing forward and dusting a chair. "You are welcome as flowers in May, or as the first swallow that heralds the spring. Are you well, my bonnie dear? and the good gentleman your father?"

"We are all well, dame. I am ashamed not to have been to see you for so long, but I am glad that you have had other visitors," and she glanced at Mr. Johnstone.

"We are old friends," he said with a smile of rare sweetness. "One of my most faithful servants and friends was my foster-brother Harry Ray, Rachel's eldest son."

"Aye, aye, was!" cried the woman, her voice rising to a kind of wail." We speak of Hal Ray in the past now."

Johnstone bit his lip, and a bitter frown contracted his brow.

"Alas, is he dead, dame?" asked Betty tenderly.

"Aye, dear heart, dead, and his bones have no grave, and happen his spirit no rest."

"This is terrible," said Betty with a shiver.

Mr. Johnstone moved restlessly to the window, and busied himself with his sword-knot.

"I have often told you, good mother," he said, and his voice had in it an odd mixture of grief and irritation, "that the less we dwell on these things the better. Mistress Betty," he went on hurriedly, "Harry Ray when he left my service, joined his fortunes with Wild Jack Barnstaple. He had ill-luck, poor lad, he was taken and ... and hanged."

His mother uttered a shuddering cry.

"And by the road he must hang," she cried, "till the earth and the wild winds have done their worst, and never a one to scare the wild birds from the flesh of my boy!"

"Dear dame," said Betty earnestly, "the soul recks little of its earthly tenement."

"God rest his soul, he was a good fellow and brave," said Johnstone earnestly.

"I also have seen Wild Jack," said Betty, willing to turn the poor woman from her troubles.

"Seen him! seen Wild Jack?" cried she.

"Aye, seen him and been his prisoner; and say who will to the contrary, I have reason to maintain that he is a true gentleman."

"Is it so?" said Mr. Johnstone, smiling. "A cut-throat, a robber, a highwayman, a true gentleman?"

Betty gave him an indignant glance. "I speak of him as I found him," she said. "And we of the country have always known how to distinguish between common malefactors and the gentlemen of the road."

"So, so!" answered Johnstone, still smiling. "And yet both end too often on Tyburn Hill."

Betty turned pale and shivered. It seemed as if she gasped for breath; she turned her large eyes on her lover and said, "Ah, these matters are far too serious for so grim a jest."

But her eyes were caught and arrested by the look which met them; so long, so burning with passionate admiration and love, with a strange expression of exaltation, almost gratitude. Betty's heart beat fast. He had forced her to love him, and such maidens as Betty Ives when they give love at last, give life itself. Dame Rachel glanced from one to another, then she rose quickly, and from a dark corner of the room produced a pack of cards. "Come, fair lady and noble gentleman," she said, with a touch of the professional whine in her voice. "Will you hear your fortunes? Cross the old gipsy's hand with silver, my pretty dears, and you shall hear all the good things past, present, and future, that may fall to your lot."

"Will you try?" said John Johnstone, bending forward.

The rosy colour rushed into Betty's cheek, the light shone in her eyes.

"I will try," she said, half laughing.

"Then all that is good we will believe, and all that is bad will cast to the winds as false and untrue."

"Nothing can be bad in the future of faces like yours, dear hearts," said Rachel, rapidly shuffling the cards.

Some minutes passed, the gipsy busily and with growing discomfiture turning the cards, trying them in every way--the two were silent.

Betty leant her head on her hand, shading her eyes from view, full of shyness for the first time in her bold young life. John Johnstone gazed on her with his soul in his eyes, and yet with a strange impatient interest in the business that was going on.

Presently Rachel flung all the cards down with violence.

"I am losing the trick of the trade," she said, in a harsh, frightened voice. "I am getting afraid of the cards, and when you are afraid of them, they master you."

"Tut, tut!" said John kindly. "Do not blame yourself, good mother, if they show not all the gilded coaches and six, and the lovely bride and gay bridegroom you would fain have promised us."

"The combinations turn to evil--all evil. Pah! it is the old story. I was afraid of the cards, and they have mastered me."

"Was there no warning conveyed in these strange combinations, Dame?" asked Johnstone eagerly.

"I deal not in warnings," said Rachel hastily.

"Did I deal in warnings, the reading of the cards might prove useful to you both."

"Come, come!" he said, "you speak in riddles. The warning. Is it the same for this gentle lady as for my rough self?"

"Aye, aye, for both--both." She bent down, and laid a dark hand on the shoulder of each, and peering into one face after another, she muttered:

"Beware of Wild Jack Barnstaple!"

Both started. John Johnstone flushed angrily: he rose to his feet.

"We have had enough of this fooling," he said. "The day is advancing, madam," turning to Betty. "Will you vouchsafe me the extreme pleasure of being your escort home?"

As Betty was about to answer, she was arrested by the sound of singing outside, in a voice so wild, loud, and sweet, it seemed the very embodiment of the music of Nature.

"Who is singing like that?" asked Betty. "How beautiful! and how marvellously sad."

"It is Nora Ray, only our Nora, dear heart. Her voice is sweet as the lark, and she sings old songs she gathers in the villages round."

"Hush, hush, listen!" cried Betty, and she stood with upraised hand listening.

The air was in the minor key, the voice of the singer thrilled to the very nerves, every word came distinctly to their ears.

"Aye, Margaret loved the fair gentleman, Aye, well and well-a-day, And the winter clouds gather wild and fast; He loved, and he galloped away.

Aye, call him! call him over the lea, Thou sad forsaken lass, Never more he'll come back to thee Over the wild green grass.

The swallows return from over the sea, Aye, well and well-a-day; But lover will never come back to thee Who loves and gallops away.

Aye, call him! call him over the sea, The winter is coming fast; He waved his hat, he bowed full low And smiled as he galloped past.

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."

A strange shiver came over Betty Ives, a thrill such as she had never experienced before. She glanced at Dame Rachel. The old woman was nervously fingering the cards, and muttering to herself. Then her frightened eyes turned to her lover; he read some appeal in them.

He held out his hand, and caught hers and pressed it for one short second to his lips.

The door burst open, and the girl who had been singing came in; her black hair was all blown back, the great black eyes staring out of the small dark face. She drew her scanty cloak round her and laughed a shrill laugh.

"Will you have your fortunes told, my good gentleman? my pretty lady?" she cried. "Cross little Nora's palm with a silver sixpence then."

"No, no, we have had enough of that. Come, dear madam, we must be going," said Johnstone, and he conducted Betty to the place where Reuben, faithful to his trust, held the rein of her horse.

"Do not be so long without coming to see me again, dear heart," cried Rachel Ray, standing outside her door.

"No, no, I will come soon," answered Betty. Johnstone placed her in the saddle.

"A good gallop over the downs will bring back the colour to your cheek," he said softly. "You are so white and cold."

"There is something ill-omened in all here," said Betty with a slight shiver.

"Here, Nora," cried Johnstone, flinging her a piece of gold. "This is to make up for the loss of that silver sixpence."

The girl laughed loud and shrilly. "Ah! ah!" she cried after them. "The good gentleman! the brave fellow! For this I would follow you! aye! follow you, my lad, from Belton to Tyburn Hill!"