Katerfelto: A Story of Exmoor

His voice was rich and mellow, yet something of harshness in its tones betrayed the discord within.

"What do you mean by that?" asked Waif, her black eyebrows coming down in an angry scowl over her black eyes.

"You can interpret it for yourself," was his answer. "Thyra, do you remember the red Quantock hills, and the deep leafy coombes in the 'broom-pickers' country' long ago?"

He spoke in Romany, and she replied in the same language. It stung him to observe that she could not express herself so readily in their own gipsy tongue as in that of the Gentiles, with whom she had passed so many years.

"I remember," said Waif, carelessly. "What of that?"

He looked hurt, and a fierce gleam shot from his dark eyes.

"There was a little gipsy-girl on those red hills," he answered, "who came to her gipsy-boy for every earthly thing she wanted, from a bunch of violets in the ditch to a bit of mistletoe on the topmost branch of the old oak-tree, who stretched her little arms for him to carry her on the tramp when she was tired, who stroked his face every morning at sunrise, and kissed him every night when he lay down to sleep.

"For that little lass the gipsy-boy would have shed all the blood in his young body, and he was but ten years old and five—not yet a man, nor grown to man's stature, but a man in heart, and a giant in his love for the comely, delicate gipsy-girl. So he begged hard of father and mother, uncles and aunts, and he went into her tent with a gift, and prayed of her people that they would give him Thyra to be his wife. They promised, Thyra, do you remember? They promised. They were of the old black race, and the promise of a Lovel is like the oath of a Stanley or a Lee."

"It was so long ago!" pleaded Waif, in rather a trembling voice. "You were always very good to me, Fin. I won't deny it; but it was so long ago!"

His face softened; his voice was very sad and tender, while he repeated her words.

"So long ago! and yet I see it as clear as if it had been but yesterday—the fire smouldering at the tent-door—the moonshine, silver-white on the Severn Sea—the old grandfather sitting within, shaping a wooden peg with his knife—and my little wife crouching in the corner with her black eyes wide open, like the red hind's calf I had noosed a week before in Cloutsham Ball. Long ago! Yes, Thyra, it is long ago; and every day that has gone by, every night that I have seen it all again in my dreams, scores and brands it deeper and deeper in my true gipsy heart. There is no 'long ago' for you and me, Thyra. We have been one ever since that night when you were promised me by the comely Lovels over the camp-fire. Nothing but death can part us now. My sweet lass, I will be kind and true, for mine you surely are, and always will be."

To a woman whose heart was still in her own keeping, there would have been something inexpressibly touching in the tender glance of those eyes, naturally so fierce and keen; in the gentle tones of that voice, usually so hard, imperious, and clear. She could not but contrast the gipsy's absorbing devotion with John Garnet's joyous, good-humoured carelessness, and shuddered to think how she loved the first and how she was beloved by the second! She temporised—she prevaricated—she said one thing and meant another. Was she not a woman, though a gipsy?

"There would be time enough," she protested, "to consider all these matters when the tribe moved farther West to take up their winter quarters in the 'wrestlers' country,' amongst the Cornish tors and valleys. There was much to be done first; tents to strike, a long journey to be made, to-night's job to be effaced by a speedy change of quarters; and you know as well as I do, Fin," she added, smiling sweetly in his face, "that a storm is brewing down in the West where we are bound, and the same wind that brings the Kaulo-chiriclo—the blackbird, as the Gorgios call him—back to his own nest, will blow many a 'balanser' of good red gold into the pockets of the Romany lad who runs his errands. For my part, I hope with all my heart he'll win!"

"What matters it to us?" he replied. "Let the Gorgios fight it out among themselves, and cut each other's throats for a name, like fools as they are! King George, or King Charles, or King James, none of them will put a fowl in the Romany's kettle, nor a broad piece in his palm, but for service rendered and risk run. We must help ourselves, Thyra, take what we want, and keep all we can. Our hand may well be against every man, for is not every man's hand against us? For ages we have been a race apart, and we must continue so for ever. No Romany lad may wed with the noblest lady of the Gorgios; and for the Romany lass who listens to love in another tongue, we do not shame her before our people, but we conceal her, Thyra, we hide her away, where neither father nor mother, uncle nor aunt, Romany nor Gorgio, shall ever find her again!"

His voice had grown thick and hoarse, while drops of sweat stood on the tawny face, now turned to ashen grey. Waif trembled like a leaf.

"I know it," she said; "our people never forgive, Fin, and they never forget."

There was a ring of pride in the last sentence—tribute to the absent lover, whom even now she could not bring herself to wish she might put out of her mind.

They walked on in silence. She had taken his bundle, and thus laden carried it with a step as free and untiring as his own. They were half a mile behind the other gipsies, pacing side by side in the moonshine over the lonely down. A light twinkled from a solitary farm many a mile away, and once only was the stillness broken by the honest bark of a sheep-dog. The calm pure air, the sweet summer night, the quiet, the expanse, were all suggestive of those dreams which have so large a portion in life's reality. Her thoughts were far away beyond that western horizon, with the grey horse and its rider. She absolutely started when her companion's voice roused her from the abstraction in which she was plunged.

He had been watching her narrowly. Fin Cooper was as dexterous a gipsy as ever stalked a red-deer, noosed a hare, or swung a kettle. Versed in the lore, as in the malpractices of his people, he knew how to tell fortunes by cards or palmistry; to interpret the patrin of his comrades, the signs of the zodiac, even the stars of heaven; but he could not read a woman's heart. This was the last moment he should have chosen to inculcate a lesson of fidelity and obedience on his promised wife.

"Thyra," said he, while she turned on him a pale and dreamy face, "did your people never tell you the story of Mary Lee?"

"I have heard something about her," she stammered, with a frightened look. "She died, didn't she? or was lost? I—I forget the rights of it."

"I will tell it you now," said he. "Take every word to heart, Thyra, and forget rather the mother that bore you, than Mary Lee's fault and its punishment.

"She was a beautiful gipsy-girl, sister, such another as yourself, with eyes like stars, and a voice to coax the bird off a tree. She lived with her grandam, old Mother Lee, and her uncle, a stern, thick-set Romany, who seldom spoke, and never smiled. They said he killed a squire's keeper before their tribe came south out of the potato-country, and knew Norwich gaol, inside and out, as well as I know the knife in my belt. Many a time, when I was a little lad, I've seen Mary lifting the kettle off its hook before their tent; and if it hadn't been for you, Thyra, and the word of the Lovels, I should have thought her the likeliest lass that ever put a bodkin in a knot of black hair; so did a good many more—Stanleys, Hearnes, Coopers; she might have had the pick of them, besides the best of her own tribe, and the comeliest of the comely Lovels to boot. I've seen many a good round fought, aye, and knives drawn, too, for a chance word from Mary Lee.

"And she wouldn't so much as throw away a look on the best of us! When Jack Marshall beat the Gorgio light-weight in fifty minutes, and brought her the battle-money before he had scarce washed his face or pulled his shirt on, she called him a fighting blackguard for his pains. We said in the tents that, gipsy or gentile, the man wasn't born yet who could put the charm on Mary Lee.

"She did little work at home; and, except for lifting a kettle, or setting a tent-peg, kept her hands as clean as a lady's; but she went out by herself to fairs and races, dukkering for the Gorgios and those who tell fortunes to the gentlefolks, and came back with gold in both hands. The old grandmother's kettle was never empty, and they gave her plenty of liberty to do what she liked. Sometimes she would stay away a month at a time.

"One summer afternoon a little boy, who had been stealing nuts in a wood a mile or two from the camp, came back with a gentleman's riding-glove that he had picked up amongst the hazels. Mary laughed when she saw it, and bought it of the child for a crooked sixpence and a whistle. A week after, when they asked her what she had done with the glove, she said it was lost. That set some of our people thinking.

"Then she went off again about harvest; and after she'd been gone a week, Barney Smith came into the camp, with a strange story that he had seen a Gorgio lady, the living image of Mary Lee, sitting at an open window in 'the book-fellows' town' at the time of Oxford Races. Barney was doing a little business there with a pedlar's box on his own account. Though it was a hundred miles off, he came back directly; but when he talked of the pearls and satins she wore, and the black spots on her face, with powder in her hair, we all said Barney must have been drunk or dreaming. That night her uncle sat up to put new soles on his shoes, and next morning he left the camp at daybreak.

"I was but a lad, Thyra, and as busy as a squirrel. When a week passed, then a month, and still no tidings came of Mary Lee, I went across the Vinney Ridge to the tents of her people and watched. We were lingering in the 'swine-herds' country,' among the deer in the New Forest, and good times we had, I can tell you, with fat venison in the kettles, and firewood for the cutting. I harboured a buck in Bolderwood once, and watched him for seven hours on a stretch. I've watched longer than that for you, Thyra. I watched nearly as long on behalf of Mary Lee.

"The moon had gone down, and the false dawn was peeping between the stems of the old oaks, when I caught sight of a square, thick figure threading the track among the trees that led to the Lees' camp. I leaped up, and took him by the hand. He was trembling all over. 'You are welcome back, Uncle Ryley,' says I. 'You have made a long journey, uncle; have you returned empty-handed, or did you find what you went to seek?'

"'The shoes are worn from my feet, brother,' was his answer. 'For three days and three nights I have gone without food or rest; but I took what I wanted, Fin, and I can hold up my head once more among my people.'

"'Did you hear any news of Mary?' was my next question, and my heart rose to my mouth while I asked it, for he was a strong, fierce man, who would strike with fist or steel if he was angered, and never give you a chance. I could scarce believe it was Ryley Lee who answered in that weak, low voice, with a cheek that had turned grey, like the ashes of a wood-fire in the dim morning light.

"'It is well with her,' was all he said, 'but you will see Mary in our tents no more.'

"'She is dead!' burst from my lips, for there seemed a smell of blood in my nostrils, and the pale streaks of dawn grew crimson between the trees.

"'It is well with her,' he repeated, turning from me into his tent. 'Mary Lee has left her people—dead or alive we shall see her no more.'

"Then I knew she had paid the price it costs the Romany maiden who loves a Gorgio too well!"

Waif had changed colour more than once during the above recital; but though she looked very pale now, there was a firm, hard expression in her face that denoted some fixed purpose no consideration should set aside.

"'The hawk does not mate with the barn-door fowl,' said she, 'and the Romany chal marries with the Romany chi, for surely we are one people; but this affects neither you nor me, Fin. If gipsies cannot trust each other, how shall we hold our own against the Gentiles? Mary Lee was a good-for-nothing hussey; Uncle Ryley a cruel, blood-thirsty monster; and here we are at the camp. Take your bundle, Fin, I've carried it till I'm tired. Yes; I'll shake hands with you. Good-night.'"

Extricating herself impatiently from the embrace of her affianced husband, who succeeded, however, in pressing his lips against her brow, she disappeared within one of the tents, leaving Fin Cooper outside, a prey to contending feelings, among which jealousy and suspicion were in the ascendant. He loved the girl: of that he was quite sure, and in such a character, love is a fearful motive power for good or evil. It possesses also a keen instinct of reciprocity, not to be deceived, and few conditions are more pitiable than that of a strong wilful temperament, persuading itself, against its own convictions, that it is not exchanging gold for silver, that the ship which carries its whole freight is not sinking hourly beneath its feet.

The gipsy would have been angered, even to baring of steel, by any comrade who had warned him of that which his heart began to tell him too plainly, though he dared not admit it to himself, who had hinted that Thyra loved another, and that other, one of the forbidden race—which, for all his Romany pride and Romany prejudices, he could not but acknowledge superior in every respect to his own. But he knew it, nevertheless, and only waited an opportunity to avenge himself on the rival, whom he had identified, almost to certainty, with John Garnet, alias Galloping Jack, the highwayman. Even now, he thought it might not be too late to detach Waif from her unworthy and impossible attachment. Far into the night Fin Cooper tossed and turned from side to side, restless and sleepless, because of his wrongs, his memories, and his feverish longing to have his hand on John Garnet's throat.

Waif, too, was uneasy and wakeful. She had not listened to the tale of Mary Lee, without accepting its moral for a warning to herself. Well she knew that in the bloody code of her people, to love a Gorgio was an offence punished by death. And she loved a Gorgio! Aye, loved him, as she thought with a thrill of pride, essentially womanly in the exquisite pleasure it evoked, the more deeply and dearly for the penalty. No pale-faced girl could care for him like that! When the time came, she would give him her life, as she had given him her love, without a murmur or a reproach.

Perhaps, at that moment, he was looking at the very star on which her eyes were fixed, as it twinkled through the gaps in her brown weather-worn tent. Perhaps, who knows, in another life, to be spent up there amongst those stars, they might find themselves together? and so Waif's dark eyes closed in that other life, on which we enter every night, and the girl sank into a peaceful sleep, dreaming calmly of her love.

CHAPTER XIII.

ON THE SCENT.

Wittingly or unwittingly, nobody ever offended Katerfelto without regretting it. To do him justice, the Charlatan had every intention of screening John Garnet from the avenger of blood, when he started his patient on the Western Road, in pursuit of Lord Bellinger's ponderous coach-and-six. The young man, he thought, would prove a useful tool enough, and he had no objection to do him a kindness into the bargain, provided it cost nothing, and would turn to his own advantage; but, when he discovered Waif was missing too, before the good grey horse and its rider had been six hours out of London, he at once connected the girl's flight with his absence, whom she had nursed so tenderly, and in a quiet, remorseless way vowed vengeance upon both.

John Garnet's mission, if fulfilled at all, must be carried out within three days at farthest. When accomplished, it mattered little what became of the messenger. Perhaps the sooner he was set aside the better. What was the cost of a man and horse, valuable as might be the latter, compared with the interest at stake, with the gains and losses of the great game in which every player waged life and fortune on the result?

Parson Gale, wearying sadly of London, and longing for his moorland hills, found himself no longer put off with mysterious hints, and unintelligible jargon; but, to use his own metaphor, was laid on the line, like a bloodhound resolving to track it, inch for inch, till he pinned his quarry by the throat.

Many misgivings had the Parson during this, perhaps the most unpleasant, week he ever spent in his life. Orthodox in his opinions, however lax in his practice, it went cruelly against the grain to believe that in seeking Katerfelto's assistance he was tampering with the powers of darkness. Many a time, after his coarse pot-house supper, was his sleep haunted by grotesque visions of the evil one, carrying to eternal torment a figure in boots, bands, and cassock, that he recognised for his own. His knees used to shake, and his short grizzled hair to stand on end, when the Charlatan, leading him into a dark room, bade him wait patiently, while inquiries were made of certain intelligences that ought to have done with things of earth, yet betrayed a marvellous interest in earthly trifles, earthly follies, and earthly cares. The minutes seemed lengthened into hours while he sat motionless, expecting every moment to behold the pale violet gleam of a corpse-light, to feel the faint flutter of spirit-fingers, catch the faint breath of spirit-whispers—worst of all, to be threatened with the personal manifestation of some obtrusive spirit itself.

Katerfelto, who possessed a strong sense of humour, and enjoyed a joke for its own sake, even though he had none with whom to share it, used to describe at length the discipline, the gradations, the daily life, scenery, and vegetable productions of the spirit-world; counting its spheres, explaining its mysteries, and insisting strongly on the somewhat thick-witted good-nature of its inhabitants.

The Parson's nerves were of no sensitive fibre. He possessed his share of English bull-dog courage. Give him a beef-steak, a tankard of ale, and,

but he was not proof against dangers of which he had no experience, and could form no conception. The crowning dread of his life at this period was the apparition of some luminous figure, clad in misty robes of white, prepared to answer his questions evasively in a hollow whisper, lift him bodily into space for pure fun, and lay in his hand a flower of no terrestrial growth, fresh and fragrant, but wet with the dews of another world. It never did appear to him, and very thankful he felt that it did not!

It was, therefore, with no slight feelings of relief, that on his last visit to Deadman's Alley, he found the Charlatan dressed to go abroad, and was invited by that unaccountable person to partake of a bottle by daylight, rather than await a manifestation, fasting, in the dark.

"Your servant, sir," said the Parson, flinging his shovel hat in the corner, while he filled his glass without a second bidding. "This looks like business, Doctor, at last. Indeed, I am sick to death of the town life, and the town ways. But for your message, I should have been on the good bay nag horse, half a day's journey towards Exeter by this time."

"Do they use you so badly, then?" asked Katerfelto with a smile, while he scanned him keenly from under his bushy eyebrows. "Do they not treat Abner Gale with proper respect as a West-country gentleman, a noted sportsman, and a pillar of the Church? In sad truth, it is a perverse and ignorant generation."

"Now you're bamming me, Doctor," replied the other, good-humouredly. "But a man is entitled to his jest who gives such wine as this. My service to you. Yes, I'll take a second glass the more willingly, as I shall not have another chance. I leave London to-morrow at sunrise, weather permitting, and before high noon, as we say in the West, whether or no!"

"Is it purse or patience that you have worn out?" asked Katerfelto; "there are means of replenishing the one and repairing the other."

"Both!" answered the Parson. "A man had as well be in the Fleet prison, as the coffee-room of a Covent-garden hotel! I seem to pay hard money for every breath I draw, and not to breathe freely after all! I'm an early stirrer, Doctor! man and boy, winter and summer I've been used to see the sun rise. Ah! you can breathe in my country like a grampus, if you choose. Well, I come down to break my fast at a reasonable hour, and not a creature is afoot in the whole house but the cat and me. Presently steals in a slipshod drawer, unbraced, uncombed, unwashed, and scarce half-awake. The varlet fetches a toast and tankard, may be, with a knotch from the musty end of a chine that the rats have gnawned in the night. I fling it at his head; I cuff him soundly; I kick him round the room in my stocking-feet, for the other knave will not have cleaned my boots till noon. Presently I drink my beer, and forgive him; but to make peace with the rogue costs me a crown. At last I get my coat and hat brushed, band fitted, boots blacked, and sally forth into the streets. They're full, Doctor, a man can scarce turn himself round; yet do I feel so lonely, that if I was a woman or a child, I should sit down and cry.

"I might ride through Exmoor half a summer's day and never set eyes on a human face, but the curlew seems to know me as he flits by, with a quiet call of greeting and a wave of his wide brown wing—the red hinds, leading their calves along the ridges, look kindly over their shoulders, and turn their handsome heads to gaze after me, till they disappear. Why, the very breeze, whispering among the rushes, has been pilfering in my own garden, not so many miles away. You know no more than a blind man what morning means till you've seen the sun rise in North Devon! I wish I was back there now. I will be back there next week if I'm alive!"

"But surely, Doctor," observed Katerfelto, with a covert smile, "a man of your presence finds no difficulty in making acquaintances and even friends. The Londoners are not an inhospitable people, and are said to be exceedingly kind to a stranger if he has but money in his pockets."

"Kind enough!" answered the other, "so long as it costs nothing. They'll find fair words, I grant, and plenty of them, at the rate of a guinea a-piece. It was but yesterday two ladies gave me good-morrow from their coach so heartily, I made sure I must have met them on Taunton race-course or may be in the Cathedral close at Exeter. 'Welcome to London, Doctor,' says one, 'how did you leave your friends in the West?' 'You don't remember me, Doctor,' laughs the other, as comely a wench as you'll see this side of Devizes 'but I haven't forgotten you, and I wish I could.' So I off with my hat, and up into the coach without another word, thinking for sure I had fallen among friends at last, and would you believe it? the first was an old harridan that might have been my mother, and the second hussy had scarce a tooth in her head, besides being raddled with red paint, and smelling of brandy fit to knock you down! Nay, I have done with your London once for all. If I make good speed, I'll be home in time for Dulverton Feast. I'll have no need to look about for friends there, and I can tell you, Doctor, I've been parched with strong ale and heady port, till I long for a gallon of cider, if it cost me five shillings a quart. Now we'll go to business, by your leave. If you've any more to say in my matters, out with it! Any way, bad or good, let us settle up and part friends!"

"I have constrained those to do my bidding who can furnish the intelligence you require," answered Katerfelto solemnly. "To-night, if you have the courage."

"Nay, nay!" interrupted the Parson, his jolly face blanching at the suggestion, "your word is quite enough, Doctor. I neither doubt you nor them. Name your price, and let us have done with it!"

"Go home, then," continued the Charlatan, "with what speed you can make. Amongst your own West-country hills you will find your enemy and the slayer of your kinsman, John Garnet by name; a proper youth, able-bodied, and an expert swordsman. If I bade you spare him, would you listen one moment to my plea?"

He was not listening now. "John Garnet," he repeated, "John Garnet," grinding the syllables between his teeth as he branded the name into his memory.

"Look out, John Garnet, and keep your hands up the first time you come across Abner Gale!"

Katerfelto had seen too much of mankind and their worst passions, to be easily moved; but he felt his blood curdle while he marked the Parson's rubicund cheek turn to a sallow white. If ever there was murder in a man's face, he read it now. Perhaps for one short moment he felt compunction, but the weakness was soon over. "He is better out of the way," thought Katerfelto, "and things must take their course."

Thus it fell out that the West-country parson was riding steadily homeward over Marlborough Downs the same evening Lord Bellinger's coach was rifled by the gipsies, and its owner left a captive in the thraldom of his own word of honour till the moon rose.

Notwithstanding the nature of his errand, Abner Gale seemed in high health and spirits.

It was delightful to breathe a free, fresh air, untainted by the smells of London—to see the sky come down to a wide horizon uninterrupted by streets and houses—to feel beneath him the strong elastic action of his good bay horse, and to taste at different halting-places a sound and wholesome ale unadulterated by the tricks of metropolitan trade. To use his own words, he was "as happy as a king," yet he never wavered for an instant in his merciless purpose, never hesitated as to how he should act when he came face to face with his foe!

Riding along the down, the two subjects nearest his heart were his supper and his revenge.

The moon was sailing high and clear in an unclouded sky. Suddenly the Parson drew rein, sitting for an instant motionless as a statue: then, urging his horse with hand and heel, arrived at a gallop in the midst of the unaccountable little party, of which he had caught sight.

The scene was ridiculous, grotesque, strange enough for a dream. Two strapping servants in bright liveries paced to and fro, looking thoroughly frightened and ashamed, none the less, that both were armed to the teeth. A middle-aged person in faded finery sat on the ground apart, weeping feebly and wringing her hands. Five horses harnessed to a coach stood patiently on the solitary down, while one lay dead at their feet, and inside the coach were a gentleman and lady calmly playing cards! Abner Gale pulling up suddenly amongst them, created no little consternation. The footmen went down on their knees, the middle-aged person screamed and fell on her back, the horses pricked their ears and snorted, while a quiet voice inside the coach was heard to exclaim, "Re-pique, my lady! What? Another gentleman of the road, and on a bay horse this time! Perhaps, sir, before proceeding to business, you will kindly allow us to finish our game!"

Lord Bellinger played a winning card, and thrust his head out of the window, laughing heartily at the discomfiture of his domestics.

"Can I help you?" said the new arrival, in his rough blunt tones. "I am an honest man enough as times go. A poor West-country parson, at your service, and my name is Abner Gale."

"Mr. Gale," replied his lordship, taking off his hat, "let me present you to Lady Bellinger. If you are of the church militant, reverend sir, you should have been here an hour or two ago; you might have seen some fine sport, and taken a turn at it yourself, to the tune of 'Wigs on the Green.' It's too late now, but I think we could have told a different story could I have found something like a man to back me up!"

If levelled at his servants, the taunt fell harmless. Their wits were still abroad, but they felt comforted and reassured to learn that the second highwayman was but a parson after all!

"Have you met with an accident, my lord?" asked Gale, with a clumsy bow, "ill-usage, or misadventure of any kind? Command my services, I beg, on behalf of yourself and her ladyship."

"The moon! the moon!" exclaimed Lady Bellinger, much to the Parson's disturbance, who thought she had gone mad. "It's over the tree! It's eleven o'clock! Don't stop another minute! Let us drive to the inn at once, and try to forget, only I never shall forget this dreadful night!"

So my lord and the servants, with the powerful assistance of their new auxiliary, got the heavy coach once more into motion, my lady so far remembering the parson's existence, as to entreat that he would ride close beside the wheel, and, if need be, defend them with his life!

The procession soon reached its destination, the same inn at which John Garnet had dined. Driving into the yard without its full complement of horses, the servants in a high state of excitement, everybody talking at once, it was obvious the coach had been attacked by a highwayman. The old ostler smiled and winked, the landlord smiled and looked at his wife, the wife smiled and shook her head, the cook smiled, the scullions smiled, everybody seemed interested and well pleased, more particularly when it transpired that the assailant, having taken what he wanted, had made his escape uninjured by so much as a scratch. None seemed astonished when his lordship, inquiring eagerly for particulars as to the robber and his grey horse, mentioned that the only clue he had obtained to his identity was the name of Galloping Jack. The landlord, of course, knew nothing. A landlord never does know anything. The ostler, on cross-examination by the stupidest of Lord Bellinger's footmen, had no recollection of any grey horse in particular. So many grey horses were put up in their stables, coming and going to Marlborough market and what-not? How was he to distinguish which was which, while the maids, preparing my lady's chamber, and airing my lady's bed, furnished Mistress Rachel with so marvellous an account of Galloping Jack, his exploits and enormities, that the waiting gentlewoman could not mention his name without a shudder, connecting him, by some inexplicable process of reasoning, with all the myths and terrible personages she had ever heard of, such as St. George and the Dragon, Blue-beard, and Herod of Jewry, surnamed the Great.

But Abner Gale, who accepted his lordship's invitation to supper, and cracked a bottle with him afterwards, though he prudently excused himself from playing cards, had a clear remembrance of the noted grey horse, whose speed and endurance were once the topic of every market-table and every drinking-bout in his own country. From Lord Bellinger's description of the animal on which his assailant was mounted; and which, by all the rules of gaming, my lord considered his own property, the Parson gathered that it could be none other than the famous grey, and that its rider must have been the celebrated highwayman, whose features were always masked, but whose figure was so well known at all fairs, races, cock-fights, and other sporting or social gatherings in the West. Parson Gale, indeed, had only seen the horse once, and then for an instant, dismounted, as it was led off to the stable, but his admiring eye had taken its whole frame in at a glance, and he could recall its make-and-shape, its points and action, as vividly as those of his own good nag that he had ridden many scores and hundreds of miles.

"I always understood the man was hanged," murmured the Parson, as he laid his head on his pillow, "but I should know the horse among ten thousand!"

CHAPTER XIV.

LESS THAN KIN.

Again is Nelly Carew sitting among the rocks in Porlock Bay, but the tide is out now, and a broad sweep of wet sand stretches before her to a low and level line of white that seems receding farther and farther towards the chalk-bluffs of the distant Welsh coast. The faint moan of the ebb is melancholy enough, and heavy clouds gathering down Channel, against the wind, denote a coming storm, but gleams of sun are still slanting athwart them in pale shafts of light, and there is a colour in Nelly's cheek, a lustre in her eye, little in accordance with the dull stagnation of slack water, the heavy atmosphere of a thunder-storm, speaking rather of bright thoughts, tranquil happiness, the springtide of health and youth and hope.

Keen observers might indeed detect a shade more colour than usual in the soft cheeks, a deeper blue in the speaking eyes; but, when young women sit by the sea, in pleasant company, such tokens are neither unusual nor out of place.

And Nelly Carew is not alone. By the merest accident—for how could he tell that this was her favourite haunt in the afternoon?—a gentleman, with whom she had lately made acquaintance, happened to stroll in the same direction as herself. Two lonely figures, breaking the solitude of a wide level sea-board, if they have ever met before, cannot avoid each other, without rudeness. A start—a stop—a bow—a little hesitation on one side, a little blushing on the other, and John Garnet found himself seated on a slab of rock at Nelly Carew's feet, looking dreamily out to seaward, exceedingly well satisfied with his place.

The exploit and accompanying outrage, of which Galloping Jack must henceforth bear the blame, had been thoroughly carried out. The warrants were burnt, the attainted persons warned in time to escape. Some had fled the country—all had taken precautions for their own safety; and, thanks to Katerfelto's speed and endurance, so quickly had this been done, so suddenly had the assailant of Marlborough Downs shown himself in the market-place at Taunton, that, like Dick Turpin of immortal memory, he might have proved an alibi in any court of law, thanks to the extraordinary powers of his steed. Many an honest West-country gentleman made it an excuse for an extra glass now, that, after the king's health (not specified by name), he must devote a bumper to Galloping Jack and the good grey horse! But John Garnet was acute enough to leave on the shoulders of that mysterious highwayman the whole burden of guilt he had incurred in the eyes of justice. From his neighbours over the border, in his own North country, he had learnt the wisdom of an excellent maxim, "Jouk an' let the jaw gae bye!" In other words, "Duck your head, and keep under shelter till the storm be past."

He might remain in hiding, he thought, among these western wilds till the indignation of the Government had blown over, the hue and cry become somewhat dulled. Then he hoped to get quietly on board a fishing-boat, put out into the wide Atlantic, and so, working his way back again up Channel, land in safety at some port on the coast of France. In the mean time, all he had to do was to keep quiet, and leave the grey horse shut up in the stable as much as possible. Casting about for a harbour of refuge, he hit upon the little village of Porlock, a cluster of houses embosomed in wooded hills, washed by silver waves, shut in from all the world by moor and mountain, purple peak, and bare grey headland, clothed in tropical vegetation, calm, beautiful, and secluded as the first paradise of mankind. Here he thought he would be secure and tranquil. Here he determined to take refuge for days and weeks, if only he could endure the dull, cheerless monotony to which he must make up his mind. That he should find a soul to speak to, he had never anticipated, much less did he dream that here was his Fate, waiting for him with her soft blue eyes, in this peaceful little hamlet, down by the Severn Sea.

For exercise of the good horse, he would ride Katerfelto on the sands at midnight, but a man of his habits could not remain indoors all day. Soon gathering courage from impunity, he would leave his humble lodgings betimes to wander about the neighbourhood, drinking in its beauty, making himself familiar with every winding coombe, darkling forest, and stretching moorland for half-a-score of miles around.

Thus it fell out that, returning from one of these expeditions at sunset, he overtook Nelly's grandfather, very infirm and feeble now, toiling painfully down a steep incline towards his home.

John Garnet was essentially good-natured, with that good-nature which springs from a good heart. In an instant he had offered the old man his arm, and Nelly, who went out to meet him, was not a little surprised to see her grandfather leaning on a straight-made, handsome young fellow, in an embroidered waistcoat and laced hat, talking volubly, and to all appearance much pleased with his new acquaintance.

If she thought the stranger good-looking (she declared afterwards she never thought about it at all) be sure she did not admit so much, even to herself, though conscious she was pleased—a feeling she attributed to the improvement in her grandfather's spirits, and his obvious delight in his new friend's society.

Old Carew, shut out for so many years from the conversation of such men as himself, men of action and adventure, men of the busy world, felt like the blind restored to sight, when he heard once more the familiar tones, the familiar terms, that took him back a score of years at least. It was pleasant to recognise the well-remembered trick of phrase and gesture, that is not to be caught by imitation, nor purchased second-hand. "The man's a gentleman," thought old Carew, "a real gentleman; and how unlike Parson Gale!"

He bade him stay to supper of course. He opened in his honour one of the dozen bottles of choice Rhine wine that had lasted as many years. He chatted, he chuckled, he coughed and wheezed, and told his stories, and fought his battles, and enjoyed his evening thoroughly, while Nelly sat silent at her needle-work, grateful to the visitor who made grandfather so happy.

John Garnet was a good listener, none the less perhaps that his attention often wandered to the blue eyes in the corner of the room, eyes that rarely met his own, and when they did were immediately cast down; but he put in his exclamations of astonishment, admiration, and approval at the right places, sympathising with the old man's memories, gentle to his foibles, tolerant of his garrulity—and all honour to him for it, say I.

You do not know what it is to live in the past, you young men who still possess the illimitable inheritance of the future, an account that it seems impossible to overdraw. Even the present is hardly good enough to satisfy you, and you cheat yourselves out of no little happiness by anticipating to-morrow, when you should be content with the enjoyment of to-day. But wait a few years, wait till the to-morrows begin to look scantier and scantier, while the yesterdays are counted by thousands—wait till all that made the pride, the excitement, the happiness of life, is an experience, and not a hope—till the good horse has been forgotten by all but yourself—the true love has been cold in her grave for years—the very laurels you have won are become withered garlands, put away in some neglected hiding-place, only to be brought out again when the mourners hang them round your tomb! Then you will know the happiness of living once more, if only for an hour, if only till the glass is empty, or the tobacco burnt to ashes, in the glowing, thrilling memories of an imperishable past. Imperishable, for is it not, in truth, the only reality? Imperishable, for it cleaves to us during life. Imperishable, for we are taught to believe that it goes with us into eternity.

You may make an old man happy at trifling cost, if you will only yield a few minutes of patient attention, while he wanders back through its well-remembered maze, and loses himself dreamily in the labyrinth we call life.

Nelly never knew her grandfather so communicative. He talked till he was thoroughly tired out. Marlborough, Prince Eugene, the vineyards of France, the swamps of the low countries, London coffee-houses, foreign theatres, dice, duelling, midnight revels, and the fierce joys of the old roaring Mohock days—he had something to recall of each, and seemed nothing loth to embark on his adventurous godless career once again.

But his voice grew weaker, his chin sank on his breast, the light in his eye, that had flickered up in transient gleams, dimmed visibly, and the guest resisting his host's quavering entreaties to remain, discreetly took leave, thereby earning golden opinions of Nelly Carew. She opened the door for him herself. She even condescended to shake hands, and wished him good-night, with a grateful smile. Walking home to his lodgings, through the balmy summer air, with slow and lingering steps, John Garnet began to think that his term of retirement would be no such dreary penance after all, that, under certain conditions, a man might do worse than settle down to vegetate at Porlock for the rest of his life.

Had he forgotten Waif? No! he told himself. A thousand times, No! He was grateful to her; he was interested in her; he pitied the girl from his heart; but hers was not the whisper that seemed floating on the night breeze in his ear, and it was a pair of blue eyes that peered at him out of the twilight gloom whichever way he turned. Blue eyes, calm, deep, and beautiful as the summer sky and the summer sea.

We ought to be ashamed of ourselves, but, alas! there is too much truth in the adage, "We always believe our first love is our last, and our last love our first!"

John Garnet was like the rest of mankind. Still, it had not come to that yet.

So pleasant an introduction, and under such conditions, soon ripened into something more than acquaintance. It was not long before John Garnet and Nelly Carew became fast friends. They were surprised to find how many tastes they had, how many sympathies and ideas, in common. Sitting together on that bare ledge of rock amongst the sand, though a week ago they had been utter strangers, each seemed to have known the other for years.

When a man and his wife are silent while together, they have generally quarrelled and are not going to make up; but when two young people of opposite sexes, who have never broached the subject of matrimony, sit together out-of-doors without opening their lips, there is strong likelihood that they are progressing insensibly towards that holy state in which they will have a legal right to hate each other as much as they please!

It may be that she was the one who felt their silence most irksome, but the girl broke it at last with the following feminine piece of injustice:

"How dull you must find it here, after the life you've been accustomed to! I'm sure I wonder you don't have a fit of the spleen. I've heard grandfather say he felt it dreadfully at first."

"Mistress Carew," he answered—while the blue eyes shot a reproachful glance, that almost said, why don't you call me Nelly?—"Mistress Carew, I am not your grandfather!"

"You've been grave enough," she replied, with a little nervous laugh, "this while past, to be anybody's grandfather. I've been wondering what you could see down Channel yonder that seemed to take up all your attention!"

This ought to have been encouraging. She was watching him, then, following the direction of his eyes, trying to make out his thoughts. Strange to say, John Garnet, usually so debonair and ready of speech, seemed at a loss for a reply.

"I was wondering"—he hesitated and looked down, while Nelly, whose work had been idly folded in her lap, began plying her needle very fast—"I was wondering whether it could really be less than a week since I first came to Porlock?"

She had been pondering the same marvel herself, but took care not to express her astonishment.

"It's not—not at all the kind of place you expected, is it?"

Nelly thought it strange that her heart should beat, and her breath come quick, in asking so simple a question.

He tried to catch her eye, but she steadily refused to look at him, while he answered, "I thought it would be a prison and a purgatory. I never dreamed it was to prove a Para—"

He stopped short without finishing the word, for she had grown deadly pale, and her blue eyes, looking over his head at something beyond and behind him, were dilated with actual fear. Turning in the same direction, he could detect no more alarming object than a stout square-built man, in a black riding suit, walking leisurely towards them through the soft sand.

"Good-morrow, Mistress Carew," said Abner Gale's harsh voice, while the scowl that accompanied his greeting gave it more the character of a ban than a blessing. "They told me in the village I should find you here or hereabouts, but I didn't think to see you so well attended. My service to you, sir," scanning John Garnet from head to foot. "A warm day this, but pleasant enough to be taking a young woman a walk by the sea-shore."

There was something offensive in the man's tone and manner. At any other time John Garnet would probably have resented his intrusion on the spot, but his attention was now so entirely taken up with Nelly's discomposure, that he failed to notice those indications of a wish to brawl, which he was generally only too ready to indulge.

Parson Gale was indeed in the worst of humours. Only the night before he had reached his home, and yet no sooner had he broken his morning fast, than, after a visit to his Spanish pointer, a cursory glance at his Irish pigs, but taking no thought whatever for his Devonshire parish, he was in the saddle again to get a glimpse of Nelly Carew. Following the devious tracks of Exmoor, with the instinct of the wild sheep, the wild ponies, or the wilder red-deer, he threaded the coombe into Badgeworthy, crossed its foaming waters at his accustomed ford, climbed and clattered amongst the rocks, cantered freely over the heather, and paced down the hill into Porlock like a man in a dream—for his whole mind was filled with the fair face and the blue eyes that he had hungered to look on for weeks. Though familiar with every acre of the forest and the moor, he would never have reached his destination, but that his horse knew the way as well as his master, having travelled it many a time of late.

It was characteristic of the man that he should not have ridden straight to old Carew's cottage, and gone frankly in to see his friends. He stabled his horse instead at a little farm on the outskirts of the village, and hovered stealthily about its vicinity, hoping to meet some one who would tell him how matters had been going on in his absence.

He did not remain long in suspense. Ere half an hour elapsed, a shambling, ill-looking youth, wearing "poacher" written in every line of his face as plain as print, slouched up and touched his hat, waiting however to be questioned, with an awkward grin that denoted how his natural insolence was kept in check by the Parson's quick temper and reputation for physical prowess. "He be soon up, be wor Pa'yson," was the verdict of his parishioners, "and main ready with his hands, right or w'hrong."

"What, Ike!" said Mr. Gale, assuming a cordiality he did not feel, for to do him justice he hated a poacher, especially in the vicinity of deer; "not hanged yet, nor even sent to Botany Bay? What hast been doing then these so many weeks? Has it been slack time with thee while I've been away?"

"Much as usual, Pay'son," answered Ike, in the broadest dialect of West Somerset, which it is needless to reproduce here. "It's you gentlefolk that knows what change means. Frolics, too. There's not much of that for poor chaps like us!"

"What, is there no news in the place, then?" asked the Parson. "Never a fresh nag in Farmer Veal's stable? Never a strange face stopped to take a drink of cider at the Wheat Sheaf or the Crown?"

Small as it was, Porlock boasted two beershops, and Ike was familiar with both.

"There be one strange face," answered the latter, with a cunning leer; "but it's little cider that gets inside of he—beer neither. The best of wine in his glass, and the best of nags in his stable, gold lace on his coat, fine linen on his back, a sword in his belt, and a warm welcome from the likeliest lass in the West Country—that's what he has. Folks like me must put up with a drink of cider, when they can get it. I'm main thirsty now, Pa'yson."

"What do you mean?" asked Gale, in no little disquietude, but putting silver, nevertheless, in the other's dirty hand.

"They say he do be a kinsman of Mistress Nelly, for sure," answered Ike. "And it's like enough. They can't let him be, neither her nor the old man, by day or night. I do know well he do be in and out of the house at all hours, like a dog in a fair."

Roused beyond endurance, the Parson clenched his heavy riding-whip; and, but that he bit his lip till the blood came, in an effort to control himself, would have given his informant the full benefit of its weight.

Ike never knew how near he was having his head broke then and there.

"Do you mean that old Master Carew has a kinsman paying him a visit?" he asked; and while he spoke Abner Gale wondered at the resolution with which he kept down his wrath. "When did he come, lad? can ye tell, now? And how soon is he going away?"

But Ike, whose fingers were itching to spend in drink the money he had earned so easily, did not care to sustain farther cross-examination.

"Them sort comes and goes like the shadows on Brendon Moor," said he. "It's you and me, Master Gale, no offence, as stands to it, blow high blow low, like Dunkerry Beacon. I don't want to breed no mischief, and I don't want to tell no lies. There's others can say more than me. My service to you, Pa'yson, and thanking you kindly. If you've an odd job for a poor chap, I'm to be heard of mostly at the Wheat Sheaf; and I'll not forget to drink your honour's good health."

Thus speaking, Ike slunk off; and the Parson, with scowling brows, proceeded to Nelly's favourite haunt by the sea-shore.

What a bright fresh morning it had been, when he heard the lark singing on Exmoor a few short hours ago? Was it the gathering thunder-storm that made the sky so dark, the air so stifling, now?

A woman's tact seldom fails her at need. Mistress Nelly's greeting was just sufficiently cordial to soothe the Parson into decent behaviour, without exceeding the limits of such kindly reception as seemed due to her grandfather's friend. Ere John Garnet had ceased wondering what there was in this new comer to move her so much, she had cleared her brows, steadied her voice, and extended her hand with a pleasant smile. At that moment, perhaps, the Parson knew for the first time, by the jealousy she was capable of arousing, how fiercely he loved her. And it may have been at the same moment that John Garnet discovered something he had never realised before.

An ass between two bundles of hay has always been accepted as the illustration of a false position. Surely a young lady with an admirer on each hand, one of whom she knows she hates, while the other she dreads to acknowledge she is beginning to like, must be equally at a loss on which side to incline. What is she to say or leave unsaid? What is she to do or leave undone? Nelly Carew wished John Garnet had never come, wished he would go away; wished a spring-tide would flow in that moment, and float the Parson bodily up to Bossington Point, down to Barnstaple Bay, out into the wide Atlantic, where she might never set eyes on him again! Succour came when most she wanted it. A few heavy drops, a gust of wind, a flash, and a thunder-roll. In five minutes it was obvious that unless they hastened back to the village, all three would be drenched to the skin. With an imploring look at John Garnet, she made him understand he was to leave her without asking why. How delightful it was to feel that he caught her meaning at once, and obeyed! Then she hurried the Parson to her grandfather's cottage, at a pace that admitted of no explanation; and once over the threshold disappeared in her own chamber, with that plea of headache (thunder always gave her a headache) which must have been Eve's excuse when she did not want to work in the garden with Adam.

Finding he was not likely to see her again, Abner Gale made but a short visit. As he rode home across Exmoor, the sky was clear, the birds were singing, the long rank grass sprang fresh and green from its recent wetting, flags and rushes were dressed out with rain-drops glistening like jewels in the afternoon sun. But the Parson rode slowly and heavily, looking steadfastly between his horse's ears. Now and again he shook his head, or bit his lip, or glared round him with a troubled scowl, suggestive of annoyance and apprehension, as if he doubted there was still thunder in the air.

CHAPTER XV.

MORE THAN KIND.

"He understood me at once," thought Nelly, whose headache left her the moment she entered her own room. "How gentle he always seems, and how nice. I wonder who and what he is? Grandfather says there can be no mistake about his being well-born, and a man of fashion. Parson Gale often boasts he is not a man of fashion; but I know I like a man of fashion best. I wonder when I shall see him again. Not that I want to see him one bit; only he must have thought me so rude to leave like that, and I ought to explain. How angry Mr. Gale looked, and how cross he seemed all the way home. What does it matter to me? What need I care how cross he is? Only—only I wish I was never going to set eyes on him again!"

Now this was hardly justice—perhaps I should rather say it was woman's justice. In the absence of other society, the time had been when Nelly was well pleased to accept, in a dignified distant kind of way, the Parson's homage, and felt flattered, if not gratified, by his obvious devotion to herself; now she seemed instinctively to shrink from him as from an enemy. And why? Because John Garnet had merry eyes and a ruddy cheek? Because he was the first specimen of his class she had ever met? Or because they were thrown together, two comely young people, in this pretty little village by the sea? She could not have given a reason—no more can I.

Twenty-four hours did not elapse, of course, before they met again. She looked timidly in his face, and put out her hand. He might be offended, she thought, and felt rather disappointed to have no opportunity of begging pardon; but his frank and pleasant manner was so reassuring, that she wondered how she could have dreaded their meeting so much, and why she spent all the morning thinking of it. Nelly was always wondering now, and for the first time in her life had forgotten to take grandfather's posset off the hob last night before it was smoked.

It is no doubt provoking not to be able to irritate a man if you wish; but Nelly had hardly yet arrived at that stage in the malady which desires a quarrel for the pleasure of making up.

"You—you didn't get wet," she said, timidly, "when we were all obliged to hurry home yesterday. The showers here are very heavy, and apt to—to——"

"Wet a man to the skin," he said, laughing; "so they are everywhere else. I was sorry to lose your pleasant society, Mistress Carew; but, thinking the strange gentleman might be an old friend of your grandfather, I did not wish to intrude, and walked home as fast as I could."

She shot a grateful glance at him. "Yes," she observed, in rather a marked tone, "he is a friend of grandfather's rather than of mine, though I have known him ever since I was a little girl."

"Is that so very long, Mistress Carew?" he asked, with another of his pleasant smiles.

They were walking through the orchard behind her home, along a path that led to the shore. She stopped and plucked some wild flowers from the hedge, perhaps to hide a blush.

"I have a favour to ask you," she said, in a low voice, and stooping her head over the posy. "Do not say Mistress Carew—I don't like it. I had rather you would call me Nelly."

There was the least possible inflection of voice on the pronoun, just enough to make John Garnet's heart beat as it had never beat before.

"Nelly," he repeated, "will you give me one of those flowers?"

"You may take the whole bunch," she answered, "I only gathered them for you." But she walked on so fast after this gratifying avowal, that it was impossible to tell her one word of the old tale that was rising to his lips.

All that day she took care not to be alone with him another minute. From the orchard she took him to the beach, where the villagers were collecting sea-weed; thence to a field where harvest was already nearly done; home by the cow-house, with its attendant milkmaid; and so back to grandfather's parlour, where she poured out his evening draught of cider with her own hands.

Why Nelly should have cried like a naughty child when she laid her head on the pillow; why she should have woke before daybreak, and risen at sunrise to put new ribbons in her dress of a colour she had lately heard somebody say he liked, is more than I can take upon me to explain. I can understand, however, why John Garnet lay a-bed longer than usual that same morning, and turned on the other side, hoping to go to sleep again, that he might dream another dream like the last about Nelly Carew.

Abner Gale's dreams, if he had any, would seem to have been of no such pleasant nature, for he was stirring with the dawn, breakfasting fiercely before sunrise, on Devonshire mutton and strong ale, cursing, notwithstanding his profession, each of his servants in turn for imputed shortcomings, from his cherry-cheeked parlour-maid to the man who fed the pigs. In and out the house, and through the precincts of the farm-yard, or "barton," as he called it, the master's eye was only less dreaded than his tongue, his tongue than his hand. Yet was he well served too, with the scrupulous obedience of fear.

He would fain have mounted his horse and ridden across the moor in the direction of Porlock again to-day, but even Abner Gale was compelled to pay some respect to the decencies of life, and even such a parish as his exacted a few hours' attention after an absence of weeks.

There were conditions to be written out for a wrestling-match between two rival champions; arrangements to be made for supplying the ringers with unlimited cider at their approaching feast; a badger recently drawn to visit; and some terrier-puppies just opening their eyes on this wicked world, to inspect.

Also, there was a child to be baptised, a matter that would keep, and a wench to be married, a matter that would not.

"For to-day," thought the Parson, "I have got my hands full; to-morrow I shall be free again, and it's strange if I fail to find out something more of your goings on, Mistress Nelly, and put a spoke in the wheel of that young spark down by the water-side, who seems to make himself so much at home!"

Though he never saw him before, though he had not the vaguest notion that John Garnet was the man he had sworn to hunt to death, some antagonistic instinct caused him to hate this man with a deadly hatred, scarcely to be accounted for, even by that jealousy which is proverbially cruel as the grave.

In no appropriate frame of mind, the Parson was about to don his frayed and dirty canonicals for administration of that matrimonial rite it would be unwise to delay, when his quick eye caught sight of a man riding on the moor, whose appearance caused him to cast aside his sacred vestments with an oath, and rush to the door, carrying a brimming jug of cider in his hand.

Mr. Gale swore when he was pleased, and when he was angry, when he rode and when he walked, when he worked and when he rested. Altogether he swore a good deal between morning and night.

"It's the harbourer!" he exclaimed, steadying the vessel not to spill a drop; "the harbourer, as I'm a living sinner, Red Rube!" he shouted, while the new arrival drew the rein at the mounting-block, "stop and wet your whistle—you're always welcome, and you're always dry."

Red Rube, whose real name was Reuben Rudd, needed no second bidding. Raising the jug to his weather-tanned face, he took a hearty pull, a pull that nearly emptied its contents.

The Parson scanned him approvingly. Rube wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and sat motionless in the saddle without a word.

He was a man of seventy at least, short, shrunken, withered, and tough as shoe-leather, with a keen grey eye, set in countless wrinkles, that seemed traced in the red-brown skin with the point of a needle. He rode a broken-kneed Exmoor pony, low in condition, but as hard as nails. Sportsman was written in every line of his face, every turn of his limbs, yet his steed, saddle, bridle, and the clothes on his back would have been dear at five pounds.

Like a ghost, it was Rube's custom not to speak till he was spoken to. His answers too were ghostly and mysterious, and he loved to vanish like a ghost when he had delivered his pithy say.

Presently, in such a whisper as denotes respectful confidence, the Parson broke silence.

"Three inches?" he asked, with the utmost concern.

"And a quarter," was the reply. "Twenty-two score and may-be a pound over. The slot was less than an hour old at sunrise."

"Rights?" asked the Parson.

"A warrantable deer," answered Rube, and each mused in silence for more than a minute.

"It's a pity," observed the Parson, after a pause, "there's no knowing where he may get to by next week. These heavy deer travel a long way when they're not hurried. It's hard to say where he may be when we want him. There ought to be no Sundays in the hunting season."

So self-evident a proposition seemed not to require assent; Red Rube held his peace, and looked at the empty cider-jug. Taking the hint, Gale entered the house, and returned with it refilled. The old man's eye glittered, and he indulged in another pull. It seemed to loosen his tongue. "That be main good zider," said he, shortening his reins and applying his one spur to the pony's ribs, as though to depart, but turning in his saddle, with an after-thought for a few last words.

"I wur down Lapford way yesterday," said he, with a chuckle, "and hoam by Rose Ash. I larned reading, Pa'yson, three-score years ago and more, afore I took to the deer. There's money to be made by reading, I tell'ee, and money means drink."

"What do you mean?" asked Gale.

"I mean there's hand-bills up at both places, offering a hundred guineas reward; that's what I mean," replied the old man, kindling to excitement. "Him as rode the grey stallion has been about again. Galloping Jack they always called 'un that spoke of 'un to me—and if a man could steal a view of 'un, or get the wind of 'un, or so much as slot 'un where he harbours, 'tis a hundred golden guineas paid down in hand. I've moved many a right stag in my time, Master Gale, but never such a noble head as that."

Then, as fearing his loquacity must have compromised him in the eyes of so good a sportsman, Red Rube departed at a gallop, and was seen no more.

Abner Gale looked after him, with a smile. Lord Bellinger then had taken his advice, and adopted the most likely means of bringing to justice the perpetrator of an outrage that was both highway robbery and high treason. It interested the Parson but little save in so far as the grey horse was concerned. If its rider should come to the gallows he would do all he knew to put that noble beast in his own stable. In imagination, he was already galloping it over Exmoor, to go and see Nelly Carew.

Then the Parson sighed and swore, and sighed again, and put on his dingy cassock to marry the tardy couple who had waited so long.

He tied them up, however, fast and sure, before the stroke of noon, pocketing his fees with considerable satisfaction, for Mr. Gale took no delight in the gratuitous administrations of the Church, little thinking that, even while he pronounced the blessing, which it did not strike him seemed a mockery from such lips as his, John Garnet was turning out into the sunshine, fresh and fair, like a bridegroom himself, to wait upon Mistress Carew.

That gentleman lay long in bed without dreaming the pleasant dream again, so bethought him at last that it would be more to the purpose to rise and pursue the reality, than lose his time in sighing after the shadow. He was very far gone now. The posy she had given him stood in water at his bedside, every hour of the day seemed wasted that was not spent with this blue-eyed girl, and he never gave Waif a thought for more than a moment at a time.

Bold, blithe, and buoyant, he whistled a merry air as he strode up the village street, thinking of his first, last love, like a cock-bird in full plumage going to look for its mate He seemed to moult a feather or two though, as he passed the village stocks, on the posts of which, for want of a more prominent elevation, were posted two conspicuous hand-bills, beginning with a gigantic "Whereas," and continuing through a long and minute description of his own person, to the offer of one hundred guineas for his capture, dead or alive; the whole concluding with a flourish, in capital letters, to the glory of "Our Sovereign Lord the King."

He went on to see Nelly all the same, but resolved that he would put off to a more convenient season something he meant to have told her to-day.