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!"
CHAPTER IV
"It is then true, my Betty? And I am to wish you joy?" cried Mary Jones, with both hands outstretched.
"It is true," answered Betty, her lips parted in a smile of sunshiny happiness. "Congratulate me, Mary; yes, wish me joy, for there is no happier woman to-day between the Northern and Southern seas."
"I am glad to see you so happy, dear child!" cried Mary affectionately, but there was something pinched and starved in her voice. Ah, pity for those who possess the capacity for love and yet must go hungry to their dying day!
This odd want is none the less bitter that it meets with scant sympathy in this hard world. In the breast of many an unsought woman lies a wealth of wasted treasure, treasure which no one has cared to seek, and yet what a treasure it might have been!
Mary Jones's heart had grown somewhat starved, but it was the heart of a loving woman still, and when the bright sunshine of her young friend's happiness shed its light on her soul, it awakened an echo of old dead days, and swelled it with sympathy.
"Sit down, sweet one," she said, drawing Betty down on the sofa beside her. "Tell me all about it. When did he ask you to be his wife?"
"This morning, Mary, only this morning; but it seems as if years had passed since then."
"And what says Mr. Ives? Does he welcome the stranger who takes from him his only child?"
"Not far, Mary—but two miles away—and my father is always to live with me, if he so will it, so says Mr. Johnstone."
"But is he pleased?" asked Mary, with a little persistence.
"Yes, he is well pleased; he already loves him as a son. Mary, perhaps the thing that most readily won my heart was his reverence and tender courtesy to my father."
"I can believe it, Betty. His manners are perfect. I was only making that same remark to Deborah this morning. Yes, I knew only one other whose manners could compare with your John Johnstone's, Betty—only one."
Mary Jones sighed deeply and looked down. Betty gently pressed her hand.
Hitherto she had always laughed at her friend's tender recollections; now, it seemed to her that her eyes were opened to her former cruelty.
But Mistress Mary was too much interested to waste too much time even on such reflections.
"You must tell me all, dear," she said. "What is his family? Has he parents living, brothers and sisters? Is his fortune assured?"
"Ah, there is some little difficulty there," answered Betty, her face falling a little. "He has no parents, no friends, no kindred; he is all alone in the wide world. And as for his fortune, that is assured, but it is somehow mysteriously bound up in trusts—I know not what—he has no papers to show my father, he asks for perfect confidence."
Mistress Mary was a prudent woman. She pursed up her lips and uttered a little sound expressive of discontent.
"Dear Betty," she said, "it is doubtless a very good thing to be in love with a stranger romantically, but still—"
"He is no stranger," said Betty quickly.
"No, no, not to be called a stranger," cried Mary, laughing—"an old and valued friend of two months' standing."
"The time is short," said Betty thoughtfully. "But a whole lifetime seems to have passed in that space! My father," she cried, as Mr. Ives entered the room, "here is Mistress Mary Jones."
"Come to offer my warmest good wishes," said the lady, "and also all the assistance in my power when the important day approaches."
"I shall indeed be glad and grateful for your help," said Betty affectionately.
Mr. Ives persuaded Mary to remain for supper. The candles were brought in, and the room looked bright and cheery.
"Stay with me and cheer my loneliness," said the parson cheerily. "The young folk will stroll in the garden till supper be ready. I am too old for dewy twilight walks, egad."
Was it a new idea that flashed into Mary's mind that caused her to start? She glanced at Mr. Ives' comely person, at his glossy cassock, his smartly-buckled shoes, at the neat tie-wig which surmounted a face which she hastily pronounced as handsome as it ever had been.
With a sweep of her fan Mistress Mary renounced her waning youth.
"Stay with you!" she cried, "that will I! and you and I from the window will superintend our dear young ones. Alas!" she said, with a languishing look, "how lonely the house will seem when you are bereft of your daughter."
Mr. Ives sighed deeply.
Outside in the gloaming, Betty Ives and her young lover walked slowly backwards and forwards under the orchard trees.
"No father, no mother, no sisters!" she said, looking up into his face. "No one to love, no one to love you!"
"I do not know whether I am to be pitied," he answered with a light laugh. "My life has been one of strange vicissitudes. No, no, sweet Bet; I have often thanked God that no one shared my life."
"But you will never do so again," she said earnestly.
"Sweetheart!" he answered. "Until you have once drunk of the cup of happiness you know not what it is; but once tasted, you can ill spare it thenceforth."
"Ah, some day you will tell me about this life of yours—will you not?"
"Some day, my heart, when you and I are alone together in the fair woods of Belton—when you are my precious wife, and when days have passed on, and our full trust and confidence each in the other is proved and strengthened by time. But not now, beloved, not now."
"Have you known griefs, sorrows?"
"A few."
"Happiness?"
"Yes, and triumphs often."
Betty bent down her head thoughtfully; fain would she have swept away the veil of mystery which surrounded her betrothed, but she would take no step to do so—no confidence was precious save that which was given unasked.
The twilight gathered softly. Presently Betty turned round, and placed her two clasped hands on his arm, her noble head proudly raised, her large eyes seeking his.
"Look you," she said, "there is something I would wish to say to you. You and I are to be man and wife—and I have accepted you—I know nothing of you, John—I know not whence you come, or from among what kinsfolk; I have taken all on trust. I love you, John, so I fear not. They say that perfect love casteth out fear. There can be no dark secret in your life, no deed or deeds that you shame to disclose to me. I take you with infinite faith. So tell me what you will, dear, or as much as you will. My heart will give you gratitude for the confidence you give to me, and, John, my love shall cover your silence."
With a sudden impulse John Johnstone was down on his knees, he pressed her hands to his lips with a passion akin to worship.
"My life, my love!" he cried—"my whole life shall be devoted to rewarding your trust in me. Oh, would to God I were more worthy of you!"
Within the house Mistress Mary and Mr. Ives were very comfortable: they played a game of patience together (in which the former was a great proficient), they chatted, they waxed confidential, and not till Dame Martha summoned them to sup, did they perceive the lapse of time. Mr. Ives called from the window, and the betrothed pair came in, their eyes shining and dazzled by the bright light.
Matters went on happily thus for many days—it seemed that the course of true love was to run very smooth—when one evening a little incident occurred that startled all.
The little party of four were dining together, as they generally did.
Mr. Ives was in a merry mood: he poured out a glass of good red wine, wine that was not often brought forth from the depth of his cellar; he bade John Johnstone fill up his glass, and as each gentleman raised it brimming to his lips, pledged "His sacred Majesty, good King George."
With a sharp rattle John Johnstone's glass crashed untasted on the table, and the red wine splashed like blood on the white napery.
The parson looked at him, and the colour forsook his cheek.
Mistress Mary glanced tremulously from one to another, and half rose in consternation.
The colour flushed high in Betty Ives' cheek. "Was this then the mystery?"
The absent king held all her sympathies.
Mr. Ives moved back his chair from the table, and said somewhat unsteadily:
"Good sir, I am a man of peace. I love order and a strong government. Can I hazard my daughter by—"
Now, strangely enough, Mary Jones came to the rescue.
"Sirs," she said, "allow me to make a proposition; it is this, that not one of us breathe a word elsewhere of what has happened tonight. For heaven's sake say nothing, keep all dark, and on this understanding," she stooped forward and daintily raised her own glass, "I also pledge his Majesty over the sea."
But Mr. Ives did not recover his spirits that night: presentiments of evil haunted him, misgivings that he had not done wisely by his darling. When the small hours of the morning struck he still lay awake, tossing restlessly to and fro.
CHAPTER V
The days passed on, and now all the world lay under a pall of white snow. Under their dazzling mantle gleamed the dark prickly leaves of the holly-trees with abundance of scarlet berries. Here and there a little robin-redbreast hopped to and fro, chiefly gathering round the latticed windows of the parsonage, where morning and evening Betty fed hundreds of feathered pensioners.
Sportsmen cursed the hard weather, the idle horses restlessly moved in their stalls, and the hounds dreamed dreams to pass away the long hours.
Betty was never idle. She made it her pride that when she left home as a bride all should be found in order in her father's home. Mistress Mary took much interest in it herself, and joined her in mending and marking and sorting fine household linen that had need of much care.
Betty's own clothes were in course of manufacture, not many but rich, as should become the Lady of Belton; above all, her wedding-gown of dove-coloured and silver brocade, all trimmed with strings and strings of orient pearls which John Johnstone had brought her one day.
He gave her many jewels but she loved the pearls best, for they were his first gift, and destined, he said, for that day of days that was to make her his own forever.
Almost every day as the time passed on, he brought her a new gift. Once it was a pretty little dog, another day a ring of large rubies.
"My Betty herself is a ruby," he said, when he placed this on her hand. "A brave stone rich in colour, strong, unchanging, and the most precious of gems."
Then there was nothing for it, but that she and her father should come to Belton to look over Betty's future home, suggest improvements, and choose among Mr. Johnstone's many fine horses one to be trained for his bride's special use. She was a bold fearless rider, looking beautiful on horseback, and she had scorned his proposal to buy her a gentle lady's horse, expressing her wish to be allowed to ride his hunters. With one or two exceptions John offered her the choice.
It was a brilliant frosty day on which the invitation was accepted. Mr. Ives laughingly included Mary Jones in the little party, asserting that two and two would be a fairer division of company.
Mary bridled and blushed and threw a tender glance at him from behind her fan, and the parson thought to himself that after all he was not old yet.
In every life there is perhaps one day that stands out from the others as the happiest day—one day in which the cup of joy seems full to the brim; it is not generally a day of powerful emotions, but of unbroken peace, sunshine, love, sweetness and the glory of life.
Such a day had dawned for fair Betty Ives. It was not so unbroken for her betrothed: now and then a look of care overcast his brow, and now and then his hands clenched themselves with a slight nervous movement. All through the day he paid her a courtship so tender, so deferential, so loving, it might have been a votary addressing his saint, a courtier waiting on his queen; and as the hour advanced, and the time of departure drew near, his attentions became yet more tender, more wistful.
They visited the horses and the dogs, gave bread to the shy young gazelle that John was endeavouring to tame, to offer to his bride. Then he suddenly drew her aside, and while Mr. Ives and Mary Jones strolled onwards to the garden, he took a key from his pocket, and unlocked the door of a loose box which he had passed by hitherto.
"Here lives my best treasure, sweetheart," he said. "You must travel far, and look wide, ere you meet with his match."
Betty looked in, and her eyes fell on a magnificent white horse. It would have needed an experienced eye fully to appreciate the strength and symmetry of its proportions; to Betty he looked beautiful, and words failed to describe her admiration.
"Strange that I have never chanced to see you ride him," she said. "I recognised at once the brown mare and the two chestnuts, and the bay with a white star, but this one I have never seen."
"No, I never hunt Seagull," he answered thoughtfully. "I owe him my life not once, but over and over again."
"Seagull!" exclaimed Betty. "Is not that the name of Wild Jack's famous white horse?"
"Yes, he was named after him. I bethought myself that my Seagull was as noble an animal as Wild Jack's."
"I am sure that he has not his equal in the wide world!" cried Betty.
John Johnstone turned suddenly to her and said: "Do you still keep up your interest in that poor sinner Wild Jack, sweet Bet? or has it died away in your gentle breast?"
"I shall never forget our first, and (heaven grant) our last interview," she answered with a smile. "How he justified my trust in him!"
"Poor Jack," said John Johnstone thoughtfully. "I knew Jack well once; you were right to have faith in him. He has done good service to the Cause. Look you, dear, he never took purse or papers on the king's highway, but in the king's name who is over the seas; he never injured woman or shot an unnecessary shot—keep your sympathy with Jack. And now," he said, throwing back his head with an odd look of defiance and pride—"now there is a reward of five hundred pounds offered for Wild Jack's body living or dead. They place a high price on the head of one, whom, to his honour, they dub traitor as well as highwayman!"
"Five hundred pounds," said Betty. "Alas! the reward is tempting."
"He has escaped so often from their very midst, has more than once been prisoner, has often baffled his swiftest pursuers. Next time Wild Jack is taken, his shrift will be short, I warrant."
The tears rose to Betty's eyes.
"God grant him a safe escape to France," she said earnestly.
"It is a good and a charitable wish, sweetheart," said John somewhat gloomily. "But men who have lived as Wild Jack has lived, dread, exile as much as death."
"Surely," said Betty, "that depends upon whether he is utterly friendless, or has any who love him."
"Wild Jack is not utterly friendless," he answered with a grave sweet smile.
"And this also is one of the mysteries," said Betty gaily. "Do not forget your promise, that some day you will tell me all the past history of your life, and also, above all, the story of your acquaintance with the most famous gentleman of the road."
"Aye, some day," he said, closing the door of Seagull's home, and placing the key in his pocket.
As they turned away he said suddenly: "Say nothing about my treasure in there, dear Bet, I beg of you, neither to your father nor to Mistress Mary."
Betty looked up at him somewhat surprised.
"Oh, it is for a trifling reason," he said—"a mere wager."
So the matter faded from her mind.
The elders of the little party now summoned them—the evening was closing, it was time to be going home.
They were all to ride, Mary on a pillion behind Mr. Ives.
While the horses were being saddled, Mr. Johnstone prayed them to come in, and they entered once more the large drawing-room, and gathered round a cheerfully blazing fire.
It was a stately room, with handsome furniture, all arranged with stiff propriety, needing the trifling signs of a woman's presence to give grace and life to its appearance.
"How different it will look when my lady reigns here," said John Johnstone softly. He led her away to one of the windows, and pointed out to her the beauties of the fair English landscape, and there unseen he held her hand in both his, and once pressed it to his lips. Tea came in, in cups of delicate old china, and home-made cakes and fresh butter.
"We must have a dairy fit for your superintendence, sweet Bet," said John Johnstone. "See how pale is this butter, how thin this cream compared to what you offer me at the parsonage."
The horses came round at last, Mr. Johnstone's bay mare with them; he would certainly accompany them home.
Indeed it seemed as if this evening he could not tear himself away, he lingered on and on, and it grew quite dark, and the moon rose over the snow, and the stars shone out one by one.
Supper was over, Mistress Mary long since gone home. It was nine o'clock—Mr. Johnstone must go. Mr. Ives sat quiet in his deep chair, the warmth and the comfort entered into his soul, and he slept.
"Come with me to the door, sweet Bet," said John lingeringly.
"Yes, even farther than that," she said, and she caught up her fur cloak, threw it round her, and followed him out to the garden gate. The crisp snow crackled pleasantly under foot.
Old Isaac, who held the bay mare, left them when he had given the bridle into her master's hand.
"They will be wishing to kiss, mayhap," he muttered to himself, "and I'll not stand in their way, God bless them!"
John Johnstone mounted. He looked up to the sky and said, "It is later than I thought. I have a long ride before me to-night, sweetheart. I have business near Newbury. I had meant to go home and change the bay mare for my faithful Seagull, but it is too late."
"When shall you be back?" asked Betty, who was used now to his sudden departures.
"To-morrow—to-morrow at latest, and my first halt shall be here."
"Are you armed?"
He gave a laugh, and pointed to his saddle, well garnished with pistols.
"They are loaded," he said. "For it might fall out that I should meet with Wild Jack."
"Heaven forbid!" said Betty with a shiver.
"You are cold, sweetheart, you must go in. We must part. Oh! it is bitter to say farewell."
"Only till to-morrow, John! Only till to-morrow!"
"Only till to-morrow!" he echoed.
Then he bent down, put his hand under her chin and raised her sweet face—the moon shone on it, on the large eyes lovingly turned to his, on the wondering tender look, in which joy and pain seemed strangely mingled.
Their lips met, one long wild kiss—for the first time she heard his passionate words, "My own, my beloved!" Then he drew up his reins. John gave one glance at the moon, and noted how she mounted heaven's arch—then he looked back no more, but set spurs to the bay mare's flanks, and galloped away.
Betty went home; she lay down to rest with a smile on her beautiful face. The happiest day must end when night falls.
CHAPTER VI
When evening fell the next day, Betty lingered long at the gate.
"He could not get his business done in time," she said to herself. "He will not come to-day."
But the next day passed also, and the next, and still John Johnstone had not come home.
On the fourth day Mr. Ives rode into Wancote to hear the news, and promised his daughter that he would go over to Belton, and find out from the servants whether they had had any news of their master, and when they expected him to return.
Mary Jones came over to the parsonage—it was an important day, for Betty was to try on her wedding-gown, finished the night before.
She looked very beautiful in it, the soft colour flushing on her cheek, her sweet eyes shining. When the little ceremony was over, Betty put her arm round the waist of her friend, and led her away out of earshot of busy Dame Martha, and the smart dressmakers.
"Dear Mary!" she said, "my great wish now is to see you don just such a dress as this wedding-gown of mine."
"Oh la! Betty, bethink you of my age," cried Mary, but tears of genuine emotion rose to her eyes.
"Yet would I fain see you my father's wife," said Betty. She put her hands on her shoulders, and looked down from her greater height into her face.
"Say yes, Mary, say yes," she said.
"I must wait till the right person asks me that question," answered Mary, half sobbing, half laughing; but Betty persisted:
"Say yes, Mary dear!"
"Well then yes, if so it must be," answered Mary. "You are a good girl, Betty," and she kissed her warmly, and hurried away to the glass to rearrange her elaborate curls of hair.
Mr. Ives came home full of excitement: he had heard great news in Wancote, the whole town was ringing with it.
"What do you think has happened?" he cried as he came into the room.
"Has John come home?" asked Betty eagerly.
"No, child, and the servants say that they never expect him until he appears, he is often away like this for a few days. The news is quite otherwise—Wild Jack has been taken."
"Ah!" cried the women in a breath, and Betty turned white as a sheet.
"What will they do with him!" asked Mary.
"He was taken on the king's highway, some twenty miles from here on the Newbury Road, on the cross roads where the steep way comes down from the downs. It seems that an important paper had fallen into the possession of some individual here, convicting many well-known gentlemen about Wancote of loyalty to him that is over the sea, and Sir Harry Clare was to carry the paper to Newbury to-night. I warrant some not very distant friends of ours were shaking in their shoes."
"They rode four together and all well-armed; but Wild Jack was too much for them—he and two others attacked the party; he seized the paper himself, after a short encounter with young Clare, whose horse he shot dead. That accomplished, all made off. The paper was lost. Some say Wild Jack burnt it as he rode, some that he swallowed it, some that he tore and scattered it to the four winds of heaven. Then, when in full flight, his horse stumbled and fell, and the four gentlemen came up with him. Entangled as he was by the fallen horse, he fought and kept all at bay with his marvellous fencing powers till his men were far out of sight. Then he broke his sword across his knee, saying that never should his trusty weapon fall into the hands of the king's enemies. He was badly wounded."
"Well?" cried Mary breathlessly. Betty sat down, she felt cold and faint.
"Well, they took him that night to the nearest village, bound hand and foot. At first they hardly knew the value of their captive, for he was not riding his famous horse Seagull; had he been mounted as usual, small chance would they have had of capturing Wild Jack. There was a hasty assembly of magistrates, such as could be induced to come. I warrant some would have died sooner than join in what followed. They caused a gallows to be erected forty feet high on the king's high road, and there they hanged Wild Jack."
"God rest his soul," said Betty. "John will be sorry indeed, as sorry as I am."
"Yes, John always has a certain sympathy with the gentlemen of the road," said Mr. Ives. "But after all, order must be kept, the roads must be made safe. I know the government will be sorely displeased that the list of suspected gentlemen has been saved, I mean lost."
It was too late, and all were too much excited by what had passed for Betty to broach the subject of marriage to her father that night, but she promised herself to do so early on the following morning.