Tales from Many Sources

A series of accidents had overtaken the Newbury mail from the hour that it started in the fine dewy morning, till the sun went down; and as the twilight deepened over the landscape it was still many miles from its destination.

The troubles began early in the day. One of the leaders cast a shoe, and had to be shod at the first village through which they passed. Farther on something went wrong with the harness, and later still a much more serious impediment to their progress arose-some accident happened to a wheel, so that the coach must needs go half-pace, in spite of the oaths of old Joe, the driver, whose boast it was that he had never reached Wancote later than midnight.

But this evening old Joe's boasts were doomed to fall to the ground, for the coach could only crawl along, and the night was closing in fast.

The guard was engaged in a somewhat mysterious occupation, an occupation which, though only partially visible from the interior of the coach, caused a faint shriek to issue therefrom.

"What is he doing? What is it?" cried a woman's voice.

"Nothing, madam; be easy, I entreat," was the answer from within. "There is nothing to alarm, but rather to reassure, in his actions-he prepares his pistols and looks to their priming. Zounds! one must be ready for all contingencies with ten miles of unfrequented road ahead of us."

The mail continued on its way, becoming slower and slower, as an ominous creaking of the injured wheel gave token that the pace must be reduced to a walk.

The curtain before the window was held back, and a gentleman from within addressed the guard.

"Will the wheel hold out, think you?" he said.

"It is impossible to assure your reverence that it will, and the night will be dark."

The gentleman drew in his head with a little "Tut-tut" of consternation.

There were four occupants of the coach-two ladies and two gentlemen. Of the ladies one was young, perhaps nineteen, and one close upon forty. The younger was the parson's daughter Elizabeth, otherwise Betty Ives. Her father, Mr. Ives, was bringing her home from Newbury, where she had spent the last six months with her aunt, Mrs. Primrose, seeing something of the gay world in the county town.

The father and daughter, who sat opposite to each other, bore a strong resemblance to each other. In the girl's face the dark brows were more arched, the large blue eyes more tender, the firm mouth more sweet, and all tinted with the lilies and roses of a fresh country life, so beautifully blended on the peach-like cheeks that, even without her rare perfection of feature, the colouring alone would have made Betty beautiful.

Parson Ives had been very handsome in his youth, and though worn by years (he was forty years older than his child), and by the grief of bereavement, he was yet famous for his good looks.

Betty wore a short dark green riding-habit and a broad felt hat. She was as much at home on horseback as on foot, and seldom in the mornings wore a less business-like costume.

The other two occupants of the coach were to ordinary eyes less interesting. Mistress Mary Jones was a faded woman, who had once been pretty, a spinster, a great friend of Betty's, and one of her father's parishioners. She was an excellent woman in her way, albeit somewhat given to terrors both real and fanciful.

Her opposite neighbor was a man past the prime of life, owner and breeder of large herds of cattle near Wancote, a man who, after attending the Newbury markets, often returned home by this very coach, and was believed to carry large sums of money in the flap-pockets of his many-caped riding-coat.

Mr. Barnes had a fixed mask-like countenance, his bushy eyebrows almost met in a wrinkle that told of thought and deep calculation. He was clean-shaven, and his chin was swathed in a huge neckcloth of white muslin; he wore his hat low on his brow.

"I like not to be out so late on the high road," said he very suddenly, so that both Mr. Ives and Mistress Mary Jones started, and Betty, whom nothing ever startled, turned her great blue eyes inquiringly on him.

"Why, sir?" she asked.

"Why, my good young lady, because the Newbury sales are just over, and it is well known that the stock reared on Belford home farm has sold well"

"Are the roads not safe then, sir?" asked Mr. Ives rather anxiously.

"I do not quite say that, for it is many a long day since the coach was attacked between Newbury and Wancote; but rumour has been busy."

"Ha!" cried Betty, sitting upright eagerly.

"It is said that Wild Jack Barnstaple has been heard of in the neighbourhood."

"Heaven help us!" shrieked Mary Jones.

"Be calm, I entreat you, my dear madam, and have pity on my unfortunate toes! Zounds! it is torture enough to be subject to periodical gout, without such an infliction as the stamp of a lady's fashionable heel on the tender place."

"But you say Wild Jack is in the neighbourhood! Oh Heaven! what will become of us!"

Betty's blooming cheek had turned just a faint shade paler, but the rosy colour came rushing back, her eyes flashed.

Suddenly stooping forward she said in a low voice:

"Mr. Barnes, you may confide in me. Do you carry much money?"

He answered in a tone of assumed ease, "Paper to the value of nearly a thousand pounds."

"Then look you, Mr. Barnes," said Betty in her natural voice, "I have a proposal to make to you. Give the valuables you have to us-to Miss Mary Jones and to myself. Wild Jack, all say, is a gentleman-should he, by any unfortunate chance, be on the road to-night, he will not rob women. Your money will be safe."

"No, no, no, no!" cried Mary. "Betty, how can you propose anything so impossible, so unfeminine! Are not men our natural protectors?" and she threw a languishing glance at the cattle-breeder. "Shall we usurp their rights?"

"It is quite true; it is impossible," said Barnes.

"You are foolish to throw away the chance," said Betty calmly.

"I cannot see why you should not accept her offer," said the parson restlessly; he was accustomed to yield to his daughter's judgment in everything. "Betty is a bold girl, and she is generally in the right."

"Come, yield the point, Mr. Barnes," said Betty, with a light laugh, holding out her hand for the pocket-book.

"Remember I have no part or parcel in it," cried Mary, shrinking farther and farther away. "I would not for the whole world! Why, Betty," she whimpered, "they might even search you."

"Wild Jack is a gentleman," answered the girl; then with a sudden flash of scorn, "but even had I not such faith in his honourable dealing, I should know how to take care of myself. Give me the papers, Mr. Barnes."

Very unwillingly, as if he despised himself for so doing, Barnes gave them into her hands. The notes were smoothed and laid flat, they occupied the smallest space possible.

Betty Ives placed the papers within the bosom of her tight-fitting riding-habit, and leant back as if she had done with the subject.

Mr. Ives looked with anxious eyes through the window.

The mail was passing along a wide fair unsheltered road, on each side spread away treeless tracts of country, flat and wide, over which the fresh cold wind blew listlessly. To the left the horizon was bounded by the wide expanse of the grassy Berkshire downs. They rose and fell, a vast undulating plain, covered with short fine herbage.

It was growing very dark; the parson drew in his head, and thanked Heaven that the country was so fine and open, that he could even in the gathering gloom see far behind and before, and could perceive no suspicious object.

"We are all right here," said Mr. Barnes, his voice becoming more and more dismal. "But a mile farther on, and we come to a small wood-the road dips down there suddenly, it is a first-rate place for an ambush."

"Mercy! mercy!" cried Mary Jones in a voice half-strangled by the anguish of her terror.

"We have yet a mile of safety," said Betty kindly "-a whole mile, Mary; and going at this pace, we need not prepare our terrors for another hour."

"Heaven grant that the moon may be up," cried Barnes.

"Sir," said Betty slowly, "I imagine that you carry arms?"

"I am not unarmed," he answered hastily, "I have pistols and a sword."

"I should have them in readiness, as I myself intend to do," said Betty, and she drew out a tiny silver-mounted pistol. "See, it is prepared for use. My father is a clergyman and must eschew firearms; Mary Jones is a woman-"

"Aye, a true woman, a frail woman," whined the poor lady.

"But," continued Betty, "the guard is armed, so are we; we have still a mile to go. Ha!" her voice ended abruptly. There was a crashing sound, a shot, a shout, a confused sense as if the whole coach were falling to the ground. The door was torn open. Before Betty could even raise the deadly little weapon she carried, it was seized from her hand-the whole party were dragged out of the carriage-they found themselves surrounded by armed men. There was a violent struggle, fighting and disorder, loud oaths from the coachman, appalling shrieks from Mary Jones. Some one opened a lantern and allowed its red glare to fall on the scared prisoners and on the black masks of their captors.

The man who was evidently the leader of the party was holding Betty's two hands in one of his in a grasp which she imagined to be gentle until she attempted to release them, when she discovered that she might as easily have broken bands of steel.

"Here, give me a rope, we must bind our prisoners," said this man suddenly. "This fair lady had all but fired one shot too many for Wild Jack to-night!"

There was a laugh, and with dexterity, evidently gained from experience, the prisoners were rapidly bound.

"I am grieved to incommode you thus, madam," said the leader, bowing low to Betty. "Our business is with that gentleman," with a slight motion of his hand towards the hapless Mr. Barnes. Betty bowed slightly. The light fell full on her tall figure, on her noble head slightly raised and thrown back, the nostrils dilated, the colour glowing richly in the soft cheek. Wild Jack, looking at her, felt a glow of enthusiasm which betrayed itself in his voice.

"You have nothing to fear, madam," he said.

"I? I fear nothing," said the girl calmly-"Wild Jack is a gentleman."

The highwayman made a rapid sign to his comrades, who proceeded to throw themselves on to Samuel Barnes, and begin to search him from head to foot.

A sudden fear flashed into Betty's mind. How if Wild Jack were unable to restrain his companions, infuriated as they would be by their failure in discovering the expected treasure on the person of their victim?

Her cheeks paled, for one moment she turned her eyes full on the masked face of her captor. Masked as he was, her look thrilled him through and through.

"You are safe," he repeated hurriedly.

Something in his voice seemed to give her confidence, for she stooped forward and said in a low voice, "Mr. Barnstaple, I trust to your honour,-the money is here."

And with a grand movement she laid her bound hands on her breast.

Wild Jack bowed low, but he said nothing, and in spite of the bold front she bore, Betty's heart beat fast.

The noise increased. Samuel Barnes, maddened with fright, struggled against his assailants furiously, but he was overmatched, a violent blow with the butt end of a pistol stunned him completely, and all resistance was over. Undaunted by their want of success the coach was then rifled, the mails ruthlessly thrown out into the road.

One or two of the men, of whom there appeared to be five at least, now proposed to search the women.

There was a moment's pause, during which Wild Jack tightened his grasp on Betty's arm. Had she shown one symptom of fear, it is possible that his fierce profession would have triumphed over the infatuation of her beauty, but the look she turned upon him was so full of confidence, such absolute trust in his honour, that it prevailed.

He swore that he made no war upon women, and ordered back his disappointed followers, allowing them to divide the trumpery booty they had secured, of watches, trinkets, and the parson's purse, which was not empty.

They stood back. Wild Jack spoke to them in a low tone, looking, as he did so, several times up at the sky as if to see how the time went; then advancing he opened the door of the coach, and unbinding the hands of the two ladies, offered to hand them in.

Betty demurred. "We have duties here first," she said, pointing to the inanimate form of poor Samuel Barnes.

"It is well then," said Wild Jack, just touching the prostrate man with the toe of his boot. "We will leave you now, with many apologies, madam, for our intrusion."

The others were already in the saddle and almost out of sight.

Wild Jack, who was about to mount, withdrew his foot from the stirrup and approached Betty once more.

"Go, go!" she said. "This poor man bleeds; ah, why do you not go?"

"I am gone," he answered. "But first, fair lady, in consideration of the booty I have resigned I demand a reward."

"What can I give you?"

He pointed to her hand, on one finger of which was a small gold ring in the form of a serpent with tiny ruby eyes.

"Give me that," he said somewhat imperiously.

"You are welcome," she said haughtily, and she drew the ring from her finger. "I would give a trinket of more value," she cried, stamping her little foot, "to be freed from your company now!"

The words stung him.

"You will remember those words, madam," he said, "some day-when this ring returns to your keeping."

He shut the lantern, which during all this time had thrown its yellow light on the strange scene, mounted his horse and disappeared. The horse was snow white, and it passed by like a white gleam in the darkness.

It was pitch dark now, and the horror of their situation was increased by the moans which Mr. Barnes began to utter as consciousness slowly returned.

It was a relief to all when the familiar sound of flint and steel smote the ear, and the coachman awkwardly, with his bound hands, attempted to light the lamps of the coach. Betty's first business was to unfasten the ropes which bound the men hand and foot, and by degrees they were able to take in their exact position.

One of the leaders had been shot dead, the traces had been cut, but the frightened horses had not strayed out of reach.

Mary Jones was in a dead faint, and, in the absence of all restoratives, seemed likely to remain so.

Mr. Barnes, his head carefully bound up by Betty and her father, was at last able to rise to his feet and take his place in the carriage.

The dawn was already breaking, and a white light stealing over the murky sky, before the mail could once more get under weigh and move heavily forwards.

Far and wide the downs stretched, silent and deserted; a bitter wind swept over them and stirred the mane of the dead horse, who lay a ghastly spectacle, his head thrown back, in a pool of his own blood. From afar, from whence nor eye nor tongue could tell, came a foul raven croaking.

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