Throughout that day everything went
on well for the conspirators: Spencer had
reconnoitred the ground thoroughly, as
he rode out with his friend in the morning;
had found his lieutenant with the
men, as he expected, at Barnsley; and had
given them his instructions so skilfully
that he felt well assured no suspicion
could in any case fall upon him as the perpetrator
of the meditated ontrage, until he
should himself choose to reveal his agency
in the matter.

Meanwhile, Sir Edward Hale had galloped
onward, without giving his mind
time to cool from the turmoil of fierce passion
which was still raging there, to Kings
ton castle, the seat of the Earl of Rochefort;
and there, too, everything had happened
to his liking, for shortly after his arrival a
furious thunder-storm arose, and lasted so
long that he was pressed, as he desired to
be, to stay for dinner, and no plea was
left him for refusing the kindly and ofturged
invitation.

Thus passed the day, unmarked by anything
of moment, and night came on untimely
for the season, and boisterons, and
unpleasant, and in all respects suited to
the purposes of the conspirators. Few
men were likely to be abroad on such a
night, if it were not on urgent business;
for it had been a dim grey misty evening
since the thunder-storm, with every now
and then a violent burst of cold and wintry
rain; the wind howled fearfully among the
tree-tops, and the chimneys of the manor,
and it was withal so dark and black, that
long before midnight a man could not
have seen his hand at a yard before his
face.

This storm had afforded Spencer a fair
excuse for dining at the little Inn at Barnsley;
while his men went off singly, or in
small parties so as to pass unnoticed, to
rendezvous at a well known and conspicuous
landmark, the Battle Pillar, as it was
called, a large block of grey granite, commemorative
of some event long since forgotten,
standing, by the wayside, on a
large waste common covered with fern and
bushes, and interspersed with pools and
pits full of water, where they were to be
joined by their officers in the course of the
night, and receive further orders.

Hale had, however, some difficulty in
escaping from the hospitalities of the castle,
in consequence of the unusual inclemency
of the night; and it was only by
alleging the presence of his guests at
home, as an insurmountable obstacle to his
remaining all night, that he was enabled
to avoid the well meant persecutions of
the old lord.

After that, he had another struggle to
undergo, before he could get away

[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]

without accepting the escort of a half a dozen of
the earl's blue coated serving men, whom
it would have very ill-suited him to take
along with him that night; but finally,
when it was nearly ten o'clock, he succeeded
in making good his retreat, and began
to ride rapidly towards the place appointed.

Eleven o'clock struck from many a village
steeple, and quarter elapsod after
quarter, and now it was almost on the
stroke of twelve, and all things were prepared
for action—a carriage, one of the
lightest of the ponderous vehicles of that
day, with four strong horses harnessed to
it, stood in a hollow way close to the postern
gate in the park wall, sheltered from
observation by the dense shadows of the
overhanging trees, ready to bear off Rose
to London so soon as she should be seized
by the ruffians appointed for that task under
the orders of Lord Henry St. Maur.
Meantime the gang of sailors, well armed,
with bludgeons, pistols, and cutlasses, lay
hid in the dark thickets by the side of the
Alresford road, with Captain Spencer and
his first lientenant; while guarded by
three men, in a low charcoal burner's
shed, long since deserted, on the skirts of
the forestland, and scarcely half a mile
distant, a light taxed cart, with two swift
horses attached to it, tandem-fashion, was
in waiting to bear the captured yeoman
to his floating prison.

The times had been calculated closely—
and all, so far, had gone successfully.
Frank Hunter was even now jogging
homeward, as the leaders of the pressgang
anticipated, with a full purse and
happy heart, from the distant market-town;
and now Lord Henry, with his ruffians,
was actually at his post by the lonely
farm, and consulting his repeater ere he
should give the word to plant the ladder
against the chamber window of the innocent
girl, who slept, all unsuspicious and
unconscions, the calm, soft sleep of
youthful happiness.

Sir Edward Hale, however, was ill at
ease and anxious; he was too young in
evil—he had too much of actual goodness
in his composition—was too unhardened
in the road of siu, not to feel many a
twinge of conscience, many a keen compunctious
visitation. He, too, was now
near the place of action—he had already
ridden many miles since leaving the
castle, where he had spent the day; and
his heart, fearfully agitated, began to turn
almost sick within him, as he was now
rapidly approaching the point on the
great London road whereat, an hour or
two later, he was to meet the carriage
bearing his destined mistress from her
terrified and grieving family.

He had, as I have said already, felt full
many a prick of conscience, full many a
touch of half repentant sorrow; but still,
whenever he made up his mind to turn
from the evil of the way in which he was
going, as he did many times that night,
dread—that false dread which so often
drives frail man to crime and sorrow—
dread, I mean, of the mockery and langhter
of his more hardened comrades, prevailed,
and hindered him from turning his
head homeward, and countermanding the
preparation of those base outrages.

Still, though he dared not halt in the
career of sin—though he felt that he could
not, even though he would, repent—he
was sad, moody, and reluctant; and he
rode onward slowly, guiding his horse
with an irresolute and feeble hand through
the blind darkness. He was now two or
three miles only distant from the station
at the cross-roads, which had been fixed
upon as the spot where he was to overtake
the carriage, and enact the part of
Rose's rescuer from St. Maur and his myrmidons.
He was just in the act of crossing
the bridle-road which led from the
market-town, when Hunter was returning,
past the wild forest-land skirting his
own park, wherein the press-gang was
patiently awaiting the appearance of the
young yeoman.

The London road, after it crossed the
narrow track in question, mounted the
brow of a short bold hill, and dived at
once into a deep and shadowy dingle, with
a large brook, which had been swollen by
that night's rain into a wild and foaming
torrent, threading the bottom of the dell.
The brook, which lay between the rocky
banks, was spanned at this place by a
rude wooden bridge, that had, for some
time past, been gradually falling into ruin;
and scarce two hours before the time at
which Sir Edward reached the spot, the
whole of the weak fabric had been swept
away by the swollen torrent.

At the cross road the youthful baronet
paused, even longer than before, and
doubted—yes, greatly doubted—whether
he should not alter, even now, his purpose;
but, as he did so, the distant clatter
of a hoof came down the horse-road from
the direction of Alresford—and, instantly
suspecting that the traveller could be no
other than Frank Hunter, he dashed his
spurs into his horse's side, and galloped
furiously across the hill, and down the
steep descent, towards the yawning chasm,

[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]

fearful of being seen, under these circumstances,
by the man on whom he was preparing
to inflict an injury so fearful.

Down the steep track he drove furiously—
headlong—spurring his noble hunter—
on! on! as if he were careering in full
flight—flight from that fearful fury, a self-tormenting
conscience; which; to borrow
the imagery of the Latin lyrist—“Climbs
to the deck of the brazen galley, and
mounts on the croupe of the flying horseman!”

On he came! on! Now he was at the
brink of the dread precipice! One other
bound would have precipitated horse and
man together into the dark abyss! But
the horse bounded not; he saw, almost
too late, the frightful space, and stood
with his feet rooted to the verge, stock
still, even as a sculptured image! stock
still from his furious gallop, even at the
chasm's brink!

Headlong was Edward Hale launched
by the shock into the flooded stream; and
well was it for him that the stream was so
wildly flooded; for had he fallen on the
rocks, which in ordinary weather lay bare
and black in the channel, he had been
dashed to atoms.

Deep! deep he sank into the whirling
eddies—but he rose instantly to the surface,
and struck out lightly for his life! for
he was both a bold and active swimmer.
At the same instant he shouted loudly—
wildly—so as no man can shout who is
not in such desperate extremity—again
and again for succor!

Just at this moment the moon came
out bright from the scattered clouds,
and showed him all the perils of his
state, but showed him no way to escape
them, so steeply did the rocks tower
above his head—so wildly did the torrent
whirl him upon its mad and foaming waters.

Again he shouted—and again—and once
he thought his shout was answered; fainter
he waxed and fainter; he sank—rose—
sank, and rose again; a deadlier and more
desperate struggle—a wilder yell for help,
and the water rushed into his mouth, and
a flash reeled across his eyes, and he was
floating helplessly—hopelessly down the
gulf, when a strong arm seized him, and
dragged him to the bank; for he had
drifted through the gorge, and the stream
flowed here through low and level meadows.
A little space he lay there senseless,
and then, by the kind and attentive
energies of his rescuer, he was
brought back to life—and his first glance,
as his soul returned to him, feil on the frank
face of the man who had preserved him!
That man was Frank Hunter! All Edward
Hale's best feelings rushed back in a
flood upon him—he started to his knee!

“I thank thee!” he cried fervently—
“with all my soul I thank thee, mighty,
Almighty Lord! that thou hast saved me—
not from this death alone, but from this
deadly sin!”

And, seeing Hunter's hand, he poured
into his half incredulous and all bewildered
ear the story—the confession—of his dark
meditated crime.

“But there is time—there is yet time,” he
cried, “the horses! where are the horses?”

“Here! here, Sir Edward,” cried the
stout yeoman; “I caught your hunter as I
came along, and tied him with my hackney
to a tree here at the hill foot.”

A moment, and they were both in the
saddle, furiously spurring towards a crossroad,
which led directly to the place
where we have seen the carriage, and
leaving the press-gang far behind them;
for Hunter had quitted his homeward
track on hearing Sir Edward's cry for help,
and so avoided that danger. A second
bridge, a little lower down the river, soon
gave them the means of crossing it and
regaining the high road; and they were
nearing the lane by which the carriage
must come up, at every stride of their
horses; and there was now no longer any
doubt but they were in good time. Just
as they were about to turn, however,
down the oft-mentioned lane, they were
arrested by the clang of several horses at
a gallop, coming down the great road from
London, so as to meet them, and by a
shout—

“Stand! stand! and tell us the road to
Arrington!”

Edward Hale answered in a moment,
for he knew the voice. “Good God!
Lord Arthur, is that you?”

“Hale! Heaven be praised,” cried the
new comer; “then I am in luck. But
what the deuce are you doing here? and
who is this with you?” Where are St.
Maur and Spencer?”

“I will tell you another time—I will tell
you another time, Arthur Asterly,” replied
Sir Edward; for it was Lady Fanny's brother—
an officer in the Life Guards—who,
at his sister's entreaty, had ridden down
post-haste. “Come with me, quick!
come with me and see me repair a great
intended wrong!”

“One minute—for I must tell you now
what I have ridden post from town to tell
you. I was just off guard at Windsor
when Fan sent for me, and I have not had
time to take off my uniform! You are the
dupe of a set of scoundrels! Spencer and

[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]

St. Maur have been urging you to a great
offence, for their own evil ends! and,
grieved I am to say it, with my mother's
cognisance. They thought themselves
very cunning with their anonymous letters
and base schemes to make Fan think you
a villain; but Fan and I detected them in
no time; and, I thank God! it has been
the meaus of bringing my poor father to his
senses; and he would have thrown up the
cursed marquisate, which was the price of
all this kuavery—but the king, for all the
evil they speak of him, has acted nobly—
nobly! I saw him myself, and told him
the whole story, and he wrote a manly and
generous letter, in his own hand, restoring
the pledge he had given to that seoundrel,
Davenant! and I have come down here,
post-haste, to save you—and I am time
eneugh to do so—am I not, dear Ned?”

“Sir Edward was saved ere you came,
my lord—if I may be so bold as to speak
to you, who are a great gentleman. His
own good heart and good feelings saved
him,” cried the bold yeoman, half crying
with the violence of his emotions.

“I am afraid not,” said Sir Edward, unwilling
to take any crecit he did not deserve;
“it was chance only, or rather Providence—
a blessed accident—and gratitude
to this good man for his timely service!
But for him, Arthur, I should be
dead now—dead in the perpetration of a
cowardly base crime!”

“Well, God be praised that you are
saved by any means,” cried Lord Arthur,
“but let us gallop on, if there is anything
to do!”

“Much, much! there is much to do,”
answered Hale; “follow, follow!”—and,
putting spurs to his horse, he dashed down
the lane towards the brick farm-house.

They reached it in time; reached it
just as Rose Castleton, fainting between
surprise and terror—for the girl's head and
not her heart had been led astray, and her
repentance had been real—was thrust into
the carriage by the hand of Henry St.
Maur.

“St. Maur!” cried Edward, springing
from his horse, as he arrived on the spot,
“St. Maur, you are a villain! You drove
me into this for your own evil ends; but
all your villanies are discovered—and you
may thank God, if you believe that there
is a God, that no more harm has come of it.”

And, lifting Rose respectfully out of the
carriage, he placed her in the arms of her
chosen bridegroom, saying, “Here, take
her, Hunter—take her! I give her to
you, and will give you her dowry to-morrow—
take her, God bless you, and be
happy!”

“Sir. Edward Hale, you shall answer
to me for this, by heaven!” cried St. Maur
fariously.

“When you will, my lord, when you
will!”

“Then now, now!” exclaimed St.
Maur, “I say now!”—and he unsheathed
his rapier ere the words were out of his
mouth. Sir Edward Hale followed his
example on the instant; and before any
one could interpose, their blades were
crossed. It was almost too dark for sword
play, but the lamps of the carriage were
lighted, and the inmates of the farm had
by this time run out, with several torches
and lanterus, so that the gleam of the
weapons could be distinguished in this
glimmering light.

The young baronet fought only on the
defensive, St. Maur thrusting at him with
insane and revengeful rashness, so that
Edward might have killed him two or
three times, had he been so minded. But,
at the fourth or fifth pass, the young lord's
foot slipped on the wet greeusward, and
he fell his full length, breaking his small
sword as he did so.

“Take your life. Take your life, my
lord, and mend it,” said Edward, putting
up his sword.

Sullenly the young nobleman arose, and
shook the hilt of his broken blade at the
victor.

“You will repent of this!” he said; and,
snatching the rein of one of the servants'
horses, which stood near, he sprang to its
back, and galloping off towards the hall
was quickly lost in the swart darkness.

But Edward Hale never did repent it.

A pause ensned of some moments after
his departure, which was at length broken
by Lord Arthur Asterly, who said, “Well,
we had better all go quietly home to our
beds now; and to-morrow we can talk
over these things at our leisure; that is to
say, if it be not the better plan to bury
them all in oblivion; for, by the blessing
of Providence, there has no harm befallen
any one, and I think the adventures of this
night are over. So send away the carriage,
Ned, and your people; and let us
two trot to the hall together, for I have a
good many private explanations for your
ear; and we will not hurry, for it is just as
well to let those scoundrels have time to
evacuate the premises. I do not think
they will have the impudence to wait for
our coming.”

But the adventures of the evening were
not over. For, unhappily, Spencer, having
grown weary of waiting with his men, left
them in charge of the lientenant, and came
galloping up to the entrance of the hall in

[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]

one direction, just as St. Maur arrived
there from another, bareheaded, his dress
covered with clay, and his seabbard empty
by his side.

“Ho! St. Maur,” said the captain, as he
saw him, “what does all this mean?
Whence do you come in this array?
Where is Sir Edward?”

“It means, sir,” replied St. Maur furiously,
for he was in the mood to wreak
his spite on any one who happened to be
near him, “that Arthur Asterly has come
down post from London, and all is discovered,
and we are a brace of fools and
villains!”

“Speak for yourself, pray, my good
lord! With regard to yourself I have no
doubt you are perfectly right—you must
know best,” said Spencer, in the most
eoolly irritating manner. “But I allow no
man to apply such words to me.”

“You will have to fight half the world,
then, captain,” answered St. Maur, seeing
the folly of quarrelling with his own confederate,
“for everything is blown—blown
to the four winds!”

“Then Hale has given up the wench?”

“Given her up! to be sure he has!
given her to the farmer fellow; and called
me a villain to my teeth! We fought, and
but that I fell and broke my sword, I
would have—”

“Done wonders, doubtless!” interrupted
Spencer. “But see here, if I understand
you aright, I win a cool thousand of you!
You bet me that Hale would have this
cursed wench, within a fortnight, for his
mastress. Now, as I mean to make myself
scarce, and to keep myself on board
my frigate until this blows over, you may
as well book up.”

“Why, Spencer,” exclaimed St. Maur,
“you forget—”

“Indeed, I forget nothing! did you not
make the bet?”

Just at this moment Harbottle, who
knew not a word of what had been passing,
disturbed by their loud voices, came
out upon the terrace, with several servants
bearing lights, and every word that followed
was heard by all of them.

“I did; but did we not understand that
it was to be drawn in case?—”

“Not I, my lord—not I, my lord; I never
play child's play. When I bet, I bet; and
wlien I win, I expect to be paid. Now
the question is, will you pay me?”

“No, sir, I will not, for you have not
won it. You are cheating me.”

“My lord!”

“Yes, sir, you are cheating me,” ex
claimed St. Maur fiercely. “You are cheating
me, or trying to do so! You are—”

“Quite enough said, my lord,” answered
Spencer, perfectly composed. “You heard
him, Harbottle; you heard what he said.
Now, my Lord Henry St. Maur, in my
mind the quicker these things are settled
the better. My pistols are in my holsters
loaded; yours are doubtless the same—if
not, take your choice of mine!”

It was in vain that Harbottle, that the
servants, would have interposed—both
were determined, obstinate, ynyielding!

Ten paces were stepped off upon the
terrace—the reluctant servants were compelled
to advance the torches—each took
a weapon in his hand, and to prevent
worse horror—for they swore that if balked
they would fight muzzle to the breast, and
give the word themselves—Harbottle gave
the signal.

The pistols flashed at once—but one
report was heard—and ere that reached
the ears of the spectators, St. Maur
sprang up a yard into the air, and fell to
the ground dead, with the bullet in his
brain!

At this moment the approaching sounds
of Sir Edward and his friend were heard,
quickened by the pistol shots. Spencer's
keen ear first canght them; and, as he
sprang to his horse, he took a sealed
package, undirected, out of the bosom of
his coat, and threw it to Harbottle, exclaiming,
“Give that to Edward Hale—it
is his—and say I am sorry for what has
passed; for to him, at least, I owe no ill
will.”

It was the order to arrest Frank Hunter,
under Sir Edward's hand and seal; but before
Harbottle had raised it from the
ground, the homicide was out of sight,
and the young baronet came upon the
ground with Lord Arthur Asterly.

The fall of the guilty and unhappy St.
Maur was the catastrophe of this romance—
for a romance it was of domestic
life!—and like all other romances, it ended
in a marriage!

From that day forth Sir Edward Hale
was a better and a wiser man!—from that
day forth sin had no more any permanent
dominion over him! No obstacle now
opposed his union, in due season, with
charming Fanny Asterly—and with his
sweet wife and a fair and noble family—
for God smiled upon his marriage—he
lived long and happily among his happy
tenants; and when he died the country
people mourned him, as “the good Lord
of the Manor!”