The landlord, whose face had lengthened at the first words, now resumed his serenity, and he amiably gathered in the silver that Everell had laid on the table. This seemed to warm him into solicitude for the departing guest’s convenience, and he expressed the hope that the wagoner was at the door to carry the bag.
“Nay, he wouldn’t turn back,” said Everell; “nor could he leave his horses. But ’tis not far to the bridge.” And he took up the bag to bear it himself.
“Nay, then, your pardon, sir, I’ll carry it,” interposed the landlord.
“My good man, I wouldn’t think of taking you from your house and customers.”
“’Tis not far, as you say, sir, and my daughter—”
But Everell had gone, and the obliging old fellow was left to scratch his head and wonder. The more he wondered, the more reason there seemed for doing so. He had not heard anything like a carrier’s wagon pass, as it must have done if it was now at the bridge and bound for Burndale. It was strange enough that a carrier’s wagon should travel that road at such an hour, and stranger still that it should do so without its custodian stopping for a cup of good cheer. And the gentleman’s unwillingness to have his baggage carried!
The ale-house keeper was not so old as to have outlived curiosity. He slipped out, crossed the green, and stood in the middle of the road, peering through the starlit night. Yes, there was the figure of the gentleman, truly enough, swiftly retreating down the village street that led to the bridge. The landlord slunk after him, keeping close to the walls and hedges, and stepping silently. He was soon sufficiently near the bridge to perceive that no conveyance waited there. The assurance of this acted so upon his mind as to make him stop and consider whether it was safe to go further. As he stood gaping, the form of the strange gentleman suddenly vanished. The old man stared for another moment: then, assailed with a feeling that here was mystery nothing short of devil’s work, he turned and fled in a panic to his ale-house.
Everell, who had not once looked back, had passed from the old man’s view by turning from the road to rejoin the waiting poacher. Without a word, Tarby arose, relieved Everell of the cloak-bag, and led the way over the route by which they had come from the park. The palings were again removed and replaced, the stream was again crossed by means of the bars. The two entered the blackness of the glen, Tarby repossessing himself of his fowling-piece. By the time they had ascended to the general level of the park, the moon had risen, and, as they proceeded in a Northwesterly direction, the more open spaces, whether clothed in green sward or in bracken of autumnal brown, wore a beauty which Everell associated in his mind with the young lady not far away, and thus the silent woods and glades seemed to him a forest of enchantment.