in the face. Eve could hardly withdraw her wondering eyes from him. Such a face she had never seen, never even dreamed of as possible. Here was a type of masculine beauty that transcended all her imaginings. She had met very few young men, and those she did meet were somewhat uncouth, addicted to the stable and the kennel, and redolent of both, more at home following the hounds or shooting than associating with ladies. There was so much of innocent admiration in the gaze of simple Eve that Martin was flattered, and smiled.
‘Beauty!’ he said, ‘who would have dreamed to have stumbled on the likes of you on the moor? Nay, rather let me bless my stars that I have been vouchsafed the privilege of meeting and speaking with a real fairy. It is said that you must never encounter a fairy without taking of her a reminiscence, to be a charm through life.’
Suddenly he put his hand to her throat. She had a delicate blue riband about it, disclosed when she cast aside her kerchief. He put his finger between the riband and her throat, and pulled.
‘You are strangling me!’ exclaimed Eve, shrinking away, alarmed at his boldness.
‘I care not,’ he replied, ‘this I will have.’
He wrenched at and broke the riband, and then drew it from her neck. As he did so a gold ring fell on the floor. He stooped, picked it up, and put it on his little finger.
‘Look,’ said he with a laugh, ‘my hand is so small, my fingers so slim – I can wear this ring.’
‘Give it me back! Let me have it! You must not take it!’ Eve was greatly agitated and alarmed. ‘I may not part with it. It was my mother’s.’
Then, with the same daring insolence with which he had taken the ring, he caught the girl to him, and kissed her.
CHAPTER V.
THE LIMPING HORSE
Eve drew herself away with a cry of anger and alarm, and with sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks. At that moment her sister returned with Jane, and immediately Martin reassumed his hat with broad brim. Barbara did not notice the excitement of Eve; she had not observed the incident, because she entered a moment too late to do so, and no suspicion that the stranger would presume to take such a liberty crossed her mind.
Eve stood back behind the door, with hands on her bosom to control its furious beating, and with head depressed to conceal the heightened colour.
Barbara and the maid stooped over the unconscious man, and whilst Martin held a light, they dressed and bandaged his head.
Presently his eyes opened, a flicker of intelligence passed through them, they rested on Martin; a smile for a moment kindled the face, and the lips moved.
‘He wants to speak to you,’ said Barbara, noticing the direction of the eyes, and the expression that came into them.
‘What do you want, Jasper?’ asked Martin, putting his hand on that of the other.
The candlelight fell on the two hands, and Barbara noticed the contrast. That of Martin was delicate as the hand of a woman, narrow, with taper fingers, and white; that of Jasper was strong, darkened by exposure.
‘Will you be so good as to undress him,’ said Barbara, ‘and put him to bed? My sister will assist me in the kitchen. Jane, if you desire help, is at your service.’
‘Yes, go,’ said Martin, ‘but return speedily, as I cannot stay many minutes.’
Then the girls left the room.
‘I do not want you,’ he said roughly to the serving woman. ‘Take yourself off; when I need you I will call. No prying at the door.’ He went after her, thrust Jane forth and shut the door behind her. Then he returned to Jasper, removed his clothes, somewhat ungently, with hasty hands. When his waistcoat was off, Martin felt in the inner breast-pocket, and drew from it a pocket-book. He opened it, and transferred the contents to his own purse, then replaced the book and proceeded with the undressing.
When Jasper was divested of his clothes, and laid at his ease in the bed, his head propped on pillows, Martin went to the door and called the girls. He was greatly agitated, Barbara observed it. His lower lip trembled. Eve hung back in the kitchen, she could not return.
Martin said in eager tones, ‘I have done for him all I can, now I am in haste to be off.’
‘But,’ remonstrated Barbara, ‘he is your brother.’
‘My brother!’ laughed Martin. ‘He is no relation of mine. He is naught to me and I am naught to him.’
‘You called him your brother.’
‘That was tantamount to comrade. All sons of Adam are brothers, at least in misfortune. I do not even know the fellow’s name.’
‘Why,’ said Barbara, ‘this is very strange. You call him Jasper, and he named you Martin.’
‘Ah!’ said the man hesitatingly, ‘we are chance travellers, riding along the same road. He asked my name and I gave it him – my surname. I am a Mr. Martin – he mistook me; and in exchange he gave me his Christian name. That is how I knew it. If anyone asks about this event, you can say that Mr. Martin passed this way and halted awhile at your house, on his road to Tavistock.
‘You are going to Tavistock?’
‘Yes, that is my destination.’
‘In that case I will not seek to detain you. Call up Doctor Crooke and send him here.’
‘I will do so. You furnish me with an additional motive for haste to depart.’
‘Go,’ said Barbara. ‘God grant the poor man may not die.’
‘Die! pshaw! die!’ exclaimed Martin. ‘Men aren’t such brittle ware as that pretty sister of yours. A fall from a horse don’t kill a man. If it did, fox-hunting would not be such a popular sport. To-morrow, or the day after, Mr. Jasper What’s-his-name will be on his feet again. Hush! What do I hear?’
His cheek turned pale, but Barbara did not see it; he kept his face studiously away from the light.
‘Your horse which you hitched up outside neighed, that is all.’
‘That is a great deal. It would not neigh at nothing.’
He went out. Barbara told the maid to stay by the sick man, and went after Martin. She thought that in all probability the boy had arrived driving the gig.
Martin stood irresolute in the doorway. The horse that had borne the injured man had been brought into the courtyard, and hitched up at the hall door. Martin looked across the quadrangle. The moon was shining into it. A yellow glimmer came from the sick porter’s window over the great gate. The large gate was arched, a laden waggon might pass under it. It was unprovided with doors. Through it the moonlight could be seen on the paved ground in front of the old lodge.
A sound of horse-hoofs was audible approaching slowly, uncertainly, on the stony ground; but no wheels.
‘What can the boy have done with our gig?’ asked Barbara.
‘Will you be quiet?’ exclaimed Martin angrily.
‘I protest – you are trembling,’ she said.
‘May
