Young Little was reassured. "Come," said he, "I feel I can trust you both. And, sir, Miss Carden will tell you what happened to me in Cheetham's works; and then you will understand what I risk upon your honor."
"I accept the responsibility; and I thank you for giving me this opportunity to show you how deeply I feel indebted to you."
"That is square enough. Well, now my mind is at ease about that, I'll tell you what I'll do; I won't take you quite to Raby Hall; but I'll take you so near to it, you can't miss it; and then I'll go back to my work."
He sighed deeply at the lonely prospect, and Grace heard him.
"Come," said he, almost violently, and led the way out of church.
But he stayed behind to lock the door, and then joined them.
They all three went together, Grace in the middle.
There was now but little snow falling, and the air was not so thick; but it was most laborious walking, and soon Mr. Coventry, who was stiff and in pain, fell a little behind, and groaned as he hobbled on.
Grace whispered to Henry: "Be generous. He has hurt himself so."
This made Henry groan in return. But he said nothing. He just turned back to Coventry--"You can't get on without help, sir; lean on me."
The act was friendly, the tone surly. Coventry accepted the act, and noted the tone in his memory.
When Grace had done this, she saw Henry misunderstood it, and she was sorry, and waited an opportunity to restore the balance; but, ere one came, a bell was heard in the air; the great alarm-bell of Raby Hall.
Then faint voices were heard of people calling to each other here and there in the distance.
"What is it?" asked Grace.
Henry replied, "What should it be? The whole country is out after you. Mr Raby has sense enough for that."
"Oh, I hope they will not see the light in the church, and find you out."
"You are very good to think of that. Ah! There's a bonfire: and here comes a torch. I must go and quench my fires. Good-by, Miss Carden. Good-evening, sir."
With this, he retired: but, as he went, he sighed.
Grace said to Coventry, "Oh, I forgot to ask him a question;" and ran after him. "Mr. Little!"
He heard and came back to her.
She was violently agitated. "I can't leave you so," she said.
"Give me your hand."
He gave it to her.
"I mortified you; and you have saved me." She took his hand, and, holding it gently in both her little palms, sobbed out,--"Oh, think of something I can do, to show my gratitude, my esteem. Pray, pray, pray."
"Wait two years for me."
"Oh, not that. I don't mean that."
"That or nothing. In two years, I'll be as good a gentleman as HE is. I'm not risking my life in that church, for nothing. If you have one grain of pity or esteem for me, wait two years."
"Incurable!" she murmured: but he was gone.
Coventry heard the prayer. That was loud and earnest enough. Her reply he could not bear.
She rejoined him, and the torch came rapidly forward.
It was carried by a lass, with her gown pinned nearly to her knees, and displaying grand and powerful limbs; she was crying, like the tenderest woman, and striding through the snow, like a young giant.
When the snow first came down, Mr. Raby merely ordered large fires to be lighted and fed in his guests' bedrooms; he feared nothing worse for them than a good wetting.
When dinner-time came, without them, he began to be anxious, and sent a servant to the little public-house, to inquire if they were there.
The servant had to walk through the snow, and had been gone about an hour, and Mr. Raby was walking nervously up and down the hall, when Jael Dence burst in at the front door, as white as a sheet, and gasped out in his face: "THE GABRIEL HOUNDS!!"
Raby ran out directly, and sure enough, that strange pack were passing in full cry over the very house. It was appalling. He was dumb with awe for a moment. Then he darted into the kitchen and ordered them to ring the great alarm-bell incessantly; then into the yard, and sent messengers to the village, and to all his tenants, and in about an hour there were fifty torches, and as many sheep-bells, directed upon Cairnhope hill; and, as men and boys came in from every quarter, to know why Raby's great alarm-bell was ringing, they were armed with torches and sent up Cairnhope.
At last the servant returned from "The Colley Dog," with the alarming tidings that Miss Carden and Mr. Coventry had gone up the hill, and never returned. This, however, was hardly news. The Gabriel hounds always ran before calamity.
At about eleven o'clock, there being still no news of them, Jael Dence came to Mr. Raby wringing her hands. "Why do all the men go east for them?"
"Because they are on the east side."
"How can ye tell that? They have lost their way."
"I am afraid so," groaned Raby.
"Then why do you send all the men as if they hadn't lost their way?
East side of Cairnhope! why that is where they ought to be, but it is not where they are, man."
"You are a good girl, and I'm a fool," cried Raby. "Whoever comes in after this, I'll send them up by the old church."
"Give me a torch, and I'll run myself."
"Ay, do, and I'll put on my boots, and after you."
Then Jael got a torch, and kilted her gown to her knees, and went striding through the snow with desperate vigor, crying as she went, for her fear was great and her hope was small, from the moment she heard the Gabriel hounds."
Owing to the torch, Grace saw her first, and uttered a little scream; a loud scream of rapture replied: the torch went anywhere, and gentle and simple were locked in each other's arms, Jael sobbing for very joy after terror, and Grace for sympathy, and also because she wanted to cry, on more accounts than one.
Another torch came on, and Jael cried triumphantly, "This way, Squire. She is here!" and kissed her violently again.
Mr. Raby came up, and took her in his arms, without a word, being broken with emotion: and, after he had shaken Coventry by both hands, they all turned homeward, and went so fast that Coventry gave in with a groan.
