CHAPTER XLV.
Revenge, at first though sweet,
Bitter ere long back on itself recoils.
But mercy, first and last, shall brightest shine.
—Milton.
Zachary was the only member of the household who slept that night. Hilary and Mrs. Durdle were too busy preparing what would be needed for the journey; the Vicar, full of anxiety, looked at his watch every quarter of an hour, and failed to find comfort even in ammonites or elephants’ teeth, while Gabriel, in the tower room, lay listening to the soft hooting of the white owl, and the unearthly stamping and knocking made down below by Harkaway. At the first glimmer of light he hastily put on the plum-coloured costume which had been laid by at Hereford since the early days of the war, and brought over by Dr. Coke for his journey. Then he filled his saddle-bags, and with a last look round the place which had made him so secure a refuge, stole down the ladder to feed and fondle his horse and saddle it in readiness for the journey. Zachary, with his head on the pillion, snored serenely, and Gabriel let him remain in peace till the first sparrow began to chirp, then cruelly roused him, unable to endure another minute’s delay.
“Lord! Lord! I’d but just closed my eyes,” groaned the old man. “You can’t be married in the dark, sir.”
“’Tis morning, Zachary. Come, fix on the pillion; we shall have the Vicar here in a minute.”
Yawning and stretching, the sexton struggled to his feet, and by the time the pillion had been strapped on, steps were indeed heard without, and on opening the door Gabriel was greeted by Mrs. Durdle in the choicest of white neckerchiefs, and her best Lincoln green hood.
“Good day to you and good luck to you, sir,” she said. “Vicar and Mistress Hilary be crossing the churchyard.”