"Not at all. My chamber is light as day, with the moon so near the full."
Mr. Lynn went up to his room. The chessboard and men were kept on a table near the window. As he took them from it he glanced out at the pleasant scene. His window, at the back, faced the charming landscape, and the Malvern Hills in the horizon shone out almost as distinctly as by day. Not, however, on the landscape were Samuel Lynn's eyes fixed; they had caught something nearer, which drew his attention.
Pacing the field-path which ran behind his low garden hedge was a male figure in a cloak. To see a man, whether with a cloak or without it, abroad on a moonlight night, would not have been extraordinary; but Samuel Lynn's notice was drawn by this one's movements. Beyond the immediate space occupied by the house, the field-path was hidden: on one side, by the high hedge intervening between his garden and Mrs. Halliburton's; on the other, by a wall. The figure—whoever it might be—would come to one of these corners, stealthily peep at Samuel Lynn's house and windows, and then continue his way past it, until he reached the other corner, where he would halt and peep again, partially hiding himself behind the hedge. That he was waiting for something or some one was apparent, for he stamped his feet occasionally in an impatient manner.
"What can it be that he does there?" cried the Quaker, half aloud: "this is the second time I have seen him. He cannot be taking a sketch of my house by moonlight! Were it any other than thee, William Halliburton, I should say it wore a clandestine look."
He returned to the parlour, and took his revenge on his friend by checkmating him three times in succession. At nine o'clock supper came in, and at ten Mr. Stanley, accompanied by Samuel Lynn, left, to walk leisurely into Helstonleigh and await the Bristol mail. As they turned out of the house they saw William Halliburton going in at his own door.
"It is a cold night," William remarked to Mr. Lynn.
"Very. Good night to thee."
You cannot see what he is like by this light, especially in that disguising cloak, and the cap with its protecting ears. But you can see him the following morning, as he stands in Mr. Ashley's counting-house.
A well-grown, upright, noble form, a head taller than Samuel Lynn, by whose side he is standing, with a peculiarly attractive face. Not for its beauty—the face cannot boast of very much—but for its broad brow of intellect, its firm, sweet mouth, and its truthful dark-grey eyes. None could mistake William Halliburton for anything but a gentleman, although they had seen him, as now, with a white apron tied round his waist. William was making up gloves: a term, as you may remember, which means sorting them according to their qualities—work that was sometimes done in Mr. Ashley's room, on account of its steady light, for it bore a north aspect. A table, or counter, was fixed down one side, under its windows. Mr. Lynn stood by his side, looking on.
"Thee can do it tolerably well, William," he observed, after some minutes' close inspection.