it was dark long before tony and i were marched up the drive to the hall. the great house stood out a grey mass against the starry sky; the windows fronting us were golden with light; and light flowed from the open door and down the steps. i heard loud laughter; the squire had company, as he might any night of the week. he favoured fox-hunting gentlemen of a like pattern to himself, seasoned to drink under the table any gentleman of fashion and tory out of session who should quit the town for the hospitality of chelton. hearing the voices and the laughter, and seeing the blaze of light from the dining-room, i had little fear of the temper of mr. chelton, before whom tony and i were presently to be haled. none the less, for the thought that the squire might think fit to parade us before his company to provide sport for them, i would have begged tim kerrick to deal with us summarily; i would have endured the ash-plant about me for all my seventeen years of age but that the sudden interest of mr. bradbury p. 16had excited my natural curiosity. i pictured mr. bradbury standing by us, chuckling to himself, and his piercing look, while the lantern light was playing across my face; and i recalled his queer, sharp tone when he ordered me to be brought on to the hall. what should the gentleman want with me? squire’s family lawyer, tim told me, gruffly, in answer to my eager question. how we should fare with mr. chelton was of less concern.
i knew mr. chelton for a good-humoured gentleman. i did not fear that, though tony and i had been found poaching on his preserves, the squire would do worse than bid tim kerrick dress us down with his ash-plant. i did not dread committal, the assizes and the terror of their lordships, the judges. indeed, i believed that unseen i had dropped the hare out of sight in the furze; and i took it that tony had long since rid himself of the rabbit from his pocket. only when we were before the house did i find the chance of a word with tony. tim, loosing his grip then, and staring up doubtfully at the door, as if not knowing whether or not to conduct us before the squire and mr. bradbury immediately, i poked my head forward and whispered to tony, “did you get rid of that rabbit?”
he whispered back, “no! it’s stuck in my p. 17pocket;” but he could add nothing, for tim gripped me instantly, and shook me, with the observation: “no talkin’! if it’s the rabbit you’re thinkin’ of, it’s in his pocket yet, for i’ve felt it there. and i saw you drop the bag with, belike, another inside. so don’t go thinkin’ yourself clever, john howe! it’s gaol, or transportation, or at the very least a basting you’ve never felt the like of, and’ll never want to feel again. squire’s at dinner. you’ll wait till squire’s dined and wined, you will.”
with this cheerful augury tim kerrick propelled me before him, and the keeper following with tony, we were marched about the house to the stables and into the harness-room. “you’ll be safe and snug here,” tim said, ere he turned the key upon us, “squire’ll deal with you, but not for a good two hours or more. so you can just think it all over in the dark.”
slamming the door tim locked us in, and stumped away. his assertion that mr. chelton would not deal with us, till he had dined, gave me instant concern for my mother’s anxiety at my failure to return for supper. i pictured her dolefully—with my meal set all ready for me; sitting listening for my steps, peering up at the clock, and running out to the gate and waiting there, but seeing still no sign of me. and p. 18dreading, i guessed well, lest i should have disappeared as from the face of the earth—vanished with never a word to her, even as my father—of whom i shall tell presently. i cursed tim kerrick, squire chelton, and mr. bradbury.
“what’s going to happen to us now, john?” tony muttered through the dark. “what’ll the squire do with us, do you think?”
“oh, he’ll laugh, for he’s sure to be half drunk when he sees us. tell us we’ll be hanged, if we’re not shot for poachers first. and if tim kerrick makes the case black enough, squire’ll give him leave to baste us.”
“yes, but tim would have basted us properly, and let us go,” said tony. “why should that old black crow want to spoil tim’s sport and bid him bring us here, unless he’s a notion of having us clapped in gaol? but for him we’d have been through tim’s hands by now, and been limpin’ home. do you know him, john?”
“oh, i only know he’s squire’s lawyer. you heard tim say so, if you didn’t know before. i’d never heard of him or clapped eyes on him.”
“he seemed to know you.”
“yes, he did. but i don’t know how. we’ll hear, when squire’s dined. pray god, he doesn’t spare the bottle! sit ye down, tony, while you’re able.”
p. 19and in the dark we sat down on the cold, flagged floor. i tell you the harness-room was like a vault for gloom and chill. the time we were held there seemed unending; only tim came near us, and then merely to be assured that we were safe, and to growl vengefully at us, as he flashed his lantern down on us. we wearied soon of conjecturing what should happen to us. we sat huddled together silently, and while tony sought to pull the rabbit from his pocket, and at last succeeded to sling it from him with a curse, i set myself to pondering over mr. bradbury’s mysterious interest in me, and to striving to recollect when, if ever, i had set eyes on the gentleman before. never, so far as my memory served me, though my mother and i had lived ten years at chelton.
to my seventh year we had lived with my father in london. i remembered my father clearly, tall and darkly handsome, his black hair silver-threaded, though at the time of his mysterious disappearance he was not more than thirty-seven years of age. i remembered the moods of brooding melancholy darkening the natural liveliness of his disposition; his strength, his tenderness with my mother and myself. i remembered, as the most sorrowful time of my childhood, the day of his disappearance,—my p. 20mother waiting the hours through from eve till dawn, hoping against hope for the sound of his return,—the days succeeding of alternate hopes never fulfilled and terrors not allayed.
my father had held a poor clerkship with the east india company. he had left the house late in the day to carry a letter down to the docks for the master of an indiaman; but had never delivered the letter, and had vanished without trace or word. i remembered my mother’s pitiful distress, as day succeeded day without tidings, and the cloud of mystery was in no way lifted. a countrywoman and friendless, she could make little search for him; it was assumed by the gentlemen of the east india house, that he had been pressed aboard one of the king’s ships; even so, none of his name was ever found among the crews, though the interest of the company secured inquiry from the commissioners of his majesty’s navy.
and my mother, distraught for many days, seemed stricken with terror of the town and its associations, and took coach and fled away with me to chelton; all the years since we had had no word of my father and did not know whether he was alive or dead. we had lived quietly in a little cottage on the edge of chelton—the last dwelling, indeed, of the village ere the street p. 21passed into the great highway. my mother was possessed of small means—a legacy, i believed, from a kinsman, though she would tell me nothing either of my father’s family or of her own. she had not sufficient for our needs; she added to our means by fine needlework for the squire’s lady and her folk; how she found the five guineas a year for which the rev. mr. vining allowed me to share the studies and the discipline of his son tony i did not know. yet, though i, lazy and graceless young dog as i was, urged her to let me seek employment in chelton or in london itself, she would not hear of this. she declared, dear soul, that she would have me first a scholar; even though i had turned seventeen, there was time and to spare for me to choose a calling. so with tony i had become an equally indifferent scholar, in spite of mr. vining’s cane, and as abandoned a rogue and poacher. so i sat now with the parson’s son awaiting squire chelton’s summary justice, and most like tim kerrick’s execution of it. but mr. bradbury—?
mr. bradbury sat in a cushioned chair by the fire; mr. chelton supported his huge body more or less steadily against the chimney-piece, when at last tim kerrick paraded us before them in the library. it was a vast room,—its shelves lined with books, none of which, i fear, mr. chelton p. 22had ever opened from the day when his father’s death put him into possession of the hall and its acres. old mr. gilbert chelton’s portrait looked coldly down from its gilded frame above the chimney-piece on his stout son, flushed from his drink—his red coat, buckskins and high boots all mud-splashed from the cross-country ride of the day. squire chelton had not changed his rig to do honour to his guests, who, i took it from the roars of laughter yet sounding in the dining-room, were gentlemen of tastes similar to his own. his iron-grey hair was wind-blown; his blood-shot eyes were as unsteady as his legs. he exuded good humour—natural to him, but stimulated by as liberal an indulgence in the contents of his cellar as he expected from any gentleman of his company. while mr. gilbert’s portrait looked its disapproval, the paintings of four other dead and gone cheltons of a marked resemblance to the squire seemed to regard him enviously from their old frames.
mr. bradbury, if he had not been permitted to spare the bottle at dinner, made no show of it in his complexion. he sat by the fire, his legs crossed; he had a silver snuff-box set with some glittering gem in his left hand; his face was almost as white as his linen. observing him, i had a sense that the mind at the back of his broad p. 23brow was as keen and as sparkling as the jewels on his fingers. with his leanness, his bloodlessness, his coldly impassive face, his cunning eyes peering through his spectacles, he was as odd a contrast to his stout, drink-flushed patron in his riding-rig as were his air of precision and the trimness of his dress to the frank disorder of the rich furniture in the room. squire chelton’s desk was littered with papers and parchments; an inkhorn was overset among them; goose quills had blown to the carpet; hats, cloaks, riding-whips, and gloves were tossed pell-mell on chairs and table. on this dark oaken table a half-emptied flagon of crystal and silver was set, and a circle of glasses stained with the red dregs of wine. the library was lit by many tall candles in silver sticks, and by the leaping flames from the hearth before which mr. bradbury warmed himself, with the reflections flashing from his jewelled hands, his snuff-box and the silver buckles of his shoes. i noted the keenness of mr. bradbury’s gaze immediately tim thrust us forward; all the while i remained in the room, i fancied that his eyes never left me.
“here’s the young varmints, sir and mr. bradbury,” tim announced, touching his forelock.
“young vining and young howe,—hey?” p. 24cried mr. chelton, essaying to frown majestically. “caught poaching! ye’re a credit to the parson who has the schooling of the pair of ye. what have ye to say for yourselves? come!”
we stared up at mr. chelton; grinned foolishly, but said nothing.
“answer the squire, varmint! answer the squire!” tim muttered hoarsely at our backs.
“tell the story for them, kerrick,” said mr. chelton. “maybe when they hear your account they’ll be ready enough to answer for themselves and call you a liar”—chuckling.
tim, stepping forward, briskly told his tale—no, he told the tale of poachings from chelton for the twelvemonth past, not limiting himself to the matter of the evening, the rabbit in tony’s jacket or the conjectured content of my bag. not a pheasant, not a hare, not a rabbit had been poached from chelton, but had gone—on tim’s assertion—in company with tony and me,—the worst pair of varmints, tim dubbed us, as never was. meanwhile, squire chelton from ruddy grew purple, from good-humoured choleric and from choleric nigh choking with passion. from time to time, as tim proceeded, mr. chelton would burst out, “d’ye hear this, bradbury?” or “d’ye hear that?” mr. bradbury nodded; said nothing, and took snuff, while he peered at p. 25me through his spectacles. tim wound up with a narration of the affair of the evening,—glowering at him i rejoiced to see the damage wrought by the bramble to his nose and chin.
“now, you rogues,—now!” mr. chelton stormed. “what have ye to say to me? d’ye know this is a matter for assizes? d’ye know that ye may be hanged for this? d’ye know that at the least ye’ll be shipped overseas? what d’ye think of it, bradbury?”
“i think, my dear sir,” said mr. bradbury, smoothly, “that kerrick overstates his case. indeed, so much he overstates it, that did i instruct counsel for the defence of these lads, i promise that it would end with the committal of kerrick here on a charge of perjury”—mr. bradbury laughed shrilly to himself, and took more snuff.
tim stared at him with his eyes goggling, his jaw dropping. mr. chelton growling thunderously, “upon my soul, bradbury! upon my soul!” lurched to the table, and poured himself a glass of wine. tony and i rejoicing fixed our eyes on mr. bradbury.
“mr. chelton,” mr. bradbury proceeded, “there’s no more in this matter than the roguery of these lads to-night,—a rabbit or so snared; these lads are poachers, and, no doubt, have p. 26taken a pretty picking off chelton. but kerrick here would lay to their account the poachings of the countryside,—of gipsies, vagrants, village folk and odd. without a tittle of proof, mr. chelton, without a tittle of proof that would hold good in a court of law.”
“askin’ your pardon, mr. bradbury, sir,” tim protested, “parson’s son had a rabbit in his pocket, when we caught ’em, and young john howe was carryin’ summat in his bag. he dropped it over in the furze.”
“maybe,” said mr. bradbury, testily. “we’ll admit these facts, tim kerrick, we’ll admit them; but to seek, as you’ve done, my man, to prove against these lads the losses of a year past—losses which you’ve failed to prevent,—why, it’s preposterous, kerrick,—it’s rank perjury!”
“have you turned advocate for rogues and vagabonds, bradbury?” asked mr. chelton, solemnly, though his eyes were twinkling once more, as much from the glass of wine, no doubt, as from tim kerrick’s indignation and discomfiture.
“nay, mr. chelton,” cried mr. bradbury, “only consider the facts! the parson’s son and, doubtless, excellently schooled by his father.”
“vining’s a worthy fellow,” mr. chelton p. 27admitted, grinning. “i could tell you a rare story, bradbury—” but broke off, as recollecting tony’s presence, yet continuing to chuckle to himself. mr. vining, though devout, was a fox-hunting parson after the squire’s own heart.
“ay, and the lad howe?” mr. bradbury asked, observing me steadily.
“a young varmint!” tim asserted, vengefully.
“his folk, mr. chelton?”
“mother’s a widow woman—a decent body,” mr. chelton answered readily. “never a day behind with her rent. the lad was well enough till he turned poacher with young vining there.”
“village folk? chelton folk?”
“the mother and the lad have lived here these ten years. from london, i’ve heard say, bradbury.”
mr. bradbury took snuff. “now, mr. chelton,” he said, laughing, “these lads have done no more than a taste of tim’s ash-plant should have corrected in them. and would have corrected, but that i ordered them to be brought to the hall,—i’ll have a word with you, sir, presently, on my reason. but for two hours or so they’ve been in tim’s hands; they’ve been locked up in the dark, maybe, and they’ve been haled before you. the lesson should serve ’em, sir.”
p. 28“ain’t i to baste ’em properly, squire?” asked tim, aghast. “they’re varmint—varmint, sir!”
“no doubt,” said mr. bradbury. “but they’ll need no further lesson. admonish them as you will, mr. chelton, and send them packing home to make their peace with their folk as they may. it’ll meet the purpose, i promise you. you’ll not be troubled with them again,” and standing up, he laughed shrilly and snapped his snuff-box lid. i realised that mr. bradbury’s purpose—to satisfy some passing curiosity—had been fulfilled. he stood peering at me still, his eyes darting like the jewels upon his fingers. “you’re long away from your guests, mr. chelton,” he said, with a wave of his hand toward the door.
the squire hesitated a moment; then, with sudden roaring laughter, cried to us, “oh, get away home, you dogs! don’t let me have you here again. out of this!—no, you don’t, kerrick! you’ll remain here,” as tim started for the door, purposing, i assumed, still to exercise justice upon us.
we did not stay to thank the squire or mr. bradbury, but slinking out of the room, scurried through the hall, and presently were racing down the drive apace, lest kerrick with his ash-plant pursue and overtake us.
